Poison Hemlocks

Ch. 01 - Mint Tree

Paper keeps a mint tree on his desk. String doesn't know why, but he knows there is a why, because Paper doesn't do things for the hell of it. Five years working under him has taught him that much.

It's certainly not for pleasantries. String doesn't find it pleasant, not to look at nor to touch. The sharp edges of those leaves, bunched together in messy, unattractive clutters.

It's probably not for the taste either, though String's heard they make a good appetizer. He doubts Paper uses these in his many peculiar dishes. String's only ever seen him rub his fingers on the rough texture of the leaves, lost in thought, and pick the leaf off when something flares. He never picks them to cook later. He keeps picking, ripping the leaf, tearing it apart, mincing it slowly, until its left as an ashy pile on his desk.

Perhaps the scent is why he keeps it there. A strong smell, lemony and even a tad bit of cocoa, strong enough to convince him that maybe a few more pots hid somewhere in the office.

That's the only explanation String could think of. He'd know favoring the scent does Paper well.

To hide the smell of skeletons in his closet, the flesh he's going to get String to clean up later, a task he'd be willing to do if it means to be in his presence just a little while longer.

He sits at the lounging area of Paper's office, taking in the strong scent of mint in the air, Paper himself nowhere to be found. He would normally be at his desk, in silence, picking off the leaves. But the man being late isn't unlike him. He knows he can, and String knows the man has other things to attend to as well.

"What's taking so damn long?" The woman sitting opposite him thundered. String hadn't bothered to ask for her name, or who she is to begin with or why Paper had called them both in.

She certainly doesn't make for great company. Who would call someone who complains about everything and anything 24/7 good company? From the thunderous rain to the way String styled his hair to the freezing bite on her skin as if she didn't choose to wear a skimpy dress.

"You must be real fun at parties, eh?" The woman then says, continuing to brush her fingers over the handle of the dagger strapped to her thigh.

He decides to amuse her this time, "You should see me on the dance floor."

She isn't amused, not taking the hint that String doesn't like her, and it wasn't hers to initiate their shared disdain. "Real funny, mister."

String drops his already forced smile. "I ain't tryna be funny."

The door then clicks open. String glances toward it, a wave of relief washing over him, more than thankful he at last has someone else in his company.

Paper strolls in, his lavender cologne strong the moment he steps in, eyes down to the floor, though head held up, thinking, of whatever scheme he is mapping in his head.

String stands from the couch almost immediately, hurries to Paper and tugs at the coat draped over his shoulders, offering to take it off, and Paper allows this, shrugging the coat into String's hands, and giving him a small glance of approval, and String would admit he's content by this vague form of acknowledgement.

"Wow," The woman then starts. String had forgotten about her for a moment. Wished it stayed that way. "You didn't offer to take my coat."

"You're not the boss," String barks. She flips her head away from his direction. It wasn't like he wanted to look at her anyway.

Paper hums at this. String is unsure of disapproval or amusement, but has decided not to make a fuss over it. Paper sits by his desk, and picks a leaf from the mint tree. Odd, he'd normally caress the leaf first. Something is on his mind, and String figures it has something to do with why he was called over here.