#dragon teeth

The air around you in that small boutique is warm from the iron resting upright on its stand, still ticking away quietly as it cools down. Sunlight is drifting through the tall front windows of the boutique in long, pale, yellowy ribbons. It catches on the dust in the air and the fine lace that's laid out on the work table to your right. Everything feels more delicate here— it's measured, pinned, and adjusted within an inch of perfection. You're standing on the little podium in the middle of the fitting area with your hands curled loosely at your sides. You're trying very hard not to move as the seamstress circles you slowly. 

"Lift your chin just a touch, miss." She mumbles, and you listen. You feel the gentle brush of her fingers as she smooths the shoulders of your chemise into place. 

It's the finest piece of clothing you've come to own. Much softer than the things in your closet as well. The fabric slips over your skin like cool water. It's thin enough that you can feel the air flowing through it, though it covers you completely. There's a fine lace at the neckline, pretty in a way that makes your stomach flutter when you think about it being seen. 

Your mouth curves into a soft smile before you can even help yourself. You quickly duck your head, not wanting the seamstress to see and figure out where your thoughts are. 

Foggy. 

William "Foggy" Johnson, the eldest son of the Philadelphia shipbuilder, Silas Johnson, and the sweetest man you'd ever had the pleasure of meeting— eyes earnest and with a smile that could still light up a room. You can picture him so clearly that it's almost distracting. Your mind drifts to the way he looks when he's really listening to you, how his head cocks to the side slightly and his eyes light up. You think of the way that his voice dips when he says your name. You think about the way you wouldn't change getting to know him for the world. 

"Hold still, dear." The seamstress says from where she is kneeling at your feet, firm but not unkind. You murmur out a quiet apology as you think of his face again.

That little scar above his lip— the one he had received in the Badlands of Montana— has grown fainter over the past year or so. His hair is kept shorter now, kept very nicely. But when it does grow out, it curls slightly at the ends. He looks less like the proper Philadelphia gentleman you had grown to love and more like the man from worn photographs in a dusty, rocky, cliff side. When the pieces of the West in him that he's tried so very hard to keep at bay start to creep in— you notice immediately. 

He's told you stories in pieces. He's told you of Professor Othneil Marsh. He's told you of Professor Cope. You've heard of Cookie, and Little Wind, and Isaac, and Toad. You've heard of Cheyenne and Deadwood and of long stretches of land that sound too vast and wide to be real. You used to sit beside him as he told these stories, your hand tucked in his— against your better judgment. You try to imagine him there as he speaks, using his last summer as a boy (one of a mere 18 years old) to dig up old bones of reptiles far greater than anything you could ever imagine. 

You loved those stories. Most of them, anyway.

The seamstress is kneeling in front of you now, adjusting the hem of the chemise. The rustle of your undergarments below pulls you back into yourself. In this moment, the awareness of your own body standing here in the openness of the boutique in something meant for your wedding night hits you right in the chest. 

The seamstress stands and you hear her voice, "and this will sit right here." She says, her fingers tugging lightly on the fabric at your waist, where the corset will cinch just beneath your gown. "Your figure will be lovely."

You nod at the words, although your thoughts have begun to wonder again. Lucienne. You don't like the name. You don't like the story. And you especially don't like the showgirl in Cheyenne that it belongs to. Or Miss Emily. That one had been worse. You'd smiled then, because just what else could you do? You weren't his yet, not even close. Although you had desperately wanted to be. You had no claim to him when you heard these stories, so you listened. You tucked them away in your heart and let yourself feel small later, letting that stubborn twisted feeling you didn't quite have a name for just yet, fester deep in your belly. You have one for it now, now that you don't have to let it sit. You don't have to know jealousy, because he is here. He is in Philadelphia. He is with you. 

The seamstress steps back and smiles at you sweetly, her red cheeks being covered by falling jet black curls. "Turn for me, please." 

So you do, slowly, as to let her admire her work. The fabric shifts against your skin and for a moment, you allow yourself to pretend it isn't her watching. That it's just Foggy. You can almost picture it then if you close your eyes tight enough. You can picture how he'd try hard not to stare, how his mouth would part slightly. His ears may even go a little red at the tips. He'd laugh and shake his head and hold a hand out for you to take, so he could spin you around himself and get a real eyeful. Your cheeks start to warm at the thought.

He's yours now. Or would be officially in a matter of days. 

He's not a passing amusement for Lucienne. 

He's not Miss Emily's almost-something. 

He's just your Foggy. And this garment, full of careful stitching, will be a tucked away secret layer beneath your gown just for him. And you can just imagine the way his hands will hesitate to touch you at first, and the way you'll have to pull him closer. 

"Perfect." The seamstress regales and begins removing pins one by one. You can barely feel her hands moving around you. You're too busy imagining the moment he finally sees all the hard work she had put into making you feel like the most beautiful bride to grace the streets of Philadelphia. 

Although Foggy had done a pretty good job of that himself.