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The Firm Handshake: Chapter 9.
By OfficeAnon
Chapter 9, Minor Victories
“Stay away from any minute of joy that can bring you a lifetime of sorrow.”
Dennis E. Adonis
You wake up the next day, having slept surprisingly well. You had been concerned that you wouldn’t have been able to sleep and that the events of the day would come back to you in your nightmares. It hadn’t. Perhaps, at the back of your brain, Instinct had stood guard. Then again, maybe it would catch up to you when you least expected it, when your mind became too quiet in the white noise of the shower.
Maybe it was Blackthorn rubbing off on you, but you also pondered the impact it would have on your reputation. So far you had been faultless, as far as the public was concerned. But it had taken only three days before something derailed it. Would they know? Would you tell them? You could play it off casually like you had in front of the wolves. A craven part of you suggested milking it for sympathy, or even shift some of Ghaid’s glory onto yourself.
Such ideas repulsed you, the fact they came from you was more unsettling than the event itself. You discard them. You would only gain the reputation of a liar. That was something fundamentally opposed to this new life.
You had told lies in the past, from the smallest to the biggest and would certainly tell more in the future. But if your colleagues found out, well, it would render your gift useless. It wasn’t mind control. Public perception almost certainly played a part. You would have to at least appear honest, so you might as well be honest.
On the topic of public perception, you shove your gym stuff into a backpack to take to work before you lost your nerve.
Your drive into work passes the narrow street the van had been parked on, but the view was only available for the briefest of moments. The van wasn’t there, neither was a pack of wolves. Ghaid must have done cross-country before, the distance from here to work was a fair distance.
Your mood was threatening to sour. You didn’t feel like a bit of light morning sex with anyone your heart desired was the answer. Mercifully, the elevator ride up is a solo mission. You spend it hyping yourself up. Go find someone with plush fur and bother them all day if you have to, you say to yourself.
You had barely turned your computer on before Blackthorn burst into your office and threw his arms around you. Your arms were pinned to your side and half of your face was flattened into his chest.
“Thank goodness Harrisson found you, Anon!” his voice was full of concern. The lack of composure absent from his body and voice was very noticeable. You feel your scalp being pressed about as his muzzle squished into it in a weirdly affectionate way.
It took the third attempt to prise him off you with repeated protests of “I’m fine Theodore!”
“When the security officer-“
“Ghaid.”
“When Ghaid told me this morning, my heart nearly leapt out of my chest!”
“Yes, well, I’m fine now, stop fussing over me.”
You look into his eyes, they had that tell-tale wobbling sign of being on the verge of tears. Suddenly you feel awkward about pushing him off of you.
“If you want to feel bad for someone, feel bad for the wolves. They’re probably still in the hospital.”
The look on the horse’s face immediately revealed that Ghaid had skipped over the details.
“Yes, you can ask for the details,” you roll your eyes at this. He was reacting how you probably should have done. Blackthorn was probably so used to being in control that being abruptly reminded he couldn’t always be obviously didn’t sit well with him.
“Hospital? What do you mean hospital?” he looks you up and down, the emotion in his voice was unsure which direction it should take because he didn’t see any injury on you. “Ghaid said he intercepted a vehicle that was…detaining you. He said you were shaken, but not hurt.”
“Some wolves cornered me and Reginald in an alleyway. They had a van,” you decide to omit the fact it was padded for soundproofing “I managed to delay them before Ghaid turned up and beat the snot out of them. They didn’t hurt me, they were going to hand me over to their boss, I think.”
Blackthorn seethed at this, angered by the injustice. “Probably some weird rich guy who has never had someone say ‘no’ to him. How did you delay them? Surely they had protection against the gene, they clearly knew you had it.”
“They had masks on, but wolves are a lot like dogs. It was almost tolerable at one point.”
