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in Princess’s defense, she doesn’t have much else to do while stuck in bed with a bullet wound through her thigh. especially not when Ange hovers constantly, never letting her so much as fetch herself a glass of water.
it starts small: every night, once everyone’s gone to bed, Ange creeps into her room for a goodnight kiss and lights a new candle for Princess, who’s always “too engrossed in a book to go to sleep just yet.” as soon as Ange leaves, she pulls out her needlework. the sleepy-warm days and the long dozes leave her bright and alert at night; she bends her head to her work and sews, sometimes till the wee hours of the morning before her mind’s tired enough to sleep again.
it’s all mending at first. the spies’ training clothes, when Beatrice complains about Ange and Chise’s ruthless drills; the little nicks and missing buttons in their disguises; even the dish towels and fraying blankets, just so they don’t have to go into town.
it’s dull work, nothing like the delicate embroidery drilled into Princess over countless lessons. so she decides to be a little fancier, and when Dorothy hands her a torn shirt, she puts neat stitches along the inside of the hem: if lost, return to dorothy.
that night, Ange turns up at the dinner table after a long day’s training, freshly washed and with a queer look on her face. “this is my shirt,” she tells Princess, showing the flipped-out hem to them all.
Dorothy bursts into guffaws. “i mean, i am the leader of the team,” she cackles gracelessly. “if you get lost, they need to know who to bring you back to!”
“your motherly instincts aren’t needed here,” says Ange, but without heat. “find another duckling to shepherd. or a cat, perhaps, for your impending retirement.”
not even the jab at Dorothy’s age can quiet her. the rest of dinner’s a back-and-forth volley of taunts between the two (in which loyal Beatrice chimes in, “Miss Dorothy’s more of an older sister anyway!” much to Dorothy’s delight), and Princess smiles so wide her cheeks hurt.
that night, she flips up the collar of one of Dorothy’s suits and carefully stitches: i’m dorothy.
Dorothy is absolutely chuffed and wears the suit at every chance she gets, even when she complains about the heat. “you should do one for everyone on the team,” she suggests when they’re practicing morse code abbreviations. “you might not go out much right now but it’d be awful if we lost you again. i’d have to ground you!”
“i can’t believe you have so little faith in me,” sighs Princess delicately. “though i believe i’m already grounded by Ange, Dorothy, so you may wish to think of a better punishment.”
nonetheless, Princess picks out a cloth belt - one of her favourites - and winds the now-familiar words into its leaf patterning. she wears it tied with the words facing outwards for two days in a row before Beatrice notices and nearly sprays soup across the table.
“Princess!” gasps Beatrice, half-scandalised, half-giggling.
“if you wanted one too, you needed only ask,” said Princess with magnanimity, pulling out a ribbon with the same words. she leans over to personally adjust it around Beatrice’s neck, tucking the words around the little throat mechanism, and Beatrice splutters more, red as their tomato soup.
she keeps it, though, and handwashes it herself.
Bold and straightforward Chise actually brings Princess her hachimaki. “i would be in your debt if you would provide me with a memento of our time together,” she says solemnly.
it takes three days for Princess to decide on the perfect thread (wine red) and the perfect font (thick, barely breaking into calligraphy). when she’s finished and she presents it to Chise, Chise carefully stows it away into a hidden pocket. she never wears it, saying simply that she had no need to yet, but Princess sees her contemplating the embroidery from time to time after her morning meditation.
later that night, as Princess combs her hair out and thinks about what to do now that her little project’s finished, Ange taps her shoulder. she turns and, reflexively, presses a kiss to Ange’s cheek.
at Ange’s surprised look, she says sheepishly, “oh, i thought you were asking for…”
Ange laughs quietly, and Princess tucks the sound into the crevices of her heart, feeling it warm her chest. “i might still, later,” admits Ange. “but i wanted to ask for something else.”
her gaze drops, and Princess follows it to the little white handkerchief in Ange’s hands. with a self-conscious shrug, Ange says, “will you embroider it for me?”
“of course,” says Princess, brushing her thumbs over Ange’s knuckles as she takes the handkerchief. “what would you like it to say?”
Ange’s pale cheeks darken. “’if found, please return to Ange’.”
it takes a moment to register. when it does, Ange finds that she doesn’t need to ask for more kisses after all.