thecapitol | [OPEN] (703): so, i guess i gotta chill on showing up to work hungover

When Daryl arrives for the mandatory assessment, one may think he's purposely trying to give his District's stylist an aneurysm with his post-apocalyptic scavenger fashion sense. The cold weather means layers are needed, and layers mean: a sleeveless undershirt tucked into black denim jeans, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, a fleece vest, his winged leather vest token from home, and a black leather coat over top of the mismatched mess. It's unclear whether he even bothered combing his hair, with the way it hangs in his face and resembles bedhead, partially concealing the black eye he's always sporting after his body 'resets' post-Arena.

The limited contact he's had with the District 9 stylist has thus far gone well enough, all things considered, which is why he's even willing to show up now. But he is expecting Oceana, so Oliver receives a vaguely confused look as he steps into the workroom, wary of whatever this assessment will entail.

Luckily--or maybe unluckily, depending--Oliver's more than happy to roll with this whole...grunge look Daryl's got going on. He's hesitant to call it grunge when it's obviously less of a fashion statement and more of an apathy for fashion altogether, but whatever. He'll work with it.

"Welcome back, baby," Oliver drawls from his work table, where his fingers are feeding gold lamé through his sewing machine almost effortlessly. He may look different from his alter ego, but the voice is the same--bored, and remarkably like a character out of Clueless, which of course he's never seen. He glances up, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrows.

"What the fuck. Care to explain why we're wearing approximately nine jackets indoors?"

The voice gives it away — and Daryl guesses this is just one of those occasions not worth getting all dolled up for. It's a little disconcerting, seeing the person beneath the persona for the first time, but he isn't going to complain. He may stare for a few seconds, though.

"Cold outside," he points out as though it should be obvious. A considerable amount of his time is spent wandering outdoors, where he can see the sky and soak up the fresh air and sunlight like a starved man. The opulence of the Capitol has a way of slithering under his skin and making him itch with restlessness. It's evident in the way he begins slowly pacing through the workroom, taking in the extravagant clothing and unable to be still, like a captive animal endlessly pacing the length of its cage. Panem is his cage.

"So why'm I here?"

Finishing off the row of stitches he'd been working on, Oliver switches off his sewing machine and spins around in his chair to face Daryl. Coming up with a plan of action for him had been trying, honestly, but Oliver's pretty sure he can come up with something that will please everyone.

"Right. Pretending we don't have a fully functional heating system here. Check." The Stylist rises from his chair, all lanky limbs and panache, and claps his hands together one. "You're here because you have about as much style as a stray cat, honey, and we need to work on that. Together." He eyes up that mop of hair atop Daryl's head and frowns. Really, that should have been taken care of ages ago. "When was the last time that rat's nest saw a pair of scissors?"

Daryl would far rather be seen as a mangy stray cat than embrace the Capitol's latest fashion trends, that much is certain, and it's clear in his expression as he turns to face Oliver, sizing him up.

"Few years," he guesses. "Been usin' a knife for the last couple."

He can barely recall the last time he'd had what might pass for a proper haircut — even before his home world went to shit because of the whole inconvenient apocalypse thing, any cutting of hair had frequently been done via knife when scissors weren't available, handled by either his brother or himself if he had access to a mirror. Having spent much of his life drifting with his brother, often living out of tents in the woods and truck cabs, appearances have never ranked real high on his list of concerns.

He showers regularly now and his many layers of clothes are actually clean. Any grooming beyond this is surely unnecessary.

"You best think twice before you come at me with scissors," he says warily. Or a razor, for that matter, but thankfully his beard growth is so slow he won't be in peril of sporting the crazed mountain man look for a while yet. He doesn't relish the thought of what must be in store for Rick from his own District's stylists in that regard.