“Anon, you shouldn’t minimize this! You need counselling, therapy-“
Ah, here was the real source of trauma. Corporate sponsored therapy sessions. You cringe at the thought. Three hours of sitting on a computer course filled with soothing voices and muted pastel colours defining everything straight from the dictionary. That was actual torture. You’d willingly throw yourself into a dodgy dingy basement than go through that.
“Theodore, it’s fine, really. I doubt anyone would be willing to try again in a hurry when they learn the last group to give it a go was left naked and battered next to a broken van.”
“-then there’s the legal…did you say naked?”
“Yes. If anyone needs to see a counsellor after this, it’s poor Reginald. He’s probably revolted having seen a bunch of naked people going at it up close.”
Blackthorn gives you a questioning look which has suddenly seized control over his unguarded face.
“He wasn’t affected by my gene. I think he’s utterly asexual. He had to sit there the whole time and…listen.”
The tension drained out of Blackthorn, relief comingled with unexpected amusement filled the gap. “I’ll see if I can’t ask Mr Silverton to give him a week off.” He paused then, studying you. “But you’re sure you are okay?” he was trying to see through a mask neither of you were sure existed.
“I’ll bother you in your office if I need some company. Maybe this time I’ll invade your office at lunch time. Where are you located anyway?”
“Same floor, around the corner, at the corner. It has my name on it. I get two walls of windows. But knock first in case I have a client.”
Lucky bastard. Your window, singular, didn’t even look out into the city, but instead internally at more office. You supposed you couldn’t just have people from the street or other buildings looking in. Maybe it was some nudity law. Those were strange for anthros.
“There was something else,” you begin, trying to act casual about it “there was a rottweiler in the meeting yesterday, spent a lot of it grilling me over the numbers. What’s his name?”
Blackthorn snapped his fingers trying to remember. It made a dull parody of a clip-clop canter as he did so. “Scott Droving, that’s it. I recall him being a bit of a grouch. I forget what his job role is these days, Luke would know if you ask him.”
You thank Theodore for his time, and say you’ll swing over at lunch.
You prod the name into the keyboard and find him. He seemed to work in another admin department, or something like it. But it didn’t say where. Minimal information on his profile. Hardly uncommon.
You’d have to prowl the halls for him and catch him out. Or something. You aren’t sure yet, if you go looking what did that say about you? This was someone who liked being corrected, told they were wrong with a source. Walking up to him and smearing spunk on his face would be cheating.
This was going to require actual effort.
You saw him readjust his trousers, you knew he liked you. First point had gone to you. Now you needed to find where the second one would come from…
There was no work pending for you. It had all been rushed to you last minute before the meeting and now we were in the empty space beyond. Office jobs had droughts of work, it’s why you liked them. It came and went with the seasons. Time to malinger safely while collecting a paycheque in a somewhat comfy office. It beat manual labour every time.
You needed some stress relief, or at least something to work your way up to that. Clear your head, organise your thoughts.
You did have two loose ends to tie up. It was an easy plan to execute, to get you in the mind frame for better schemes.
Accounting departments and you historically never really got on very well. On the surface they were the same environment. People in office attire on computers fumbling numbers around. But the culture could not have been more different. It was a world of specialists versus the generalist. Things that had to stay the same versus the changing solution. A proper education and certification compared to quick fix problem solving.
You could never get along in the human world. Here you could make them press the delete key with their tongue and destroy a quarter’s worth of work if you got them into your office. They’d do it with a raging boner too and ask to do it again tomorrow.
You find that snow leopard lady from a couple of days ago. She is pleasantly surprised by your unannounced visitation. She, like the others, had a small cubical space to herself. It had a few personal trappings, a small potted plant, pictures of her preference, a novelty mug referencing something you didn’t recognise. All of it little more than a lick of paint to soften the soulless walls.
You roll a chair in. “Neck, chin or behind the ears?” you ask, without preamble.
“Pardon?” she had probably expected to hear something akin to small talk.
