Pursuit of Diligence Chapter 5: That's Pretty Gay

Beanny's words stick in Temple's mind long after he's done playing the role of delivery boy.

 

 

How laughable- as if anyone could be deserving of Temple's time, let alone his attention and help! The concept alone is a joke, doubly so because it's fucking Primrose she was talking about. Primrose, always so high and mighty and holier-than-thou. He doesn't even want to be in Burrowgatory, from what Temple can tell, but lowered himself to the level of all the common, sinful succubuns so he could play at being savior for his brethren. Laughable.

 

Nobody outright deserves Temple's time and attention, but definitely not someone like Primrose. To think Temple has been letting him get away with so much...!

 

"Good afternoon, Mr. Temple," Primrose greets, voice just as flat and unimpressed as always. Temple relaxes on instinct, opening his mouth to shoot back with some quippy remark, before snapping it shut, not having said anthing. Primrose squints at temple, like he's a particularly annoying gnat that the cherubun can't be bothered to swat away.

 

They're not friends! They are not. This is just- maybe it's Stockholm syndrome. Yeah, that's it. Temple's been worked to the bone (except for all the times Primrose gives him easier jobs, or tells him to take the day off to rest, or takes over when it's clear Temple isn't just being dramatic, or...) since he got here, with Primrose as his cruel overlord (who's offered him chilled tea after long hours of work, or who offers to split the work between them when he's not overwhelmed with his dozens of other tasks running the Embassy, or who lets Temple bitch and moan as much as he wants, or...) taking advantage of Temple's situation.

 

They're not friends. No. Not at all.

 

"...le? Do I need to call you a doctor?" There's an odd tone to Primrose's words, when Temple snaps out of his mind and back into reality. The cherubun is taller than Temple by a good head or so, but- was he always this tall?

 

Temple belatedly realizes he's sitting. Primrose's hands rest on Temple's shoulders, holding him upright and keeping him firmly planted on a chair that's usually tucked away in the corner, sad and unused.

 

Concern. That's what's coloring Primrose's words, Temple realizes, when he meets the Embassy head's eyes and sees that same concern in them as well.

 

Temple shrugs his shoulders, attempting to look nonchalant and to dislodge Primrose's hands all in one motion. He fails on both accounts, and ends up just making Primrose's hands do a miniature rendition of the wave where they rest. The cherubun's frown deepens.

 

"I'm fine," Temple grouses. He blindly gropes in his mind for some kind of witty comeback, for some kind of retort to annoy Primrose or get him to scold Temple, but comes up empty. "I'm just... I dunno. Tired. Stop touching me already..."

 

Primrose complies, at least, though he looks even more worried now. Fuck.

 

"M- Temple. Is something wrong?" Primrose asks, breaking the tense silence that settled over the pair of them. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, a motion that Temple now recognizes as being a self-soothing motion. When did he pick up on that, exactly? "You haven't tried to insult me once since you got here. I must conclude that you are either ill, and in need of professional assistance, or you have been replaced by a poor excuse for a doppelganger."

 

...was... was that an attempt at a joke?

 

Primrose's face is just as serious as it always is.

 

Temple can't help but snort- a sound that devolves into wheezing laughs. Primrose looks at first relieved, and then... slowly his cheeks fill with color, as Temple's laughter continues, his expression morphing into a much more familiar one of indignation.

 

Oh, demons below. That was... so bad. The delivery, the concern masked in it...

 

And yet somehow, it made Temple feel better.

 

He groans, dropping his head into his hands as he stifles his laughter, smothering it into scattered giggle.

 

"Oh, fuck, we really are friends now, damnit..."

 

"Wh-? What does that have to do with-"

 

"Primrose... shut up."

 

The cherubun listens, for once, and Temple takes the moment of silence to compose himself. Nothing about the joke was that funny, nothing about this whole situation is funny, but Temple finds that he's laughed himself to tears nonetheless.

 

He could deny it more. He should deny it more. But... now that the veil of self-denial is lifted, he's not sure he can convince himself anymore.

 

Primrose is an insufferable, holier-than-thou, savior-complex-having bastard. He's a slavedriver, he has no sense of humor, and hearing him lecture Temple is about as pleasant as hearing nails on a chalkboard.

 

And now he's Temple's friend.

 

"...I'm fine," Temple mumbles eventually, sighing as he massages his now-sore cheeks. Goddamn, that laughing fit took a lot out of him. "Jus' tired I guess. Don't send me to Beanny again, if you do I'm just stealing the coffee."