Oliver presses his eyes shut, trying hard to disguise his own disgust. "A knife," he repeats, sounding resigned. Good god, that's sad. And even worse, Daryl doesn't quite seem amenable to the idea of a real, proper haircut. The stylist sighs through his nose. "Alright, then." He begins a slow circle around Daryl, sizing him up, trying to distinguish a body shape beneath all those layers. He's got muscle, that's for certain, so they can always use that to his advantage.

"If you won't let me cut your hair, can I at least style it? Put some--stuff in it?" He purposely avoids using the word 'product'; he's learned that most of the manly-man types will run straight the other way should he use that word.

It's difficult resisting the urge to turn with Oliver and keep him in sight, but Daryl manages, understanding it would be counterproductive and just drag out this assessment even longer. Oliver relented about the haircut easily enough, so maybe this isn't going to be another exercise in Tribute torture? It's still an unfamiliar concept to him — that anyone can be associated with the Capitol but not be sadistic when it comes to handling Tributes.

He's loath to admit it, but the Stylist had a very valid point about the building being heated, and he's beginning to regret coming in overdressed.

"Why?" Suspicion is bleeding into his expression, looking right at home with the wariness that never leaves it. "It'll get washed out later." As in immediately after he leaves, if it bothers him that much. Hard to say. The only other time he'd had his hair tamed here was for the last Crowning, and that hadn't been so bad... due in large part to the positive reactions he'd received from those closest to him, seeing him dressed up for the first time.

Well. Maybe submitting to a little grooming can't hurt, as long as he's still recognisably himself afterward.

"...Just don't do nothin' too weird. Alright?"

Oliver rolls his eyes. "That's the point, honey. We can give you an Opening Ceremony-worthy look without changing it permanently. You can go right home and wash it the fuck out." Honestly, Oliver's normally not so relenting when it comes to these matters, but he's sort of scared of Daryl, so he can live without the haircut. For now, anyway.

"Don't worry," he soothes. "Nothing weird whatsoever. Now. I need your measurements. Can I get you to shed, like...most of these layers?"

Drop Daryl into a massive arena death match and he won't bat an eye, survival being second nature to him — it's this other side of life as a Tribute that's liable to make him lose his shit, the one that involves fashion and needing to sell themselves to sponsors and the ridiculous celebrity treatment.

He'd already been considering losing a few of the layers to prevent heat stroke, but he naturally resents being told to do it. The fact it's worded vaguely as a request is little comfort. And measurements? Christ, that sounds ominous. His eyes are on the door as he shrugs off the leather coat, and by the time he's down to the last layer he's mostly devised an exit strategy, just in case, figuring he can live with any consequences that may follow.

The sleeveless undershirt leaves several of his tattoos exposed — a trail of ink dotting his neck, wrist, hand, forearm, inner upper arm, most of them relatively small — along with the edges of a few ragged scars across his shoulders. They're the coming attractions for the horror show that is his back, and the reason he won't be undressing further.

Unsure of what to do with his clothes, he simply holds onto them and gives Oliver a "Now what?" look.

Oliver just watches as those layers peel away, feeling pretty satisfied with himself right now. He's like the goddamn Tribute whisperer, or something. Fuck. They should promote him. He goes for his measuring tape, and when finally Daryl's down to his undershirt, he comes forth. He can't help but study all those tattoos and the hints of scars with interest, but doesn't say anything besides "Nice ink."

At the sight of the bundle of jackets in Daryl's arms, Oliver huffs, taking them away if he'll let him and laying them carefully across a chair. "Now. Arms straight out to the sides, please!"

The comment on his tattoos is met with a grunt and he offers little resistance to his clothes being taken from him, though his eyes never leave Oliver. There's several moments of hesitation before he complies with the instructions, raising his arms level with his shoulders with an uncertain look, and half expects a pat-down weapons check to follow.