You put a hand on her head and begin to scratch at the fur. You ask the question again. Her whole head is squished to the side you’re working on, eye twitching with the sensation.
“Nrr, l-rr-er, l-lower.” She managed the word on the third attempt.
“I’ve had a bit of a tough morning, so I came down to hear the relaxing, nay, dulcet, tones of some purring.” You say all this, not really quite all there. The charm was on autopilot. You were still thinking about Scott the rottweiler. You needed something to do with your hands while you pondered.
She guided your hand lower with a lazy purr.
You oblige the request, scruffing her neck as you did so. She didn’t go limp, but it switched off a few lesser mental faculties briefly each time you did it. You allow your mind to wander just as hers is basically being forced to do so. The loud and irregular purring she was making was helping you concentrate.
Never before had you seriously considered finding actual hard work to do, purely to show someone you could do it. You had done hard hobby stuff before, but you enjoyed that in all its aspects, it’s why you did it. But this would be boring.
No, maybe you would have seen it as boring before, because you didn’t see the payoff for yourself. Ideally, a worker should work their best. Reality meant you were rarely incentivised to do so. Your position was unique two-fold. Every anthro who reported you’d given them attention would pay out, but now there was one you were interested in too. Someone who had respected you, not the gene.
“Shirt off.” It was almost an automatic request from yourself. Your hands needed more stuff to rub. The plan was starting to form.
She in turn shakily threw it off, a waft of perfume sailed past your head in its wake.
You like breasts. A good set of boobs are universally liked. These weren’t massive, nor small, but they filled your hands, which was what you wanted right now. Fuzzy stress balls. Plus, it gave access to the plush front side.
Previously, when you had done some classic courtship, you had done the usual methods of impressing humans. Ability to cook, be clean, be presentable. Have at least one friend, do social things, imply you had money without saying it. Those things. Humans typically were not impressed by your hobbies, anthros were probably the same. Your job was never exciting, so you couldn’t get away with the “man in uniform” appeal.
But this was unfamiliar territory. No dating guide would have suggested aggressive spreadsheeting.
Your hands do long, deep raking strokes up and down the body. The leopard in your hands was unable to make coherent words because the mouth was making sounds like an outboard motor. It was good white noise, plus the vibrations were nice too.
The whole department could probably hear something going on. The only reason someone would make these sorts of noises was because you were on the prowl nearby. A sort of inverse-predator that hunted you to make you live a little.
“Where does that ram sit? Just point.”
An unstable finger gesticulated. You reward her by biting into the scruff of her neck and groping her breasts in one combined motion. Higher brain functions in her shut off and restarted not soon after.
You stand up. “Thanks, I needed to sort my thoughts out.”
She’s slumped forwards, tongue lolling out a little. She gives you a weak thumbs up.
You feel a little bad for using her like that. She wouldn’t have known the interaction was more for your benefit today, rather than simply upholding a promise from a few days ago. You’re fairly sure if you had explained and asked, she would have agreed to it anyway, but then it might have tainted it. Better, you feel, to not unload your trauma on random colleagues. Blackthorn and Ghaid, perhaps, but not members of the public.
This time, your arrival was expected. The ram must have put two and two together from the sounds vibrating on the air. He had styled the thicker fur on his chest so that it looked like he had a permanent white cravat poking out where a tie should be. Like before, the ram sported the same pinstripe suit on, but with a different flash of colour from the pocket square. Some men wanted a different set of clothes on each day, but cruel society had given all the variety to women. Crueller still was in turn giving the men all the pockets.
“It’s, ah, good to see you again, Mr Anon.” the ram was attempting to play it cool, as he very definitely hadn’t been sitting cross-legged in an attempt to forestall his boner.
“Do you mind if I have your seat briefly?” you ask him.
“Well, I, um, you see…” his eyes flick down to his groin, then to yours, suddenly realising you had seen him do it. The white fur struggled to contain his blushing expression.
