Page 95 of The Succubi's Choice

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MIRI (1:02 PM): Can we hang out a bit today?

KATYA BOSS (1:03 PM): Only if you help me dress shop.

MIRI (1:03 PM): Still?

KATYA BOSS (1:04 PM): It’s horrible.

* * *

The store Katyapicks is all the way in Monrovia, and smells like too much air freshener, but has a plethora of sizes and colors and comfy couches to rest on.

Miri all but lays on one of the couches, as Katya gets wrangled into another dress, one with minimum poof and a draping back that will probably look amazing on her, and stares up at the ceiling, almost unable to talk.

“You only have a few weeks until you leave, right?” She calls into the little dressing stall, because that’s a topic of conversation she can land on without feeling like she might burst from shame.

“Twenty days,” Katya calls back, slightly muffled. “Twenty days and I still don’t have anything remotely resembling a dress.”

There’s a slightly concerned coo from the dress attendant in response to that, in the soothing sort of noise that they seem to always make.

“That’s rough.”

Katya opens the door, and the dress is gorgeous, draping over her like it’s meant to…

And showing the angry red knot of scars on her shoulder like a badge.

Miri raises an eyebrow at it, Katya raises one back, like she’s challenging her to say something.

“I mean, that’s badass,” Miri supplies, and Katya nods, before sitting next to her on the bench with a careful, restricted motion. “People would definitely know you shouldn’t be fucked with.”

“It clashes with my scar,” Katya says, matter of fact. “People are gonna look at the scar instead of the bride.”

“Shawl during ceremony, take it off for dancing?” Katya gives her the look that clearly says she’s not going to fucking dance. “It looks pretty on you.”

“It’s a maybe.” Which is the nicest thing Katya has said about any of the many dresses, so Miri lazily pumps her fist in the air. “I have another dress appointment down the street, do you have time for that?”

And Miri has nothing but time today, no work, no plans, and she doubts she’ll be called upon again by Not-Thomas. Who really needs a name of his own, and…

And it's such a betrayal, that she’s thinking about telling Katya. That she has no idea how to even broach it, how to even begin to say, oh right a powerful Archdemon who doesn’t have the Organization’s best interests in mind wants to talk to you and just you, but it’s okay cause he swears he won’t hurt you.

Katya re-emerges, in her normal suit, her hair not even mussed. “At least that one didn’t actively hurt the shoulder,” she complains, but her eyes slip down to Miri’s arm, where Miri has meticulously put on cover up makeup to hide the black marks.

Miri pretends she doesn’t see that, though, not wanting to rehash that particular thing. Her friend’s righteous anger is overwhelming, burning hot and bright in the face of Miri smallness.

The makeup itches, of course, but there’s not much she can do about that. Gabe had tried a variety of anti-itch creams, and none of them did anything besides make her skin sticky and the foundation slide off her skin like it’s coated in water.

It’s just a brisk walk to the next store, and the outside air smells refreshingly of desert sage and dry brush, and Katya’s walking a little bit slower than she usually does, and after a long moment she realizes that she’s waiting for Miri to speak, to say something.

Because of course she’s bright enough to know that Miri wouldn’t just ask to hang out without a reason, and of course she’s at least adept enough to not force Miri into it.

Which is somehow worse. Somehow. That she’s being so nice and so supportive and all this still.

“The Archdemon wants to talk to you,” Miri blurts, getting it all out in one go.

Katya just raises one manicured eyebrow.

“He...he said he wouldn’t harm you, but he asked me to ask you.”

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