June 15, 2010

Hey look, a second chapter! I wrote this originally as a separate oneshot, but after going over both pieces again it made more sense to use this a continuation.

And this focuses more on the Codex/Fawkes aspect. Hooray!

Pickle'd

Oh Snap, she had done it. And by it, she of course meant, well, sex. With him.

This was not her highest moment. And if it was, what would that say about her? That sex with her proclaimed enemy was on her Top Ten Events of Awesome. She had fraternized with the enemy. Fraternized!

Vork wouldn't like this. Clara and Tink, they'd just have a ball. … Wait, why was she planning on telling her Guild about this? Boundaries! There are some lines that Guildies don't have to cross together. Those very nice lines where she kept her sex life, ahem, personal life to herself.

It wasn't like it was that good. Like he, that tricky anarchist, was any good. Not that he was bad. Or that the night was bad. Actually, dinner had been kind of yummy, and desert was... well, the actual desert was sitting on the counter in the kitchen, and had been ignored for... other reasons. Reasons that were currently sleeping soundly (oh god, she hoped soundly) next to her.

This couldn't end well.

Where was a therapist when you needed one? She should join a support group. Awkward Anonymous. For those who find themselves cringing the next morning. Knowing her luck though, she'd end up the only one at a meeting.

Okay, all she had to do was get up, find her clothes, grab the desert and get the frak out of this apartment. Maybe get some waffles, or pancakes, a few pieces of bacon. A biscuit or two wouldn't hurt. She really needed some comfort food right now. Where was the nearest waffle house anyway? She should Google it. Her phone had an app, right? That would work. Where was her phone? In her pants pocket. Her pants were...? She looked around and they wouldn't show up in her line of sight.

That's when she realized that she had worn a skirt. A skirt! And brought out her fancy purse. And gone on a date. With the anarchist.

She checked again whether he was still sleeping.

He was and she was glad, because her stress was maxed, and her present situation wasn't very conducive for logging onto her avatar and taking down a few trolls to get herself straightened out.

She was definitely in a pickle. Pickle'd. She was pickle'd, and she still didn't know exactly where she had left the majority of her clothes, or what to do with the kilt currently occupying her northern territories. Maybe if she just slowly, steadily, and stealthily slipped to her right, turned a bit there and wiggled – gently – over that crease in the covers she could –

"I hope you're not taking that with you, it's my favorite kilt."

Stealth had obviously been maxed out without her knowledge.