“You wouldn’t want to leave me standing here, would you?”
He awkwardly stood, hand over his crotch in a poor display of casualness. “It’s been a while, you understand?”
“Since what?” People could have greased axels with the voice you adopted for those two words.
“Since I…” he looked around, not willing to say the words in public. He knew people would be listening. His hand twitched a little, trying to disguise the fact he was both simultaneously failing to resist the urge to touch himself and hide it before it came to full mast.
“Hands by your sides, chest out. Why don’t you tell me about your colour choice for today?” He puffed out his chest, but was still hiding the bulge. You gently, but firmly rebuke the notion, “I said put your hands down. Now, tell me about this splendid choice of colour for today?”
He wasn’t going to be able to get away with it, his hands balled into fists as he steeled himself. He was erect under his clothes, you already knew that. Pressed against his body to the side, you could see he was regular and average.
He had the look of an introvert being forced to do some public speaking. Was he concerned about his size? Maybe. Many men were. Too much porn, too little action. It had warped his sense of perspective. Size mattered not to the considerate top.
The space wasn’t at all confined, the HDG couldn’t effectively calm him down to relax properly. He had probably been thinking about this moment since you first met him briefly in the elevator and you had swelled beyond reasonable proportions in his mind since then.
The ram turned his chest so the colourful fabric was centre stage. “I just chose something I liked, I have a few of them.”
“I think it looks perfectly fine.” You say, suggestively.
“My handkerchief or my…?” his eyes flicked down again against his better judgement.
“Yes.”
That was a little mean, but how could you resist such an easy opening?
“Would you like to take mine out for a comparison?”
“If it’s not, um, too much of a trouble?”
You fall back onto the chair. “I think I left it under your desk. Could you get it for me, please?”
He blushed harder. It was cute watching him get down on his hands and knees, because it sent his tail into the air, a white buoy on the pinstripe sea.
As he turned around under the desk, you undid your trousers. The groping from earlier had dispelled a lot of the latent anxiety you had built up. It was time to do the same for this guy.
You grip his horns and press his nose into the fabric of your underwear. His horns were two simple backwards curves, now useless in the tight confines for any aggressive action, but perfectly aligned for your own benefit as handles.
“Use your teeth, nice and gently.”
This time he didn’t need encouraging, he had been dying to know, to see how he measured up. His mouth worked the fabrics down to your lap, but you didn’t let him pull away too far. At the same time, you didn’t let him touch the goods, either. His tongue tentatively tried to make contact, but you manoeuvred his head an equal distance away to tease him.
“Ah, ah, ah! Not yet. You keep your tongue inside until I give you permission.”
You gently move his head closer, until it rested as intimately as possible. Let him breath in the musk for a bit.
His nostrils flared slightly, taking in your scent. The ram's eyes fluttered closed as he savoured the intimate aroma.
“If you can control yourself, you can have some. But good things come to those who wait. One hand on mine, one on yours. Then we’ll go from there.”
He was eager to obey, his goal was millimetres away from him now when before it no doubt seemed unreachable the day before. He fumbles at his belt, which clinked open along with everything else in the way of his hand.
You keep his head close, but never quite close enough to touch. He can see every detail, every angle. He could not avoid knowing every last bit of it. When he made contact he became oblivious to his own, though he worked them both in unison.
“Do to yours whatever you do to mine. Your pleasure is my pleasure, for now.”
The novelty of his different technique was the unique theme of this experience. He very clearly wants whatever you have coming for him and his hand tries a variety of methods to ensure it does.
The ram’s hand goes for the variety pack. Full length pumps. Rapid and tight stimulation to the head. One fingertip down the underside in teasing motions. A tight ring of thumb and forefinger from base to tip and back again. Pressing his palm to the slit at the top as it began to weep pre to slicken the experience. His arm didn’t tire, driven on by building lust.
