"Tatums!" Teagan squealed in what was trying to be real enthusiasm. The tone of voice was affected, but the scent she gave off was genuine enough. It was peculiar to Tatum's presence, really. Or perhaps more accurately, a response to the myriad presents. Not something the myconid would think to advertise (custom scent for each customer! Especially generous ones!), but a honeyed smell tailored by gratitude that evoked a sleepy calm. The soporific effect of those particular pheromones was a little unfortunate for long conversations; a happy, grateful Teagan was like a warm beam of sunlight to curl up in and take a nap on a late summer afternoon. Complete with a hint of mowed lawn.
"I thought I recognized a chemical signature in the air," she enthused. "I totally caught your musk patterns, but I assumed I had to be mistaken. How cool that you're here!"
At least she was getting better at utilizing slang. For a brief, embarrassing period of time she'd tried to emulate Tatum's stammer back at her, thinking it was form of endearment. Had she been any less awkward and alien on her own, it would have looked mocking, but as it was she'd just proven that she needed guidance sometimes as to what was and was not appropriate to copy. Offering a bright smile, she held out two small packs of costume lashes for Tatum's examination. "Look, there's green and orange! What do you think?"