Page 201 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Plague adjusts his book in his lap, smoothing the corner of a page.

"I have… ideas."

"Ideas." Whiskey waits. "That's it? Just ideas?"

"I'm not sharing them with you."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll ruin it."

"How would I ruin it?"

Plague gives him a flat stare.

"Okay, valid," Whiskey concedes. "But at least tell me the vibe. Are we talking fancy dinner? Museum? Planetarium shit?"

Plague's ears go pink at the last one.

Whiskey points at him. "PLANETARIUM. I knew it. You absolute fucking nerd." But he's beaming. "That's actually perfect. She's gonna love that shit."

"It's not just that," Plague says stiffly, then seems to regret opening his mouth. He takes a measured sip of tea. "There's a Jordanian restaurant near it. I know the owner. It's quiet. Good food."

"Dude, that's not fair! I'd better take her out first before you set the bar in fuckin' space. Literally. And that restaurant is sick."

Plague snorts. "Not my problem. Aren't you Italian? Take her to Olive Garden."

"Bro!" Whiskey cries. "Olive Garden isn't my fuckin' culture!"

Wraith shifts against the wall and signs across the room. That's a good plan.

"Thank you, Wraith," Plague says, now pointedly ignoring Whiskey, whose legs are still across his lap. "At least someone can be normal about it."

"I'm being so normal right now, dude! I'm being the most normal I've ever been!"

Wraith huffs a quiet laugh.

"And what about you?" Whiskey asks him.

Plague heaves a dramatic sigh of relief that he's finally being left alone.

Wraith blinks at Whiskey, then away, and shrugs. I'm not sure.

"You're taking her out, too, right?" Whiskey asks, his enthusiastic golden retriever energy already dialing up a few more notches.

I don't know. Wraith's shoulders sink and his hands move again, slower this time. I'm not… normal. I can't exactly take her out to eat.

Whiskey shifts forward on the couch. "Okay, but hear me out. There are sushi places downtown with those booth curtains. You pull the curtain, you're basically in your own room⁠—"

Wraith's shoulders have climbed toward his ears.

"—and some of 'em even have those little buzzers where you don't gotta talk to the server at all, they just bring the food and leave it outside the curtain, and⁠—"

Wraith's eyes drop to the floor. His scarred hands go still in his lap.

"—it's perfect, bro. Seriously. We could scope it out first if you want, I'll go in and check the vibe, make sure the curtains aren't see-through or some cheap-ass bullshit⁠—"

"Whiskey," Plague says quietly.