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Kinley is not having a bad day per se , but if someone were to offer him a drink he would rather take the bottle and shoo them out of his workshop than drink any watered down concoction they happened to offer him.
He sighs and surveys the mess that surrounds him. Bright satins spill off tables and onto the floor, Orania Spider Silk hangs down from the racks stretching across the ceiling. A variety of lace and chiffon and velvets are piled up against the walls and tables and chairs. His workbenches - usually so clean and neat - are scattered with chalk and pins and a half-empty glass of Vermouth. And he has the sneaking horror that he’s run out of bobbins .
To the untrained observer it looks like someone has ransacked the place. In fact both Mella and Robert have commented on it - if you could count Robert’s quiet “Holy..” and Mella’s “What the hell happened here?!” as comments .
To the trained observer…. Well, there wouldn’t be much difference as the place has been ransacked. Of a sort.
Half-finished suits and dresses - and everything in-between - are pinned to mannequins for Annie’s Summer Collection - which is due in three days time and will be shown to the creme de la creme of the fashion world.
Sixteen new creations as the piece de la resistance of the entire season. Sixteen beautiful creations that would show his skill and expertise. Sixteen gorgeous creations that would show those blind, narrow-minded critics back on Hinter-8 exactly where to shove their reviews.
Kinley’s creations were masterpieces . They were visions of silk and diamonds that made grown men and women and nonbinary persons weep.
Annie Inkwyrm herself had once shed a tear. He doesn’t have any proof of course - because Inkwyrm’s don’t leave behind evidence - but it had happened.
This collection is going to be perfect .
At least, it should be. Kinley would be feeling a lot better about it if any of them were bloody finished. As it is, he has sixteen unfinished articles of clothing and a migraine starting up behind his left eye. Rubbing at it only serves to remind him that he hasn't slept in fifty-two hours and has let his skin-care regime fall to the wayside. He's pretty sure the stress is making him breakout like a teenager. Wonderful.
“Darling,” Kinley announces to the room as he scrabbles through the piles of scraps on his desk, sending a cascade of pins and semi-precious stones to the floor. He bites back a curse - those were supposed to be sewn onto the Arwellian model’s dress two days ago, and now they’re decorating his floor. An apt metaphor of his life right now. “Darling, have you seen my- ow!”
He jerks his hand back and frowns at the drop of blood welling on his fingertip. With his other hand he gingerly flips over the length of champagne velvet as he presses his fingertip to his lips and sucks lightly leaving behind a slight smear of red. The pincushion he had misplaced a week ago sits innocently in front of him.
He can feel his blood-pressure spiking.
“You know,” Morris’ voice chimes in over the intercom with a touch of amusement, “stress is the leading cause of death for males in your species and age-range.”
“Sweetheart, if you don’t have anything useful to say right now, I would rather you not say anything at all.”
There’s a pause and then, “I am being useful. I’m informing you that your current course will end up killing you.”
Kinley closes his eyes and takes a deep breath trying to still himself and tamp down on the annoyance. It is not Morris’ fault. This is exactly who he is. He wouldn’t change Morris for the world. “Morris-” he starts.
Morris interrupts him softly, almost like he doesn’t want to be heard, “I don’t want you to leave earlier than you have to.”
The quiet - and rather grumpy - admission has Kinley smiling fondly at the malcontent AI, all traces of irritation forgotten. There was the Morris he knew and loved. “Darling, the only reason I’d leave this plane of existence in the next week is if I don’t finish these showstoppers on time. I’m pretty sure Annie would dispatch me herself if I leave her stranded with those morons with nothing to show off.”
He's pretty sure Annie would crawl through a minefield herself to murder him in his sleep if he did that.
“I wouldn’t let her get you.” Morris says stiffly.
Kinley can hear the affront in the AI’s voice at the thought. He chuckles and carefully lifts the rest of the velvet off the table, lest there is another lost pincushion ready to poke holes in him.
“And what would you do? Distract her until I could crawl into the vents to hide? Then download you into a nearby escape pod and jettison us both off this station and to blissful paradise?”
“It could work.”
Morris sounds like he’s actually planning it out. Kinley can barely bite back his smile at the seriousness of it all.
“Well, while you’re busy planning out our daring escape, can you please help me find my measuring tape?”
“Is that what you’re looking for?” Comes Morris’ startled question.
“Yes, I know I had it here a moment ago - or was it a day ago? - who knows?” Kinley says with frustration, running his fingers through his hair. “The point being I can’t find the blasted thing and I need it to measure out the wing-slits on the gossamer silk suit. Annie wants to try and tempt the Ryolin Ambassador into buying a bespoke ensemble for his sister’s life-bonding ceremony. It would launch us on his planet and bring so much revenue to th-”
“Oxo’s lying on it.”
Kinley blinks at the non-sequitur. “Oxo..?” He glances behind him to the shelf that runs along the top of his desk. Two golden eyes blink lazily back at him from a face of dark brown fur. “Oxo, are you hiding my measuring tape?” He picks up the cat - ignoring the grumpy mrow he gets in return for disturbing her - and stares down at the perfectly coiled tape lying below.
He feels betrayed.
He lifts the cat so he can stare her in the eye. “Oxo Cube, I am hurt .”
Oxo yawns, showing off the pale pink of her mouth in a statement that reads that she is entirely unbothered by his feelings on the matter. Kinley narrows his eyes and brings her in close so their noses touch. “I have very strong feelings towards you right now.”
Oxo purrs and headbutts him lightly. Kinley tries to stay annoyed but it’s futile. He sniffs as he plucks the tape measure from its hiding spot and slings it around his neck, before carefully placing her back in her warm spot, away from all the clutter of fabric and loose pins that litter his work area.
“That animal always does that,” Morris snorts as Kinley picks up his rolling cutter and heads over to the pale purple suit lying on the far bench, “I’m surprised you put up with her.”
“What can I say,” Kinley smiles, glancing up at the sensor in the ceiling, “I have a fondness for irritating creatures.”
There’s a pause and then an embarrassed huff. If Morris had a body, Kinley would bet his entire year's worth of Wickney Feathers that he’d be blushing right about now.
“Idiot,” Morris mutters.
“Darling.”