#altho im more interested in everyone being weird neurotic messes i will leave proper ship writing to the professionals

[salemoleander]

This was inspired ages ago by a post from @briseise about rebel leader Impulse gifting Bdubs a clock, and rather than edit it for the 15th time I'm just going to post it + beg forgiveness on the rougher bits.

(This also spawned fics from Ren and Scar's perspective, which I'll be adding to this post bc they're concurrent.)

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Ren lounges at the head of the Square Table, having just read the Perimeter Empire’s Declaration of Independence aloud. His laughter booms, and he thumbs through the booklet as one clawed foot taps a nervous tempo under the table.

“Well, my noble dudes, it looks like the goatman has finally made his move.”

To Ren's right, Bdubs shifts in his seat. He has nodded emphatically and smiled along with every rambling word the king has said throughout the meeting. 

He has absolutely not heard a word of it. 

Under the table and inside a mossy pocket and clutched in his hand, so very safe and hidden, is a clock. 

Earlier, Bdubs had walked into his quarters in the Crastle, and discovered a present boxed up and sitting on his bedside table. A small shulker box, dyed a beautiful mossy green and tied shut with golden wire. There hadn’t been a note, but a scrawled signature on the top of the box left no doubt that it was from Impulse.

When he’d opened it at first Bdubs had been… surprised? Not disappointed, not disappointed! That wouldn’t make sense at all, when his not-disappointment was that this clock was too beautiful, too delicate. It wouldn’t survive- 

He’s not sure what it wouldn’t survive. (He knows exactly what it wouldn’t survive.)

Its gold shines and it ticks perfectly, and he feels terrible keeping it hidden from light in his cloak. He holds it like a fragile creature in his palm, mechanical pulse keeping time with his own. 

A lull in the conversation draws his attention momentarily away from the barely-there feeling of each second ticking. Still, Bdubs doesn’t look up until someone kicks him under the table.

“Hey!” Bdubs yells, indignant. 

He looks up, and his outburst is immediately doused as he realizes that almost everyone was already looking at him. Ah, a helpful kick, then. 

Bdubs quickly appraises the table: Ren stares at him with an eyebrow raised. Cleo’s mouth is twitching in amusement, while Joe takes notes and draws geometric designs on his arm in the gaps of his lime green gloves. Scar, seated as far from the King as the table allows, is checking his communicator. (Bdubs tries not to be smug about that, then tries to decide which direction of that situation to even be smug about, and fails at both.) Iskall and Cub seem to be running a heavily modified version of Tic-Tac-Toe on a scrap of paper hidden from the King’s sight by the massive dragons-head hat. 

Circling back to Cleo, Bdubs assumes that’s where the helpful kick came from. Probably. (Scar has long legs, and Bdubs is never sure when he’s really distracted, or pretend-distracted. And Cleo and Joe are both prone to dubiously helpful shin kicking.)

Skin prickling at all the direct attention, Bdubs sighs loudly and sweeps one hand up in a half-hearted gesture of surrender. “Alright, you caught ol’ Bdubs sleeping with my eyes open! So what! I’ve been up late working on- on Royal builds, and quests, and I’ve been missing my Zs.”

Cub and Scar laugh, and Cleo smiles, and he relaxes his grip slightly on the clock.

He turns to his left, waggling his eyebrows at the King. Normally the flattery came quick and easy, but that was because it was real. Sure, he likes to play up his obsequiousness, earn some laughs, but at the end of the day he’s loyal. He’s loyal, except that loyal hands of the king don’t hide gifts from their number one enemy under the table. 

He sucks a breath between his teeth and tries to mimic his usual enthusiasm. 

“Your Majesty, o illustrious King Ren… What was the question?” And Bdubs thinks he’s done a pretty good job, until-

“I asked, actually,” Cleo says from their spot across the table. She’s toying with half of a broken arrow, spinning and idly twirling it between her green-tinged fingers. Bdubs has a sense of vertigo watching her do this, adoration and fear welling up in concert with each turn of the arrow. He feels like he’s falling, breath coming shorter as some internal process hits an unexpected barrier and goes flying in a new direction.

Cleo is terrifying. She’s immediately the most important person in the room. 

“Ah, of course, classic Bdubs mistake. What do you need?” He pauses for a moment, can’t resist tacking on- “Anything.” His heart sings, blood eager and ready to fall. Anything for the Crastle. 

“Careful, Bdubs, wouldn’t want to seem overeager.” Her voice holds a note of warning, honesty cleverly wrapped in mocking. Cleo was a master of saying exactly what they meant, but using such a sardonic tone about it that everyone assumed they were joking.

Bdubs nods, frantic, but it must come off as comedic because Cub chuckles. He knows it doesn't fool Cleo, though.

Cleo’s eyes stay on him, one eyebrow imperiously raised and one chilly ankle knocking against his in reassurance, well-hidden under the table. That ankle stays throughout her request, and his response, and a good half the meeting after that.

He doesn’t know when he stopped, but Bdubs isn’t holding the clock anymore. It’s still there, tucked into a pocket, but the idea of holding it right now makes him nauseous.