Doze was in trouble.
Nobody knew he was in trouble, but he was definitely in trouble. It wasn't the legal kind of trouble, nor was it the dangerous type of trouble (yet), but it was definitely… troublesome. Maybe even more troublesome than the aforementioned flavors of trouble to which little Doze was used. Then again, any nature of trouble is infinitely more troublesome when it's unfamiliar, and, well… this was a first.
Doze was in romantic trouble.
It sounded so ridiculous when he said it like that, though. Romance wasn't difficult. You just kinda… sidle up, do a little dance, make a little love, and get down before you're shot. It would make a good song, it was so simple.
The tried and true method was, admittedly, lacking in specificity. Worse still, it provided no contingency plan. It was like the worlds' worst flowchart, or a graph of paradox space's infinite timelines: it had too many dead ends.
And nothing to explain THIS.
So, after much deliberation and only a few hilarious slips of the tongue, Doze finally hunkered down and decided to bring himself to the door of a romance expert for some real talk. The problem was, there was no romance expert in the Manor (as much as Sawbuck liked to believe he proved otherwise). So instead, he settled for seeking out Stitch.
Their relationship was a pleasant one. They'd charmed up once or twice (it was hard to tell with time shenanigans) in rainbows, years ago, but eventually they'd settled into a comfortable friendship, as many rainbows are prone to do. Besides, Doze was absolutely dreadful at haiku. Rainbows weren't for him.
What brings you around, this time o' night, Stitch asks, only looking up for as long as it takes to nod in greeting.
Nothing, really, says Doze. I mean, well. Something, but not much.
Stitch is threading a bobbin with pinpoint accuracy. He acts annoyed, but that's just the way he is. Which is it, he asks. Something or nothing?
Something. Definitely something, Doze says immediately, or as immediately as he can, reaction time and all.
You look… distraught, Stitch comments, because "distraught" is much nicer than telling your pal he looks like shit. Doze tries to shrug nonchalantly, something he was never good at, but Stitch flaps his hand to motion Doze to sit. Doze sits.
It's a nice armchair, the kind that normally gets ruined after being in the mansion for a while. The kind that's prone to getting stabbed, or crushed, or lit on fire once or twice in its lifetime. Doze admires its upholstery for a long moment, before mustering up the courage to talk.
So, uh, he starts. You said it's nighttime already?
I dunno, Stitch says, sliding the bobbin into its slot on the machine. Feels like nighttime. Moon's gone down.
Huh, says Doze, I guess I'm more behind than I thought. He gives a nervous chuckle and Stitch snorts. An old joke. So…
So…? Stitch answers.
Doze goes with the least incriminating introduction he can think of. I need some advice.
Dating advice? Stitch guesses automatically, raising his eyebrows but not looking up. Doze frowns. How the hell did he know-
Itchy bein' a pain? he guesses again, and he's so off that Doze splutters for a moment.
I—no! No, Itchy's the best Heart a guy could ask for.
But not the best Horseshoe? Stitch glances at him, a couple buttons held aloft in his hands.
Doze swallows. Well, okay, that's a bit rocky, we've been considering shaving down to flush, but that's not why I'm here.
Huh, Stitch grunts, setting down the buttons. He takes a tin of cheap cigars out of his thread drawer, picks one out, offers the box to Doze. Doze actually thinks about it, but declines. So, what's up?
Doze looks back down at the arm of the chair—it really does have nice upholstery—and wonders what the hell he was even thinking, coming down here. Then he remembers he had some lines half-formed in his head at some point, so defaults to those.
You, uh, he tries to say nonchalantly, you know we can't really choose who we shine on, right?
No, course not, Stitch agrees, taking out a lighter and shaking it. It's bone-dry. He shoves it back in the drawer and grabs a matchbox instead.
So you can't exactly judge me for shinin' on someone weird?
I can judge you for whatever I want, Stitch says without reservation, but I won't. You've got balloons on Cans, after all.
Everyone's got balloons on Cans, Doze says defensively! Who's the one shoein' for Quarters after too many gin n' tonics?
Stitch cracks a grin, cigar now ground firmly between his teeth, and resumes working on a waistcoat which, from the looks of the collar, is Trace's. Doze knows Trace is gonna bitch later 'cause his coat's gonna smell like smoke. He always does.
So, Stitch ventures, who is it?
What, Doze says.
Who you charmed on's got you so bent outta shape? Stitch jabs a clothespin in his direction, before driving it home somewhere in Trace's shoulder. Die would be proud.