He's lean after the manner of a typical apocalypse survivor, having been well acquainted with starvation several times throughout the last couple years. But he wears it well enough; in his case this leanness has been further refined through hard manual labour and the toils of constant travel, which when combined with his habitual scowl and guarded way he carries himself, lends him a physically imposing appearance that he's entirely aware of, and employs to good effect when needed. ~~Also, arm porn.~~

At the moment, however, he's just looking disgruntled — and mildly curious, despite himself. But he remains still, mentally preparing himself to endure what he suspects will be an uncomfortable process.

He's not exactly getting a pat-down; Oliver's not nearly as handsy as Daryl as he's been known to be with his other Tributes, all things considered, mostly because he's not sure if Daryl is one of those dudes who's afraid of a little mostly-friendly affection from another man. So when he complies and spreads his arms, Oliver just approaches with the measuring tape, taking his armspan, his shoulder width, and his neck-to-waist.

And, well, if he checks out Those Guns behind his back, can you blame him?

"See, this isn't so bad," Oliver says, trying to sound soothing. To set Daryl at ease. "Just a few measurements. You can drop your arms, honey." He bends down, taking Daryl's hip-to-floor, but hesitates before he goes to take his inseam.

"I'm not trying to pull a fast one on you, here, just your inseam. Any ball-grazing is entirely accidental, alright?"

Affection Daryl could deal with, even if he'd have no idea how to respond. Physical contact is the issue, and it's embarrassingly apparent in his rigid posture, the way he's holding his breath, the vaguely unfocused look when he realises he can drop his arms, then does so. This aversion to being touched doesn't discriminate against gender or appearance — all unfamiliar people are equally unwelcome when it comes to these deeply ingrained instincts, fostered by too many years of abuse.

It makes something as simple as being measured a sort of unique hell for him, though it helps that the whole thing is fairly impersonal, and Oliver's being more considerate than anticipated. It hadn't actually occurred to him that Oliver would even want to cop a feel, and his eyebrows are raised in surprise at the ball-grazing disclaimer. "Yeah...? Just do it," he says, the gruffness of his tone somewhat masking his nervousness.

Right. It's undeniably more awkward now. What's an inseam and what do balls have to do with it? Should he adjust himself? Thank god he'd remembered underwear, he supposes, and watches Oliver expectantly.

Oliver can tell that Daryl's not a huge fan of being touched, just by reading his body language. Working with Tributes, you get used to the signs--especially when your tributes used to be overworked District kids, used to being pushed around by Peacekeepers. So he's careful, here, watching his hands, making an extra effort not to be too feelsy.

"Doing it," he chirps softly, bending down in front of the pedestal with his measuring tape. Gently, the stylist runs the measuring tape from the floor, up the inside of Daryl's leg, all the way to the top, ending at his crotch. Trying very hard not to make any hand-to-ball contact. He's sort of afraid that Daryl will kick like a mule if he does, honestly.

Oh.

That's an inseam.

Being warned about it had had Daryl anticipating something a whole lot worse than what it turns out to be, which while not exactly pleasant, isn't especially traumatising with Oliver's apparent level of experience. Efficiency minimises how weird it could have been.

Finally letting out the breath he's been holding, discomfiture is written all over his face as he looks away, glancing around the workshop, anywhere but at Oliver. Normal people don't have these kinds of problems — hell, not even other apocalypse survivors seem to — and he's well aware of it. Having such a vulnerability is sometimes maybe a bit humiliating.

"Y'actually enjoy doin' this stuff? Bein' a district stylist?"

He isn't the type to chatter uselessly when nervous, or in general; he's legitimately curious. Despite his unease, he's allowing himself to wonder what it must be like to be on the other side of this equation. Is Oliver a proud Capitol citizen who believes in what the death match arenas represent? Is it just another job?

Mazel tov, Daryl.

Oliver's trying not to stare, but the poor guy is so fucking awkward and uncomfortable that it's almost comical. But he also knows about being awkward, about feeling weird about yourself, so he averts his gaze in order to scribble down some measurements.

