Snake-oil salesman

Kipling squinted, as if trying to remember those facts that Fang had taken to pointing out. Of course, they were there and she was all too aware of them—blatant reminders which threatened to crash her mood entirely. If he was waiting for her to own up to her mistakes though, he would be sorely disappointed. All she offered in reply was a shrug. Though she didn’t have the guile to deny it to his face, Kipling also didn’t offer any apology in return. If anything her silence was an attempt to sweep it under the rug and keep it there, she didn’t want to talk about it anymore, not to herself, or Ferdie or Fang. Let it die in the past where it stayed.

And then she almost considered changing the subject back, his bold advances leaving her speechless for a long stretch. She stayed still, staring at him for a moment with wide near expectant eyes. Then broke into a wide grin, stifling laughter, “Yeah, the thing about guilt trips is that they really don’t get me in the mood.” She retorted when she could not longer keep up the charade of interest. Distancing herself once more with a single step backwards, her brow crinkled and she waited to if he had any other options she might consider taking up.