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Pick Your Poison, Thursday

“Seriously, how many bottles of coke can a person need?”

What was it about the scent of bath bombs that attracted these fucking downy demons? “Is it the patchouli?” Margo asked, taking her seventh bottle of Coke Zero of the day as she raised her eyebrows at the bear. “Are bears secretly hippies or something?”

The bear growled happily and paced past her, towards the bath section.

“No getting into the bath salts!” she yelled after it. “I’m not cleaning up your shit!”

Bears. Seriously.

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Mind the polar bears.

She's sipping some soda.

“Ah, they’ve been here too,” Eliot said. “Not the sort of bear I want getting me drinks.”

“Tragic,” Margo announced. “If the island is going to flood us with bears, the least it could do is get you laid.”

The bear walked past her, into the feminine hygiene aisle. She just wasn’t gonna ask.

You know what? At least it was trying to keep clean and fresh.

"Just another thing Fandom and Fillory have in common," Eliot said with a sigh. "Cockblocking me with whimsey."

“It’s a fucking tragedy,” Margo said, shaking her head. She crossed her arms. “Any other fuckery I need to know about today?”

"Nothing springs to mind," Eliot said, tilting his head to watch the polar bear rifle through sachets of potpourri. "Oh, do you have the notes on that ritual you used, when you blinded me?"

“They’re at the house. Why,” Margo said, looking up at him, squinting through her one eye. “Did Fear Nerd fuck up someone’s head again?”

"Not yet," Eliot said. "But he's certainly getting hungry enough. And I'm not sure how much he can starve without the damned fear demon taking over and making him go snacking."

“I mean, I’m game to lock him in the storage room indefinitely if we gotta,” Margo said, shrugging with her entire face. “We’ll toss him a new book once a week to keep him busy.”

Eliot sighed. "While I admire your viciousness, Bambi, I'd like to find a solution that doesn't involve kidnapping."

“Well, I sure as fuck ain’t playing pied piper for a fear entity,” Margo said.

Her face was less ‘shrug’ now, and more appalled confusion.

"Of course not," Eliot said. "I'd never dream of suggesting you would."

He'd just . . . do it himself.

“Then what’s your alternative, because apparently we can’t poke his eyes out and expect it to stick,” Margo said, her hands landing firmly on her hips.

"Keeping the bond from ever actually forming," Eliot said. "Let him snack, and then go away. The actual talking part wasn't all that bad."

. . . Yeah. Margo knew Eliot. And something about that phrasing wasn’t right.

“Let him snack on who exactly, Eliot?”

Eliot shrugged. "Whoever volunteers. I'm not going to pressgang anyone into sharing trauma with a fear entity."

A chill hit Margo straight in the chest.

“Eliot,” she said, her voice straining at the edges, “You are not offering yourself up to a fucking fear demon because you feel bad for him. No.”

Eliot let out an exasperated sigh. "Jon isn't a fear demon, Margo, he's just -- an idiot who got himself in too deep. And I for one would rather not see him go feral and start running around slavering for stories like a zombie for brains." He reached out to rest his hand on her shoulder. "Would you relax? I'm not trying to martyr myself here. I'm not going to do anything unless I'm sure it'll work."

The “No.” was sharper this time, and Margo moved out of the reach of his hands. “You might think he’s a puppy, El, but he’s not. He’s a wolf who happens to be wearing a puppy like a fucked-up double furry costume.”

Edited 2021-12-02 22:19 (UTC)

"No, that was Mike," Eliot said, rolling his eyes. "Who, you'll remember, I dealt with. All by myself."

That was . . . not a good example to reach for, El.

“You mean you killed Mike and left me to try to pick up the pieces while you drank and drugged yourself into oblivion.” Margo’s voice was sharp enough to cut through the fucking brick walls around them right now. “No, Eliot. You are not getting my notes, and you are not throwing yourself at that idiot as a snack. Dickwad!”

"I --" Dammit, she had him on that one and he knew it. "I -- learned from that experience." Yeah, that sounded sad even to his own ears. "I'm not throwing myself at anyone, Margo, I'm just trying to find a reason why we're here other than dumb luck and parties."

“Well, this ain’t it,” Margo said flatly. “So get it outta your head.”

"You know you're not actually my boss, right? Or my mother. That is one gay cliche I'm definitely never leaning into."

“No, but I’m your High Queen, and I’m pretty sure keeping you alive is part of my job,” Margo said irritably. She sing-songed a faux-sweet, “You don’t want me to boss you around, try not being a self-sacrificing idiot for every doe-eyed nerd you meet.”

"I'm not sacrificing anything, Margo, I'm trying to find a way that no one has to." Eliot shook his head. "And don't try to make this about Quentin. Have you seen Jon lately? I'm not into starvation chic!"

“Jon’s not your problem, is what he is, El,” Margo snapped. She shook her head, crossing her arms. “And I personally don’t give a shit if that little creep starves.”

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