There at the door, with babe cradled in hand, stood at attention the pilot. "Done, and done, lady ma'am!" A salute too firm, snapped to his brow, with palm to the ground so that he might spare the woman any mess. Not that she was any stranger to it, he measured. But soon as the salute had welled up, it deflated. Seeing the knife to the work. "I see you've set yourself to the task proper though," Another quickness stirred in him as he stepped to and shift the green babe's weight in his arms.

Gone was the daydream that had en-wrapped the three, and here cut to shreds cold reality.

So he took up a scrap, and folded it in that way he had seen her wear so soft a bolt. Nested the little grub there in. Hoisted him up, and strapped him sturdy with sailor's knot. "Feel almost a diving vest, you do, oh grub," the pilot idled. And the little one squirmed.

Feint were the scents of orange peels. Tickling his nose. And bob and bounce did her curls as she stiffened to her work. The ware upon the sheets her left inpression. If he ran his fingers there, would it still feel warm, he wondered.

Set to his step. Found a coat. Well to do. Sturdy. Well constructed. Deep pockets. Yet subdued. The sort that didn't catch the eye right away, but only after spying the details there in. The stitching. The count of the threads. How plush it all felt against skin. How well it shielded from the wind.

It was minor miracle that it fit him so well.

A bag found later. Messenger's purse. Sort of leather good that kept important things dry and safe. Well. He'd stuff that too. With silver. With copper and gold. Small and valueable things that he knew he would not get half the coin for. But more was more and...

Coo the grub. Wrestle and writhe as the little one did. Kick its feet. Eyes wide as it studied. Fingers grabby towards the fine heron wrought from brass. Param grabbed that too, and stuffed it away. Trick was, not taking too much up front. Not so much to notice right away, all that excess that was gone.

"Right then, ready to move?" he called out. "I know a good fence ere in the port! Bout the Gull's Quarter, One Eyed Pete he goes by," the clatter of a jewellery box. Pointed claws click clacking against the goods. "Not the most original name, we all've told him, but, the man does right enough by those that score quality," he clutched up pearls, long chained as they revealed themselves, click by click. Tried them about his collar, then looked down to the grub, who reached out there too.

Grabbed, with all that baby's might. Thrashed some to hear them rattle.

"Easy now," he says, laced the finery quick about the grub's head, so that they fell about them. Rattled just the bit with his steps. Spotted his accomplice. "See, now, I think they really bring out their eyes, dear, don't you?"
 
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“ Good. “ She nodded and ripped into another sheet, the sailor’s hassling lost beneath the fibrous noise. He was moving about, stashing away thing after thing, just as he had the baby. Her child, whose every little sound rang through the rest to ears that’d been tuned to listen. Words bubbled into her mouth, some demand or other, but she kept them in as she’d been bid and soothed herself by smoothing a hand over the stack of fresh-cut linens instead.

So much to shit in. For the grub — and can’t forget that quilt from the garden, roll it up and away we are. About time too, before the kid gets hungry. The taut and ache inside her shirt threatened a fussy walk home. Her knife found its sheath again, snappy, as call came anew from the hall. Something about a fence, to start with.

What’d she do with that, now? By herself she shook her head and grabbed the basket, settling it against the widest part of her hip, underarm, on her way out the bedroom door. A sight welcomed her there, the man with so much promise and her child, bedazzled. She donned the sun and put all its rays into her smile, moving in to correct the pearlescent arch that fell across the baby’s forehead and over the petals of the sunhat. Needless gesture.

“ Yes, dear. Stark contrast. “ She affirmed, staying in that proximity like it should’ve cast a spell on her. Gingerly, she picked the pearls off the baby’s head.

“ When you’re older, grub. I saw a child choke on shit like this once. “ Her gaze lifted upwards to Param at the last, the smile growing more subdued. Business of a sudden. She leaned closer and slipped the necklace to the pocket of the big coat he was wearing, patted it for effect.

“ Why don’t you hurry off to the Gull’s Quarter, then, sailor? “ She begun, level and measured, tilting slightly to let the basket off her grip. “ I’ve naught for your fence. Unless One Eyed Pete deals in diaper linen. “ A darker tone in the quirk of her brow, freed hands reached to take the baby from him and place it back to the sling that drooped vacant across her chest.

The child trilled and huffed, limbs flailing, threatening to bud a cry.

“ We’re best heading home, I think— “ She spoke betwixt her hummings and hawwings to cool the child’s temper down. It settled to kneading the front of her shirt, toying with the fabric. “ Someone’s getting tired and hollow in the stomach. And none too soon honestly — “

In a grateful shrug, she picked her basket back up and begun for the staircase down. Marching.