You remove his hand gently, he was doing a good job with this motivation. You bring his head close again and tilt it to the side as a proper bead of pre formed at the top. He watches as it falls with viscous slowness down a strand and onto his waiting outstretched tongue. It was like nectar to him.
Another drip formed from the excitement brought on from the mutual pleasure and struck his tongue again. His own hips were bucking against own grip. That had to stop.
“Both hands on me now, keep that mouth open.”
His own slickness joins your own now and you watch his dick desperately jump against the air.
He now double-hands you with equally erotic variety. Some old skills were being dusted off, it seemed. His head was still at an angle, tongue still out catching anything that dropped from you. Eyes focused on your flesh.
“Please..." he gasped out after a few more strokes, voice pleading. “I'll do anything... just let me have it...”
“You've earned it,” you gently murmur to him as you bring his head level and touching. Leaning back in the chair, you gave a simple order:
“Lick.”
He extends his tongue like a landing strip. As soon as the muscle comes into contact, you pull his head in so you overshoot the runway and lands in his throat instead. It goes in easily, you knew it would with how he had begged. He breathes through his nose a bit unsteadily at first, but after a few pumps of his horns he gets the hang of it.
“Touch yourself, cum when I do. Only when I do.”
He has one hand on your balls so he can feel it before you do. His eyes water a little bit, but he’s doing that mostly to himself.
A little kinkiness, just enough that you can see he’s reliving a youthful moment to himself.
“See? You got yourself all worked up over this for nothing.” You pause for a moment then, appreciating the irony in your words and chuckle at your own private joke. “There’s always someone out there willing to take care of you, little lamb.”
You’re mostly saying that for yourself at this point, but its genuine nevertheless. You slow your next few pumps. “Go out there after work today and make a few new friends. Now, I’m going to cum, and you’re going to keep your mouth open so I see it fill up.”
Obediently, the ram parted his lips in offering, sticking out his tongue to catch every drop. The first hot spurt landed directly on it and he moaned whorishly at the taste. Your diet had shifted to include a lot more fruit and veg this past week. With regular exercise on the way, you’d maybe live to a hundred.
Not yet allowed to swallow, he drooled down himself for a bit. A look of debauched satisfaction on his face.
“Swallow.”
His throat moves in one gulp. He re-opens his mouth to show off. With one finger, you close it for him and rub his little black nose.
You consider making him cum into his probably expensive silk pocket square, but decide against it. Sure, you more or less forced him under his own desk for your sexual pleasure but you’re not a monster. You hand him the box of tissues and watch him palm himself off to completion. It doesn’t take more than a few moments, secretly skilled at edging himself as well you suspect. A talent he probably hadn’t used for a while.
You save yourself a moment of fumbling conversation by seeing his name on a small fake-metal triangular wedge on his desk. Mr Frederick Barnes, CPA. He had letters after his name, very fancy. You compliment him as such as you help him out from between your legs. The ram that came out was a lot more confident than the one who went in.
He stood there, erection fading, wiping it clean. Having felt both his and yours, perhaps that hang up he had about his own perceived manhood had been quelled a little bit.
You give his junk a friendly little squeeze. Unlike his face and nose, it’s a little mottled in colour. Maybe that was what had bothered him, maybe it was his size, who could say? You decide not to ask. But, this way he knew you had seen it and were not about to tease him for it. Both of you were gentlemen, after all. Human’s had issues with skin colour, but almost never cared about skin texture. Maybe that was like some form of sheep racism? Your ignorance was probably a major relief to him.
You now had a bit of post-nut clarity to work with as well. The ram no doubt did too. It was a good moment to instil some wisdom and have it enter the mind unfiltered.
“Go and talk to that leopard lady. She’ll know who’s single. She’s in a good mood right now, I can assure you, and you both smell of me. You have a nice set of assets on you and I’m sure someone you like will want to touch it. Here…”
You pluck the pocket square from his pocket and rub it against your neck. This needed a lighter touch. To another human this would have been sacrilegious, but whatever they smelled in your gene meant it was probably better than any cologne.