The question gives him pause, however, and he glances up to where Daryl is towering over him, giving him a half-smile. "Yeah, I do," he admits. "I like helping other people feel better about themselves. Make 'em look good, help them learn how to strut their shit with finesse. I'm not good at much else besides drinking and fucking and lip-syncing, so this is my career choice."

Oliver certainly wouldn't be the first to find humour in Daryl's predicament, nor the last, but it's just as well that Daryl doesn't pick up on it, or he'd likely react like a sad, mangy feral cat whose tail accidentally gets stepped on.

As it stands, the District 9 stylist is expanding his narrow opinion of Capitol natives, his previously held belief that they're all miserable assholes being amended to a slightly more charitable: most are miserable assholes. It's no coincidence that the first Capitolite to change his mind is also the first to treat like him an actual person.

The candor with which his question is answered surprises a huff of a laugh from him. "This prob'ly pays better than the rest, too." He can also claim to be good at exactly one of those things. But hey, common ground is common ground, and it breaks the ice a little in a way that incidental ball-grazing couldn't; the stiffness in his posture is easing, ever so slightly. "How long've you been doin' it for?"

And so begins the tale of Daryl Dixon and his First Drag Queen Friend...

"Fuck yes," Oliver agrees with a chuckle as he finishes up taking Daryl's measurements, rising from his kneeling position at Daryl's feet and rolling up his measuring tape. "It's not bad, anyway. I've been, uh..." He has to think. "I was an Assistant Stylist for three years, and I've been at this gig for about a year now, so. Four years."

He shrugs his skinny shoulders. "It goes by so fast. But I meet a lot of new people. Make a lot of friendships I never thought I'd be making, you know?"

Dave gets the chocolates, but there is a notable delay in the disappearance of them and the appearance of Dave. He went home, he doesn't know how long, he doesn't know if anyone noticed, but he's back. When he realises he has an appointment pending, he decides to get it out of the way so he can go back to his existential crisis.

It's definitely after 12pm when he arrives and he's continuing the trend of their meetings by showing up at the work room door in PJ pants and a baggy t-shirt with a picture of Caesar Flickerman's beaming face spread across it.

He pushes the door open without a fuck given for knocking, looking Oliver up and down in brief confusion before slumping in. "No more heels." He murmurs as a greeting. "Nothing shirtless. No mesh. I want a cape."

Oliver looks up from his sofa, where he's busy with a sketchpad, and raises an eyebrow. "Jesus Christ, that shirt," he drawls, nonplussed by Dave's ragtag appearance and entrance. It's fucking lurid, and a far larger picture of Flickerman's face than should be allowed by law.

"Fair enough," he goes on, noting Dave's list of demands, already thinking of ways to skirt around them. "A cape is doable. What, are you on a superhero kick now, or what?"

"You like it?" He pulls at the hems, making the shirt even bigger as he stretches it out to look down at it himself. "I asked for a scarf in the Arena and they gave me one plastered with his face. Guess it was good press 'cuz I woke up with this in my room."

He shrugs, moving to lean against the side of the couch so he can try to take a gander at Oliver's notepad. At his question, he opens his mouth to snark, but it dulls into a deadpan. "No." He folds his arms over his chest, not out of defiance or defensiveness but as a sort of self-protectiveness. "I just like the swish."

"Oh, yeah, I caught that," Oliver snorts. "I'm not sure the shirt is an improvement, but it's...majestic." Yeah, that's about the best he can do with that.

Since he's not a bratty twelve-year-old, Oliver doesn't jerk his sketchbook away from Dave's prying eyes, even though the temptation may be strong. "Fine, fine. I'm nice enough that I'll cater to your weirdo whims every once in awhile." Setting the sketchbook to the side, Oliver stands up, taking Dave by the shoulders and steering him over to the pedestal in front of the three-way mirror. "So. A cape. Any way I can convince you to add black skinny jeans and a billowy white shirt to the equation?"

Dave will take the awkward compliment in his stride, because it isn't like he bought it. He does, however, truly appreciate the irony in wearing it. It's how he finds his comfort, at least.

