Spoiled Imp

Many that knew Hawthorne only had one of few impressions of him. Some considered him no more than the lonely, brooding type. Others considered him cold and standoffish without so much as speaking a word to him. And others still were quick to label him as a sad man that read too much dark poetry. To be honest, none of these were too far off the mark. But even then, there was one fact that none were privy to that might help to change some of these opinons for the better. And that was the way in which he cared for his little imps.

It was currently grooming day for them. Hemlock sat snuggly in his lap after a bath, smelling wonderfully of soft floral scents. Their fur was freshly dried and soft as ever. Sometimes Hawthorne wondered if it was softer than his own fur when he was in his rabbit form. Expert hands moved quickly but carefully as he tended to the flora that grew from them. Gingerly removing old leaves from the branches atop their head— going as far to remove some of the damaged ones. Only the brightest or ones still blooming were allowed to stay. Once that was done, he picked up the brush from besides him and gave it a quick inspection. All was well and clean, and so he took the brush to their fur and began one of the longer processes of Hemlock's grooming. It wasn't necessarily that it took him so long to complete. Rather, the furdin enjoyed this part so much that they often made a fuss whenever he tried to wrap things up. Their fur could be perfect, pristine, not a hair out of place, and still Hemlock would whine. If he tried to insist on not continuing, they would nudge at his hand. If he set the brush aside, removed Hemlock from his lap, and walked away, then they would pick up the brush and walk over to him. Sometimes the brush would remain between their teeth and other times they would drop it at his feet and stare at him. There was little to no winning with the imp.

And so, he found himself frequently trying to avoid these scenarios by simply taking his time. Brush, brush, brush. Careful to mind the little flowers that bloomed along their tail. Soon enough, Hawthorne took to humming a soft tune. This seemed to please Hemlock as the nuzzled their head into his lap as if ready for a nap. Oh how he hoped they didn't. As much as he loved the furdin, he wasn't too keen on getting glued to the spot for who knew how long this time. Despite the growing little concern, he kept up with their activities. Once he finished humming one song, he moved onto the next. The brush moved from one hand to the other. Hemlock seemed to remain still, their body slowly rising and falling. Indeed, it seemed they had quickly fallen into slumberland.

Hawthorne gave a sigh then and stopped brushing their fur. Though it appeared he was cursed to remain in place for the next hour or so, at least he didn't have to spend nearly as long on their grooming this time. Of course, that also meant he would be late tending to Belladonna. Oh how he hoped she didn't hate him too badly. Perhaps the name Primadonna would have been more fitting for the snell. She was usually quite sweet, but blessings be with anyone that got in the way of her grooming day. And yet no matter what, she always seemed to act like it was his fault! Oh Hemlock, how he hoped they enjoyed whatever little dream they might be having, because it was going to cost him.