It felt like a mentoring moment, right up until you realised you didn’t know how to fold the thing properly. The moment tripped over its own shoelaces in an instant.
He rescued it deftly, refolding it with professional precision and slipping it back where it belonged. Probably for the best. He got the last word, or at least the last victory.
“I’ll come back another time and you can teach me how to do that.”
Perhaps it was time to go and bother Blackthorn, for once. For those outside the corporate world, what it meant to have two walls of windows in a high-end firm was, essentially, to be like a wizard in a tower. No-one gave them up willingly, it was often dead man’s boots or Machiavellian levels of manipulation. They were status symbols. There were only four corners, but functionally unlimited quantities of everything else.
It was unsurprising at this point that Theodore Blackthorn had one. The door had a fancy bronze embossed plaque, with a fancy matching handle, with the correct amount of frosted glass to tie it all together. You can even see he had his own personally selected carpet in there, a nice stately burgundy red. You just had generic grey office carpet tiles.
You can see through the non-frosted sections that Blackthorn has a client in, however. You were about to politely go back to your office before he catches your eye and beckons you in.
The committee selected a public-facing smile for you to wear, a few generic platitudes for small talk on standby, and a quick excuse to leave if needed as you step in.
You had started this job with the intention of brushing up on The Law, but after about 10 minutes it had seemed suddenly unimportant, what with all the fucking and screwing and casual blowjobs. You knew nothing that could provide any legal help whatsoever. The committee once again helped, pointing at the whiteboard with the words “I must defer to my esteemed colleague here.” Encased in frantic red circles. Social armour at the ready.
Nature had been playing a cruel joke on avians for the better part of a thousand years at this point. Society had shifted so that they either clipped the feathers on their arms to fit in a suit, or they got to fly around half naked. It had made them a little bitter at times.
The one across the desk from Blackthorn was an ironic mirror that only the most hackneyed writer would include as a foil. A black raven.
He had a style, that was for sure. A white high-collared shirt with a black bowtie, straight from the 1920’s. A set of classy silver-clipped suspenders that ran from thin shoulders to grey suit trousers. And a slender silver-topped cane which certainly served no purpose. Glossy black feathers, almost blue on the edges, completed the vintage monochrome look.
Blackthorn at least had whites around his eyes, the raven didn’t even have that. Instead, he sharply turned his whole head, razor sharp beak and all, to face towards the target of his speech. Snide malice mingled with smugness in his tone. The voice of someone who regularly said things like ”I know better than you.” without irony.
Avians couldn’t sneer, but they could look down their beaks at you.
Blackthorn rose from his seat, a look of practiced jovialness “Mr Chatham, please, this is Mr Anon, one of my colleagues. Good thing you were passing by Anon, I was about to call for you.”
Your eyes suddenly pass over Luke, who gave you an actually cheerful grin as he sat in the corner with a laptop.
Thank fuck for that. You hated taking minutes.
You extend a hand, a taloned claw took it. There was no warmth in it.
You have dealt with people like this in situations identical to this one countless times. You crack out old reliable. “It’s all a matter of balance, I’m sure.” As if you knew already what they had been discussing. It was routine, like a well-worn chess opening move. The other side and you would go back and forth like this until the proper game began.
“And what might this be? A clerk?” Chatham says it like it’s a slur.
“Got it in one, sir. I do everything except the finances.”
“Mr Anon here has a knack for making things orderly, take this, for example,” he spun his computer monitor around, it showed a spreadsheet.
Chatham’s talon made plastic clicks as he prodded a line on the screen. He tapped his cane sympathetically afterwards an equal number of times. “It is incorrect.” The raven said simply, as if a single entry out of hundreds was enough context.
