Work Text:
“Surely you can’t expect me to fit into these?”
King Min looks rather exasperated, standing before you with a nondescript bundle of fabric and faux fur in one hand, his phone in the other, its light illuminating his flushed face. He looks between the clothes in question, and the image on the screen that portrays what he’s supposed to look like once he’s gotten himself dressed. You’re comfortable here on his couch, legs crossed, none too shy about the wide and wily grin you send his way when he cocks a bushy eyebrow. There’s absolutely no way you’re leaving this room until he’s complied with your demands.
“Oh, come on, I think they’ll look wonderful on you,” you coax, your foot bouncing impatiently in the air.
It’s been a struggle getting him to agree to this in the first place. The sheer number of hoops you’ve had to jump through to get to where you are right now – most of them on Mumu’s behalf in lieu of his actual presence in the palace – you'd think you had applied to be his second in-command or some nonsense like that. But really, as the new royal tailor, you’re just doing your civic duty. A favor for the good people of Kyrat.
And if that means you’ve got to sit here, with Mr. Chiffon blowing up your phone, raging about how impactful this latest design will be (and how ever-grateful he is that you’ve let him design for you on the sly like this...), then so be it. Clearing your throat, you catch the King’s attention with a commanding air that he doesn’t seem to take lightly. Distantly, you recall warning tales of having wild dogs set on your predecessor, and many an assassination attempt following suit.
“Dogshit. If you think for one fucking second that I’m going to squeeze myself into this mess of lycra and gauze for some convoluted photoshoot-” Pagan grumbles, and you watch as his fist tightens in the fabric he’s clutching, “this gaudy, glittery abomination of an ensemble...”
Quickly, you’re on your feet. Here’s that temper you’ve heard so much about. But you’re confident in your charm, and you’re sure he’ll bend and break under your tender touch. So, with a held breath and a surprising lack of self-preservation, you step around the coffee table to stand before the man you know won’t shy away from spitting plenty more choice words in your face.
He looks at your hands, watches as you stuff your phone in your pocket and crack your knuckles. He watches with a wary gaze as you pluck a few safety pins from the little pouch on your hip, ready to weaponize them, if need be, rather than to use them for alterations as you’ve sworn you would.
“Think of the children, Pagan,” you soothe, and he sucks in a sharp breath as you raise your unoccupied hand to settle on his broad shoulder, “Would you want them to think so poorly of the King? Wouldn’t you rather provide a little light in their dark, dismal days? All it takes is just to squeeze on into these leggings. I know you can do it.”
An afterthought pricks at the back of your head, and you open your mouth to tack it on, but he beats you to the punch.
“Wouldn’t you rather I be in nothing at all, than this tasteless shit?”
You can feel your breath catching in your throat as you gawk, taken aback by his audacity. You can’t even answer that question, for fear of how quickly he’ll assuredly latch onto that and run with it full-tilt. He notices, clearly, and you watch as his dark eyes hone right in on you, laser-focused and indiscernible. The shift in mood has you reeling, but you know better than to let him see you wither. It’s precisely how Mumu ended up kicked to the curb, and precisely how you ended up stumbling into this job by happenstance.
Don’t let him get under your skin. You are Fierce. I know you can work your magic on King Min, when no-one else can. Now go slay, my fearsome protégé.
Mr. Chiffon’s words circle round in your head as you stare headlong at the King, and he holds your gaze warily. There’s a little hint of heat between you, probably more-so from him than you, and hey, if that’s what it takes to get him going, you’re damn well going to feed into it. You rub your thumb along his shoulder for a moment, rather liking the feel of his tensed muscles under the padding of his fuchsia jacket. He glances aside at your hand when you do, and you quickly rescind your gesture for fear of losing the fingers that’d moved.
“Pagan. Darling,” you’re channeling your predecessor and he seems to notice, “The children down in the infirmary need to see Ser Pudge in person. This is charity, and art. Not ‘tasteless shit’ - I mean, we even made the outfit in your favorite shade of pink! Doesn’t that stand for something?”
He shouldn’t know Mumu’s still involved in royal affairs. He shouldn’t know you didn’t design this yourself. He absolutely should not know that the phone that’s buzzing in your pocket rather insistently now is the man himself, still very much alive, still very invested in getting the King of Kyrat into his latest raiment.
You hadn’t meant to say ‘we’, and you pray he hasn’t picked up on that little nuance. For all the King is supposed to know, you made this beautiful garment yourself. He doesn’t need to know that you think it’s ugly as sin, or that you’ve not got a bone of sewing talent in your entire body. Or that you’re terribly bothered by the very real chance that you could just tip forward a little and collide with him if you wanted.
“Do me a favor,” Pagan’s hands dart out between you, and he snatches up your own – you're not sure if he’s meaning to be this tender with his touch “and put. The fucking. Pins away. Before you do something you’ll regret.”
He’s very close now, leaning in, eyes still narrowed and aimed right at you like daggers. You can smell his afternoon cup of Darjeeling on his breath, edged with a concerning tinge of booze. Soon enough, somehow, he’s twisted things around so that you’re the one holding the costume in both hands now, safety pins scattered to the ground at your feet.
You can’t help but to swallow hard, trying not to falter under his gaze. Your best attempt at a charming smile comes out lopsided and wrong, and he’s patting the backs of your hands. What a strange mix of feelings to be having, terrified enough to root you to your spot, but intrigued enough that you really wouldn’t mind if he closed the minute distance between your lips.
But your phone buzzes again, and evidently Mumu is ringing you back-to-back, perhaps worried you’ve met the same fate he’d been doled out plenty of times before you. Or maybe he’s just incredibly insistent on seeing this plan come to fruition. Most likely the latter. By the third ring, Pagan is bristled up and practically seething.
“You know, I’ve had a better idea just now,” he says, suddenly blithely pleasant in tone, and you can hardly hear it for how hard your heart is pounding in your ears, “and you can take this one straight to Mumu when you see him next.”
Fucking. Busted.
-
All things considered, this isn’t the worst possible demotion you could have imagined.
Sure, you’re surrounded by sick, screaming kids whacking at you with sticks and bedpans, tossing sticky jalebi at you with no warning. Sure, you’ve got maybe a fifty-fifty chance of being dogpiled in the next half-hour, and having the gaudy pink faux-fur plucked from every inch of you like some fucked-up pinata.
And, sure, you can freely admit now that Ser Pudge the Pink Honey Badger was a complete crock of shit from the get-go; you’ve just been a tool in Mumu Chiffon’s strange and convoluted plan to get back at his former employer.
You're one-hundred percent positive that the moment this charity event ends, and you’re allowed to leave the children’s clinic without threat of immediate execution, you’ll probably find a pack of rabid dogs right outside the door.
But, hey, you do look better in the costume than Pagan did. And if the last thing you see is a cadre of slobbering Dholes tearing you to bits, then at the very least, it’s a Fierce way to go.