“The sun-burn lotion needs to be restocked,” says Fresh, scribbling into a small journal that they use for keeping track of the inventory. “Next!” she calls, nodding. Shamrock obliges, pushing the shopping cart that she’s sitting inside of further along the shelves. Fresh stares out from side to side. “Ah! Hold on,” she says, looking at the bracelets. “We’re running out of green-beads. Those are really popular here,” remarks Fresh, making another scribble. “See?” she asks, pointing at the first word. “That’s ‘green’.”

Shamrock nods.

It is late in the afternoon, they’re still open, but business has slowed down a little so Fresh wants to take the opportunity to get their evening work done with quickly, in the hopes that she has a little more free time to spend with Shamrock in order to teach him what she knows about writing, which isn’t a lot. She also wants to ask Basil to teach her something as well.

“Left,” calls Fresh and Shamrock turns the cart down the clothing aisle. “You’d look great in a swim-suit, Shamrock!” jokes Fresh, turning her head upside down to look at him. She realizes a second later that that might have been rude, given the circumstances. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything bad.”

“I don’t have the legs for it,” replies Shamrock and Fresh laughs, getting a mean look from Jubilee who refrains from telling them to stop goofing off and to get back to work, as it appears that both of them already know that.

Jubilee really has an eye for colorful clothes though. Fresh hadn’t really thought about it so much, apart from being shocked by Jubilee’s rise in crafting-quality once, but back in the north, when they had first opened their store, Jubilee had to be persuaded to make even the most simple and drab fabric bags. Now, here they were, having filled an entire shelf with the most colorful and also uh -

Fresh blinks.

- ‘Imaginative’ swim-wear, dresses and such articles imaginable. Fresh lifts a pale-red towel off of the shelf and just feels the fabric for a moment, admiring how soft it is. The two of them go past the counter. Fresh waves to Jubilee and Basil from the cart together with Shamrock. Basil waves back, laughing. Jubilee rolls their eyes.

Rounding the corner, they head into Shamrock’s aisle. The man has certainly been busy, heading off into the dungeon at all hours to find more items. But there isn’t anything here that is his, in the sense that it came from his hands.

Sure, everything here came from his efforts, some of which were more than likely considerable in their magnitude, but Fresh thinks it’s important that everyone has a way to express themselves by the act of creation. There’s something grounding about the act of creating a thing and there is certainly something about the results of the process which act as a spiritual foundation, for when the bad-thing comes.

“You having trouble, Shamrock?” asks Fresh. “Coming up with an idea?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not good at it.”

“That’s what Jubilee said too,” says Fresh. “But they got good at crafting too!”

“No,” says Shamrock, tapping his head. “I’m not good at it,” he repeats. Fresh looks at him for a moment, but then she understands. He isn’t referring to the act of crafting, which might be hard enough as he often has difficulty with some motions of his hands, especially delicate ones, but rather he is referring to the act of coming up with ideas for items.

Fresh turns around and stands up in the cart, pressing her face against his helmet and poking his chest. “You are. Don’t say that!” says Fresh, feeling the gust of air push out of his helmet. “Your little slimes were really great!” she says excitedly, but quietly. The store is empty, but just to be sure.

Shamrock says nothing, taking a step back and holding the cart out at arm’s length. Fresh purses her lips, leaning over far too far to keep the cart balanced, but places her hands on his shoulders, despite how far away he is.

“It’s not about a great idea, Shamrock,” says Fresh. “Or about making money. It’s about killing monsters,” she says, a metal thud ringing out twice as she knocks against the spot above his heart. “You know what I mean?” He nods. She nods back, satisfied. “Come on, let’s finish up so we have some time later!”

The rest of the afternoon comes to an end, with the only exciting moment being the great ice-cream caper. On their way back around the counter, Basil had to go to great lengths to sneak them a small ice-cream away from Jubilee’s watchful eyes. Fresh takes it, nodding once to seal a debt that she will never be able to repay. She and Shamrock scoot around the aisles once more, eating their prize in secret.

Later that evening, she and Shamrock sit outside on the balcony by themselves. She doesn’t think that he’s shy, but still, she closed the balcony door so that the two of them can work in private. Sure, Basil would certainly be a better instructor than her, without a doubt. But this is something that she wants to do together with him. She feels like there won’t be any inhibitions if he learns from some ‘knuckle-dragger’ like herself, as Jubilee would call her. Anyways, it's not that he doesn't know how. He just has problems holding his hands right.

So the two of them spend a while just practicing the alphabet at first, which is a very surreal experience for Fresh, to say the least. Because, as she stares at the letters that she is writing, she realizes that she herself had never even spent any real time studying them. She had certainly known how to read her old language in her old life, but this new one? She just kind of always knew it. Sort of.

Sure, she has problems with longer words sometimes, but that’s about it. Jubilee had already forbidden her from making signs ages ago, because she always spelled things wrong and they said that it ‘made them look unprofessional’.

“Wanna do this again tomorrow?” asks Fresh after they stop, as Basil tells them that dinner is ready. The priestess had made it together with Jubilee, which is again, something Fresh wishes she could have watched.

Shamrock nods.

Later, over dinner, Fresh turns to Basil. “Baaaasil~?” she calls across the table.

Basil looks at her suspiciously, recognizing the tone. “Yes…?”

“Can you teach me how medicine works?”

The priestess tilts her head. “Medicine? What kind of medicine?”

Fresh shrugs in response to the question. “Just medicine.”

“Uh…” Jubilee leans in over their plate. “I don’t think you should be making medicine. This seems like a bad idea.”

Fresh blinks. “Why? I make food all the time,” she counters. Basil and Jubilee exchange an unsure look. “And besides, I made potions before and that was fine and besides-besides, I bet I could make some really good things as a witch!” she says, excitedly. As she says the ‘w’-word, she notices that Basil doesn’t even recoil at it anymore.

“I dunno…” says Jubilee.

“Yeah,” replies Basil. “You’re getting into my section.”

Fresh blinks. “Ah, no!” she explains. “I don’t want to make things for the shelves. That’s your corner, Basil,” she concedes. “I just want to know how, in-case we ever need anything like that.”

Basil and Jubilee exchange another look. “Well… okay,” says Basil. “But can we do it tomorrow? I’m beat.”

“Mm!” nods Fresh. “Thanks, Basil!”

“But no fucking moonwater!” throws in Jubilee.

Fresh puffs out her cheek. “What? Why not? What about moondirt?”

“No,” replies Jubilee, dryly.

Her finger taps against her cheek. “Moonglass?”

Jubilee raises an eyebrow. “Why do you insist on just adding the word ‘moon’ to things?”

Fresh shakes her head. “It’s not my fault, Jubilee!” she argues. “Everything is made with moon-stuff, so it has to be called that.”

“Does it really?” sighs Jubilee.

“It does. It’s the rule!” explains Fresh.

Jubilee decides to let the topic go and they finish their dinner. Honestly, it’s nice to just have a quiet meal together. Things have been so hectic for so long. There was the whole hero-incident and then their fight and then the party. So, just sitting for a quiet meal with everyone is a real luxury, realizes Fresh. She hopes that things will finally start to relax a little, so that they can all just breathe for a few days.

Outside, somewhere off in the distance, a trumpet or a horn of some kind blares loudly, signaling the arrival of a regiment of soldiers, approaching the city just before the break of moonlight.

“Fuck,” says Jubilee, looking over their shoulder towards the balcony. “They’re here.”