You have a moment, maybe two, to digest this and figure out what the issue was. Your eyes dart across the screen, reading anything and everything that might yield an answer. The committee had been on high alert as soon as you entered the room, so they had been prepared for this. Common consensus was that if a customer pointed at a number on your screen, it was nearly always too high. If it was on their screen, it was almost always too low.
You couldn’t just say anything, in case you countermanded whatever Blackthorn had been saying. Likewise, you couldn’t just say nothing, or make a noncommittal half-way remark, otherwise you would look like an idiot.
You can always buy more time with a bit of confusing verbiage.
“Is there any particular element you understand to be less than entirely satisfactory in regards to the entries listed here?”
After all, whatever it was, he clearly wanted it. Hopefully, you were about to learn what that would be.
“Well, other firms are offering a much more competitive rate.”
Bingo. You avoid making it obvious, but your eyes flicker around the room, judging the size. Larger than your own, but enclosed. You simply needed to delay for a bit.
“I must defer to my esteemed colleague here.”
Blackthorn slid back into the conversation like a stiletto into a ribcage. “Certainly,” he says. “But it represents the adjustment you yourself requested two quarters ago. The retainer structure shifts accordingly.”
You are beginning to piece it together now. You had no idea if the Firm was good value for money, that wasn’t important. To you, it seemed, a customer had wanted a bespoke service and didn’t want to pay the increased cost. A tale as old as time.
You lean forward slightly, just enough to make the raven’s black eyes glance at you rather than the screen. “Of course, Mr Chatham, what I think is most impressive is how clearly that line reflects your own standards.”
He blinks. You can almost hear the gears crunch together in his mind. The word “standards” was often preceded by either “high” or “low” and you had said neither. He was now trying to figure out which you had omitted.
“You’ve managed your own portfolio so precisely that even a fractional change stands out to you. Most clients would never notice that level of detail.”
Chatham straightens a little, feathers along his neck smoothing under the praise. “Attention to detail is everything in my business,” he replies, trying not to sound pleased.
“Exactly,” you continue. “Would you like a more premium option?” There was always a more expensive version of something to make your own choice seem cheap. You could buy luxury plastic bottles of water. And even if there wasn’t, no business would turn down the ability to make one up on the spot.
Blackthorn’s mouth curves at the corner. “We do try to meet our clients’ expectations.”
Chatham tilts his head, studying the spreadsheet again. He had been caught in the classic dilemma: look cheap in front of people he thought himself greater than, or spend more money.
You wait just long enough for his thoughts to crystallise, but not escape his beak. “You can’t buy prestige, of course.”
“Indeed,” Chatham murmurs. His tone has softened, coming around to rationalising the whole affair as an indulgence rather than a bill. The cane had stopped tapping.
Blackthorn gave you a look whilst he was distracted. You couldn’t stay in the room too long.
“You seem like the sort of fellow who enjoys a cup of tea,” you stand up with the motion of someone who wasn’t going to consider hearing the word ‘no’. “Milk, sugar?”
Luke Bewick, who had become accustomed to his boss’s motions, politely asked for one as well to encourage the raven to do the same.
You couldn’t refuse under that sort of social pressure. Thus, Mr Chatham caved.
You returned a few minutes later with a fancy cup and saucer for the raven, and Luke’s personal work mug which had a classic dog bone shape on it. Of course, the real major distinction was the fact you had run your lips around the rim of the avian’s cup and then wiped the evidence away. A little taste of you, just to keep him pliant.
It was like watching him repeatedly poison himself with calming juice. His feathers unruffled themselves with each sip. He was nowhere near close to relaxed, but you had taken his edge off entirely.
You had missed whatever boring business matters were needed for these things to be concluded. You and Blackthorn politely wave goodbye to the raven as he was assisted out by Luke.
“What did you do to the tea?” Blackthorn asked when they were out of sight.
“It’s a mystery, isn’t it?” you reply, and run your tongue over your lip quickly.
“I suppose anything else would have ruined the texture.”
“I find that offensive, my diet has been very good this week.”