"We'd both be happier if you did." He says blandly, looking nonplussed as Oliver steers him around like a trolley with a wonky wheel. He doesn't particularly appreciate the look of himself in the mirror, it's like watching himself in HD. Tired, awkward HD.

"Do I look like Jareth to you?" He casts a bitter look over his shoulder at Oliver. "There's already an elf king around, he might think I'm jacking his style. But whatever. I don't care. Just make it red, with a hood."

"Fine, fine," Oliver glosses over. At the Jareth comment, he gives Dave a withering look. "Bitch, you might be," he warns, petting Dave's shoulders down to smooth the wrinkles out of his shirt. "But anyway, scrap that, I've got a better idea. A really nice, tailored tuxedo jacket with a cape attached."

He says that last word with a flourish, hands spread out enticingly. "Hmm? Hmmm?" Clearly he's very into the idea, but he wants Dave to be into it, too.

"Don't give them ideas." He murmurs, but he's not sure he'd mind if the Capitol started rumors about him being some sort of weird elf-prince with a spooky labyrinth full of muppet rejects.

Oddly, he doesn't mind the hands on his shoulder as much as he might have a few months ago, but he's come to like Oliver enough to be alright with all this contact. Still, he brushes him off when he turns to face him. He raises a brow, humming in an intrigued manner.

"You mean like Tuxedo Mask?" He asks finally, unsure as to whether Oliver even knows who that is. He raises his hand to stroke his chin contemplatively. "It's like your ancestor always said, right? Designer, make it work." He even tried to do the voice.

Oliver's pretty used to not understanding a word of what Dave's saying; the kid is a goddamn repository for obscure offworlder pop culture. So he just gives Dave a flat look.

"No, dumbass, a tuxedo jacket." Straight over his head. Pchooo. "Anyway, it'll be fly as hell. Even that fishy little lady friend of yours over in One will be swooning."

"It's a.. You know what? Never mind." He guesses that settles the debate as to whether the Capitol has a secret, weaboo underground culture. Not that he's sure Oliver would be all into that, but you never know with these people.

"Oh yeah?" He asks with a raised brow, smoothing out his own shirt as if to make some feeble attempt to be smooth. "I'll hold you to that, then. Cape, tuxedo, swooning and no, no more heels. I can't do it, I'm not cut out for this world." This world being drag of some variety, since he has great admiration for anyone who can walk in those death traps.

Oliver's more than happy to let the reference fly away into the ether; he's not about to encourage Dave to babble at him about whatever weird shit he's talking about.

But he's showing interest, and Oliver grins. "Hell yeah," he replies. "Only if you promise you're not ruling out boys forever, because that shit with you and Loki was fucking priceless." He snorts at the demand that he stop putting Dave in heels. "Fine by me, it was torture watching you try to walk in that shit anyway."

"I dunno, I don't do bookings I just show up." He gives his shoulders a shrug. "You know me, I'm like the wind or whatever. I just roll on up with a whim. Only less lame. Like smoke. I'm smoke. I make people cry." This is a really long bullshit response for something very simple, so he shrugs. "Who knows. Maybe Feferi is my forever fish. It's every man's dream to get with a mermaid, right?" He quirks a brow, because he's fairly certain Oliver has a thing for mermaids.

Oliver just snorts at his extended, stupid metaphors. Kids and their irony, he swears. But the look on his face goes from flat to ecstatic when Dave mentions mermaids.

"Yes. YES. Fucking yes, that is so fucking right." Without preamble, Oliver pulls Dave into his chest, nearly crying with happiness. "Oh my god, you've learned so well. I can't teach you anything more, you've blossomed."

The only thing Dave really learned here is how to push the right buttons with a wide variety of people. It's probably for the better that he now knows how to garner affection and positive attention from his Stylist, he knows how dangerous her power is.