 

"What does-? No, don't tell me," Primrose sighs, finally dropping his hands from Temple's shoulders. Or, more like, he pulls them back as if he suddenly realized he's been touching hot coals all along. "I will take your request into consideration going forward. Though..."

 

The cherubun hesitates, a rare sign of insecurity from the man.

 

"...truth be told, I'm not sure you'll be here long enough for it to become an issue again."

 

...what?

 

Temple looks up at Primrose, resting his elbows on his knees.

 

"The flowers." Temple's stare remains blank. "The ones you've been taking care of." Temple nods. Primrose pinches the bridge of his nose. "The ones that you've been taking care of to make ambrosia, that have been almost finished growing for a week now."

 

Oh. Oh!

 

That gets Temple to perk up, his earlier angst evaporating away in the face of his goal.

 

"They're ready?"

 

"For harvest, yes," Primrose confirms, arms dropping as he turns on his heel. "If you're really well enough... come. Between the two of us, we should be able to harvest enough for the first batch of ambrosia."

 

Temple is out of the chair before Primrose is finished speaking, and by the time they make it to the greenhouse, he's even feeling well enough to needle Primrose with rude jabs and innuendos. Primrose looks about as thrilled as he ever is to be on the receiving end of Temple's specific brand of attention, but as always, he makes little effort to actually stop the succubun.

 

(They're fucking friends. When did Temple let that happen. He's still not really sure.)

 

"Unlike larger crops, harvesting for our purposes is rather simple," Primrose explains, snapping into his gardening teacher persona as he takes Temple to the shed. Ah, the shed, Temple's least favorite part of the embassay. How many times he's pricked his fingers on sharpened gardening tools in here, how many times he's spilled dirt and water... bad times, all around.

 

Primrose holds no such grudge, and ignores the way Temple glares at a rake that had comically smacked him in the face that one time when someone left it laying out on the ground.

 

"Here." The cherubun passes Temple a small pair of shears and a large burlap sack, holding an identical pair in his other hand. "This is all you need."

 

After weeks and weeks of painful, backbreaking work, the harvest is, as Primrose said... easy. Really, all it is is snipping the flowers off right where they sprout from the stem, putting the spoils of his labor intoo his bag, and moving to the next. Late bloomers get left alone for them to come back to, but most of the plants are ready. Temple even finds one flower that's been ready for so long that it's missing a couple of petals, their white shapes standing out like streetlamps at night against the dark soil.

 

Between the two of them, it's barely a half hour of work. Snip, drop, repeat. Snip, drop, repeat. Snip, drop, trip over Primrose's foot, curse him out until he politely snaps back, grumpily settle down, repeat.

 

Before long, the flowerbed that has been Temple's focus for... months, by this point, is left nearly devoid of flowers. Only a couple of buds that might still bloom are left.

 

"Right," Temple says, picking dirt out of his ball joint with his shears. Primrose frowns at him, but doesn't stop him- he's picked up on how much it bothers Temple when it gets clogged with debris. It seems Temple wasn't the only one unwillingly learnng the other's habits. Ha. Take that. "Which flowerbed's next, then?"

 

"..." Primrose doesn't answer right away, instead opting to tie his sack shut with a loose knot. "...that's all for today. I can deal with the rest of the beds."

 

Temple frowns. "But you said it takes a lot of flowers to make-"

 

"It does. But... you've worked hard. Even today, when you didn't want to. We can set aside these blooms to make your ambrosia, and I can deal with the rest of the harvest later." He doesn't say it, but Temple can tell that he's also still worried because of the succubun's earlier... episode.

 

Primrose finally glances up when he takes Temple's bag, tying it off in much the same way that he did his own. His lips quirk in the tiniest hint of a smile- so small, that if Temple weren't painfully used to his default expression of 'bitchy judginess', he wouldn't have noticed it at all. "Thank you for all your hard work, truly. Now get some rest, and we'll brew the ambrosia when you're ready."

 

Temple stares at Primrose, and for a moment... maybe it's ok, if they're friends. Maybe Temple can accept that.

 

"..." Or... "...Primrose... that's pretty gay."

 

The cherubun's expression flattens. Temple grins- it feels like a victory when Primrose sighs, the sound familiar, pleasant music to his ears. "Go home."

 

For once, Temple doesn't argue.