#'you are trying to profit off this tragedy! Sponsored by puzzlequest and blue apron'

[townofcadence]

Her expression at the show of teeth is certainly one that's affected. Her eyes widen just a second, before she scoffs and shakes her head. Her arms cross, and she regards both of them with watchful eyes.

Artair meanwhile feels the rising heat from Butch, but the guy doesn't act on it, for which he's grateful. He wants this whole mess to go in the right direction, and it already feels so tenuous.

It is... somewhat undercut by Butch correcting his name. The notion of it is equal parts sweet and well... bless his heart. He was doing his best to put respect to his name, and--- honestly, it's sweet. He'd chosen his own name for himself after all, and dealt with his fair share of rough times for it, but it was his. It was the one he wanted to be called. Even if the situation wasn't one where he needed defending, the fact that Butch would...

He's perfect. He wants to...he doesn't know. His brain is piecemeal. But a kiss at least crosses his mind. Peyton meanwhile looks like Butch has grown a second, even more annoying head. She looks at Artair again and her expression screams "Really?". Probably on his taste in company, but this time she's polite enough not to say it. Maybe because Butch is louder, and other patrons are glancing their way. An audience that isn't online is probably the last thing she wants.

He feels those gentle ministrations, sees Butch's expression, which eases any initial worry of earlier, and Peyton is giving up. His next breath is relieved.

Butch continues.

Peyton goes from lamenting to-- maybe pissed, to thoughtful in almost rapid time, as she looks at both him and Butch. Then she focuses on Butch. She nods and her face says she understands now. It's a very 'I've connected the dots' kind of expression, but he's not sure what there even is to piece together. She huffs at Butch. "I am not a journalist. I'm a true-crime Podcaster, which is a brave and intellectually stimulating career about solving cold cases others can't, and the pursuit of the truth. And now I understand the racket here. Your game." She almost looks disgusted.

"People like you two are everywhere. Profiting off your information and others' loss like-- like vultures! But fine. If that's the game you want to play, I can pay for your info. But it better be good."

Artair blinks. "...What?"

"Don't play dumb now, Air-tair." Her tone is derisive as she reaches into her bag. "You and your crony here were just waiting to extort me. You act all innocent and then you have him strong arm me about seeking the truth, and then you demand payment! This is just about the money. Blood-money I hope you know. You're a bunch of leeches, for feeding on a tragedy like this."

"... What the fuck are you talking about? You approached me?" Upset and panic still run like an undercurrent to his thoughts, but the sheer volume of confusion makes it hard to feel anything else. That verging breakdown is miles away, pushed out by incredulous bafflement.

She gives them both a cool look. Out of her purse comes-- a checkbook. "Don't try to trick me. You probably knew I'd been following you this whole time and set this up-- didn't you?"

"Wh--" She talks over him.

"You knew I was hot on your trail and you got this dense asshole to lie in wait so you could ambush me and demand payment. Well fine! What's the price? I want this story."

“I can be, but I can’t promise I don’t bite.” Butch comments, baring his teeth at her in a grin, small fangs visible and for once, he’s glad. He hopes they unsettle her!

His brows knit together a bit tighter when she brings up those two names again, and refers to Artair as some third wheel. Oooh, anger stirs inside of him like a hot soup! She was about to be a third wheel—a wheel with a gash in it, if she didn’t shut her mouth. Butch wasn’t the type to discriminate when it came to throwing punches, but he’d come to learn that there were better ways of handling situations like these—from Artair no less. A little patience went a long way more often than not, as much as he hated it, and this was about Artair anyway. He should be afforded the opportunity to stick up for himself, like he had for him.

Suddenly, he finds himself a bit offended by (what he perceives to be) the butchering of Artair’s name at the end of her words. Arthur? Butch makes a face and suddenly none of her other words seems to matter, and he can’t help but cut in, “Uh, his name is AIR-tair.” The cowboy states, pronouncing it incorrectly as he seemed to have a habit of doing thanks to his accent. “A-R-T….A…-I-R!” He spells it out plainly just in case she doesn’t get it the first time, his volume certainly beyond the appropriate library volume despite his earlier gripes with her.

There’s a long silence that hangs between them, including the other book fair attendees, and Artair is quick to move right along (thank god), actually telling her like it is—and he’s proud, even though personally he would have been far more rude about it. He can still feel those fingers trembling some against his palm and his thumb moves to brush tenderly over the back of Artair’s hand, a soothing gesture. He’s watching the taller man’s expression with sympathy, his own expression shifting back to an irritated one the moment he’s looking back at Peyton.

“That’s right, y’wasted yer time jus’ like ya wasted ours. Big deal. Listen, ‘sides th’ fact that he obviously don’t wanna share nothin’ with you anyhow—what makes ya think he’s gonna tell ya anythin’ at all fer free? Y’think bein’ pushy alone’s gonna get ya answers? Ain’t ya some kinda journalist? Get real!”