"Christ-" He grunts, and it's muffled against Oliver's chest. "Funny what a year can do to a man." Boy. Teen. Whatever. "Don't get any wild ideas about merman costumes though."

"I'm so, so fucking proud," Oliver wheezes, pulling back to hold Dave at shoulder's length. "You're like--like my little seaweed plant all grown up and majestic."

Dave's warning goes largely unheeded. "Mmhm, yeah, whatever." He spins him around by the shoulders, and then gives him a little shove off of the pedestal. "My work here is done. I'm gonna whip up the flyest fucking suit-cape combo this city has ever seen, and you, honey, are going to be fierce."

"Yeah, yeah." He says as if he's being doted on by his mother. There's as much amusement in his tone as there is a resigned sort of attitude. He steps back when he's pushed, managing not to stumble much. He still frowns at Oliver for it, then he looks indignant.

"I was plenty fierce before. And I am right now." He points out, but he gives pause as he mulls something over before vocalising it. "But thanks. Y'know. For helping. And being less of a dick than you probably could be if you wanted to."

Generally speaking, Nill has probably been a decent enough tribute for Oceana to work with. She liked Oceana plenty, and so long as she left Nill to do her own hair Nill was willing to let Oceana do what she wanted, though she never looked terribly comfortable with it.

She hadn't really realized that Oceana's manner of dress was something outside of a norm. She had chalked it up to the outlandish fashions of the Capitol. Now, as she steps in Oliver's workroom, she hardly recognizes him. Her wings flutter against her back, clearly confused, but she lifts a hand to wave nonetheless.

Nill's silence has taken some getting used to, but really it works out for Oliver, because he's very chatty and with Nill, he doesn't have to worry about being interrupted. "Hi, honey," he calls. "Oh, don't worry, it's just me," he adds at the note of confusion in her expression. "Couldn't be bothered with being Oceana today, so I'm just Oliver. Still just as fabulous, obviously," he adds, brushing off the shoulder of his rose gold-glittered suit jacket. "Now! Come right over here, baby, stand on the pedestal just like this. I want to show you what I've come up with for your upcoming appearances." He ushers Nill over to the pedestal in front of the three way mirror, even giving her a little twirl by the hand on the way. He loves having cute Tributes. It makes them so much easier to work with.

Oliver. Was there a reason he used different names? Nill doesn't quite understand, but then again, drag queens are not a topic that anyone has really discussed with her a great deal. Her smile is small and hesitant as she walks over to Oliver and the pedestal, but genuine nonetheless. There's a little wing flutter at the twirl but otherwise she has no complaints.

The ever-present notepad is in hand though, and Nill takes a moment to write out a message before handing it and the pencil to Oliver. (It ends to get in the way a little if she holds onto it while he does his thing.)

you still look very pretty.

Then she steps onto the pedestal, tugging the ribbon out of her hair so she can use it to tie her hair up in a loose bun, entirely for the purpose of keeping it out of the way.

Oliver blinks, taking the notepad and studying it for a second, before a surprisingly genuine smile spreads across his face. God, what a precious little thing. It's Tributes like Nill that make him wonder why they had to do all this shit, why they had to make these poor kids suffer. It's one thing to send the adults in over and over, but sweet little babies like Nill? It just feels wrong. Of course, she's likely far more capable than he realizes, but still.

"That's so sweet of you," he says softly, setting the notepad aside. "You're a doll." In more ways than one, he thinks as he crosses to his garment rack, pulling off a short grey dress with elaborate beading. Oliver holds it up to Nill in the mirror, and she'll notice that there's ample room in the back for her wings. "What do you think?"

Nill's capable, but it doesn't really make the Arenas all that much easier for her. To date Nill has never hurt a single tribute in any Arena, and she has died horribly in all of them. The last one did result in some impressive stabbing on a smilodon before she kicked it, but it would be understandable if that wasn't taken as her true nature. It was right after the smilodon killed a friend, after all.