No, Doze says quickly (for him, at least), not charmed. Just a little shine, is all.
Right. Who's the guy?
Doze nearly chokes. Well, uh.
'Glasses? Stitch guesses. Moons?
Nah, Doze tells him, I'm moons with Die, remember?
That's right, Stitch answers, everybody's mooned him one time or another.
What?
Nothin', Stitch says. Stars? Shamrocks? A brief pause. Rainbows…?
No, Doze says firmly, more firmly than he meant to. It's, uh, stars, I'm pretty sure. Maybe some shamrock in there too. The Felt collectively quit using the term "Clovers" when English so cruelly bestowed the name to their fourth member. The boss is intractable in many things, and Clover's name is one of them.
Stitch appraises his patchwork and gives Doze an impressed nod in the same motion. Heh, he says, half to the coat and half to his friend, good on ya.
No. Well. Maybe.
Stitch, by this point, is curious. It can't be that bad, he says, is he taken? Doze shakes his head. No? Is it… Biscuits? No? Oh god, is he someone out of The Felt? He's not one of the Crew, is he? Doze shakes his head a bit more frantically. Oh, thank god. So, in The Felt, right?
Doze nods slowly (even for him), dreading when Stitch is gonna go down the list numerically. It's inevitable.
You gonna make me guess? Stitch asks, sticking a pin into his mouth to hold.
Yeah, Doze says, I'd rather you guessed.
Stitch stills for a moment, trying to phrase his next question very uncharacteristically gently. Then he says, Is it the, uh. The Doctor?
Doze shakes his head miserably, and just because the suspense is getting to be too much, he blurts out, Stitch, it's Sn0wman, I'm so shiny for 'er and it's not even right.
Stitch is absolutely still for a second, just a second, and Doze isn't even slowing things down but it feels like forever. Then Stitch resumes pinning, and the worst part is over.
Oh, Stitch says, all feigned casualty and averted eyes, that's, uh.
Yeah.
I didn't know, Stitch says, that you were, uh, that way. Not that it's, you know, bad. I'm not—I don't judge.
Yeah.
How long have you known? That you're, uh, that way?
I didn't, Doze says! I don't even think I am. This is just a, uh, one-time thing.
Stitch gives a derisive snort. The unspoken rule of The Felt (one of many unspoken rules) is that a "one-time thing" can turn into a "many-time thing" just because of the way "time things" behave here. But instead of saying this, Stitch gives an entirely-inappropriate, uncomfortable chuckle, and says, Well it's kinda fitting. You know she's that way, too. Same as you.
I know that, Doze snaps! That's why it's so hard to ignore! Means I maybe have a chance.
Stitch is entirely out of his depth, and almost feels bad for the guy. He says, You know she's clove—ah, shamrocked up with Spades Slick, and he spits the name with either disgust or exasperation.
Right, Doze says, only a little deflated, so what should I do? Just forget about her?
Listen, Stitch says, setting down his pincushion, I'm not an expert. You can't expect me to give ya objective advice. You can't even ask me to not be weird about this. I still get uncomfortable around Sn0wman or the Doc. Well, besides for the obvious reasons.
Oh, Doze says. I shouldn't've said anything. He gets up to leave.
Stitch waves at him to slow down, which has never happened to Doze before. Stitch tells him to wait, and Doze waits. Stitch says, I didn't say I won't help.
No, no, Doze insists, I don't think I want your help.
Exactly, Stitch says. That's why you're going to the expert.
Doze says what.
Stitch says, this is no time to be squeamish. I mean, for me to be. And Doze stops to let that sink in, because Stitch and squeamish aren't concepts that fit together in his mind. He's seen Number 9 dig bullets from inside other people, with nothing but his bare hands, between sips of coffee, while talking about the weather.
Doze says what.
So, Stitch says, ignoring the confused, dazed Numero Dos, I'm giving you a completely professional recommendation to another office. And then, he says the most perplexing thing Doze has heard in a long time. He says, go talk to Crowbar.
Doze, for the third and final time, says what.
Stitch says, tell him you— then he stops and thinks—no, nevermind, I'll tell him. You don't worry 'bout a thing. Just go see him.
And that is when Doze gets hurried out of Stitch's workshop, the sound from the door closing still echoing in the quiet hallway, with absolutely no clue what's going on. His mind reels with the task he's been given, trying to make sense of it, and his short legs automatically begin to carry him to the third floor.