"Yeah well maybe you'd be less of a jerk if you came at all."

He would've said something stronger than jerk but Valentine is always getting on him for bitch and cunt.

“Shall we head back?” he says, abruptly, standing.

"...sure. Okay."

He feels kind of grumpy now. He was all comfy and they were kidding each other and then apparently Anatole can dish it but he can't take it. Bitch.

He seems slightly distracted, on the way back.

“Are you going to do it tonight? If she drinks?”

"I'll look for an opportunity but I'm not at all counting on getting one, it's going to be tricky to find a chance to get at her drink where no one can see. Especially if it needs to be multiple drinks."

He nods.

“If you get one, tell me. I can try to run interference for the second.”

"I'm not going to try to whisper about poison in a room full of warriors but I'll compliment your ass."

“Specific, not unrealistic. Good choice.”

"Very realistic indeed."

This is his cue to grab Anatole's ass.

He laughs and slaps his hand.

Camillo shakes it out, laughing, and then suddenly remembers that they're coming up on the town and he has come all over his face.

None of these people are real. It's fine. ...almost none of these people are real.

It doesn't actually help that much.

His dread is delicious.

When they arrive, he pats him on the back, gives him a little shove towards the road, and disappears into his tent.

Nobody looks particularly offended or unsettled, but people are definitely looking when he passes them.

Oh god. How long does he need to do this for. How long does he have until he gets hard about it again.

...he needs to go find Z and god willing Z will tell him he has something on his face and then he can wash it off. And if he doesn't run into Dorothy on the way then no real people will have seen him. Probably.

Z is currently sitting outside the mead hall in a blanket gnawing on a piece of (probably) jerky.

Be normal be normal be normal

"Hey buddy. How's it going?"

That was super not normal.

He looks up.

“—ha, you got laid.” 

"What? No. What?!"

Turning bright pink, at least, comes naturally.

He gestures broadly to his face.

God bless Z. He scrubs his hand across his face, looks at it, and then pulls his shirt off and uses it to wipe down more thoroughly.

“That where you were hanging out yesterday, too?”

"Mmm...aybe? A little bit?"

The shirt is a lost cause. That's okay. He's pretty cold-tolerant.

He holds out a fist for an anachronistic bump.

He loves anachronistic fistbumps. 

“Leg wound has its perks, I guess.”

He lifts the heavy wool blanket and beckons.