The space where her wings would be is the first thing she takes note of. The small smile remains on her face as she lifts a hand to very carefully touch the skirt, running her fingertips over a few of the beads. She's never quite sure how much she should touch the clothing that her stylist has worked on for her. She knows they're for her, of course, but she always worries a little that she'll pull a string somewhere and all the beads will fall off. And Oceana's work is always lovely. For lack of something as convenient, she lifts a hand so that Oliver can see and gives him a thumbs up.

Oliver's patient, letting Nill touch the dress all she likes. It may look delicate, but he's got that shit on there tight. Those beads aren't going anywhere. Grinning at her thumbs-up, he reaches down to the hem, right on the side seam, and presses a tiny, hidden button sewn into the lining. Once pressed, it activates a phosphorescent glow throughout the entire garment, one that will ebb and flow with Nill's heartbeat once she's got it on.

"The piece de resistance," he explains. "You're going to look positively ethereal." Swinging it back and forth a little, he holds it out to her, nodding at the curtained-off dressing area. "Care to try it on, doll?"

Nill honestly hasn't really worn anything that's literally flashing since she arrived in Panem. She's seen it on plenty of other tributes or Capitolites, of course, but she never really thought she would end up wearing something similar. Not that she minds, because it is very pretty.

Her smile is small and hesitant, and maybe even a little bit on the shy side, but Nill nods, reaching to take the dress from Oliver, though she doesn't go for the curtained off area right away. The room gets a quick look over before Nill spots a thin ribbon several shades darker than the dress. She grabs it and her notepad along the way and goes to get changed.

Oliver gets the familiar thrill of watching someone like what he's made for them, and it's one of those moments where everything is worth it. All his hard work made this sweet little thing smile ever so shyly, and it makes his bleeding heart melt.

He watches her scavenge his workroom without much care; one of the bratty ones, he might have snapped at without much venom to keep their grubby fingers off his shit, but she's such a darling he can't even do so jokingly. If she wants a pretty ribbon, it's all hers. While she changes, he sinks into a ridiculously plush armchair done up in pristine white velvet, legs crossed, waiting for her appearance while he inspects his nails.

Thankfully Nill is not the intrusive sort - going through Oliver's things, when he so clearly loves his job, isn't something that she would ever do. That said, something within easy reach seems safe enough, and in this case it'll be useful.

It doesn't take too long for Nill to get changed. For as lovely as the dress is, actually putting it on is a relatively simple task, and when Nill wanders out from the curtained off area she's barefoot. Her shoes didn't exactly match. But she's in the process of using the ribbon to tie off a very quick side braid, her other one tied around a wrist (it didn't match either). If fits well since Oliver knows her measurements, but he's the final judge.

Oliver looks up from his fingernails as the curtain rustles open; immediately, the Stylist's face lights up. He rises, covering his mouth with his hands. "Oh, my god. I've done it again. You look stunning," he croons, walking over to take her hand once it's free of its occupation, and leading her toward the pedestal once more. Gently, he turns her shoulders to look in the big three-way mirror, and he studies her reflection, too.

"Look at you. Oh, god, this is perfect. You're going to be the belle of the ball." He might be tearing up. Just a little bit. Leave him alone, he's a big softie under all that makeup and leather.

If nothing else, even if Nill isn't the biggest fan of being touched or having other people do things like this for her, trying on Oliver's design usually does leave her feeling rather pretty, in a way that she typically doesn't. Most are also very flattering designs, even if some might show off more skin than she likes. A small smile flits into place again as Nill steps onto the pedestal, and she twists her torso around slightly so she can see how the dress looks from different angles. It really is very lovely.

Her notepad is mostly within reach, and after letting Oliver inspect as much as she likes Nill reaches to pick it up. Thankfully this is a phrase she's used so often that she doesn't actually need to write it, and instead just flips to a page where it's already written.

thank you.

[OPEN] (703): so, i guess i gotta chill on showing up to work hungover

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