“ My tits are fucking killing me. “
 
Mouth agape, flubbing like a fish, short on breath, so freshly caught from the stream was he.

"Hey well," Param said of a sudden. Relieved of some thing whose weight who knew so little of, yet. Rattled after. Found his steps cumbersome. Slow. Dumped the bag with a thump. Seemed to drag him back from the steady stepping march of one hell of a mother anyhow. "I'll still see you two at this Cisca, won't I?" he called out.

Hopped on the railing and slid his ass down like some shameless sledder. Hopped off with a little bump and a woah and caught his balance with a wide whirl of hands and wrists. A little spin step bump, and he found himself doubled over the high back of a walnut causeuse. A blink blink, reset of his arm to prop up the shaggy mess of his hair, only to have a rogue tuft fall afore his bright eyes whence he found her.

A puff of breath saw it fluff up and tease away. Fell back over his eye again.
 
It was as if she’d cast some sort of curse, or triggered a trap. He spoke fast and moved faster, felt a little frantic, so obvious and so hideously genuine in all of it. Her chest inflated with one large self-satisfied breath as she prepared some haughty answer, only to be made to postpone by the sight of him. He didn’t so much catch up to her and her child as flew past, riding the thick-laquered banister all the way down.

She watched the landing with fascinated silence, face blank, tail beneath her skirts coiled to a knot that’d braced for impact. He seemed fine — as fine as one who piloted skyships for a living could be, anyway. The unbidden taut loosed up gradually as she took the rest of the steps down, whispering to the baby, sharp teeth flashing in a smile.

“ A silly man he is, no? “ The grub merely wriggled and smiled back, shoving its fist into a toothless mouth. Alright then. She squared her shoulders and held her head high, adjusting her grip on her own wicker-bound bounty. Eye fell on the pilot for the brief glance as she passed where he was splayed arse akimbo.

“ Yes. “ She finally responded, rounding for the corridor that lead back to the garden.

“ We’ll see you there, pilot. " Dared smile a little past the shoulder. It persisted as she stopped into the coloured right come through the glass on the distant door, and called out.

" Which part of the cloudpier is she moored on? “
 
Come the yes, and he couldn't help but grin the wider. Tail a whip behind him turned crooked bolt. He pumped a fist, and smiled giddy as she sauntered away. Lost his mooring. Rocked and swayed and ended up swallowed by the gaping luxury of the couch. Upon which he face planted with a thump. Legs flailing up in the air over the armrest, and he managed to tumble over only to spring upright and onto his feet once more.

Sure, his bare feet were upon the couch. And maybe his dark devahni nails tore at the upholstery. For a -mostly unaware- moment, he fixed the coat's hems. Saw the tears there on the cushion. Scrunched his brow. Bent down and dusted of the tops of his feet. Stepped a little one two. To really get them in there and feel the finery. Which, tore a little more out of the weave.

Eyes wide, he straightened. Slipped out of the jacket, and laid it down upon the couch to cover up the minor disaster that had befallen the damasque, and zipped off down the hall where he sad the woman who had it all painted in a light that looked holier than any church he had stepped to.

"We'll see you there, pilot."​

What smile she dared to smile slapped the gawk right off of him. A smile there, sure as any promise could be. A nod to keep it company.

"Which part of the cloudpier is she moored on?"
​
He stepped there after. Slipped by like one minnow past another. Opened the door, and held it open with a proud to do. "She's moored in the Ferrier's terminal, dock number eight," couldn't help but show a hint of teeth with the curl of his lips. Huffed a happy sound. "Could die a happy man, neath the gaze of two pair of eyes so big as these," his own moonglow gaze flit from the Grub, to their mother's. "And I don't yet even know what to call the pair of ye," tail swished happily. "Suppose it just adds to the mystery,"
 
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She eyed him curiously — the smiles, the obliging with the door, the works. They both hovered there as he spoke and it truly took everything in her power to not roll her eyes at the more dramatic statement in the mix. A happy man — bold to assume that were he actively dying, she’d stick around to watch it happen. Sure, she wasn’t completely heartless, but— Goddamn. Why did they always have to bring up the damn dying?

A huff left her, a perfect little compromise betwixt frustration and amusement. A new quirk bloomed in the twist of her lips, turning the smile lopsided as she entered the doorframe and lingered in the same square of tiled floor with him. The breeze coming from outside tried her curls, made them shiver like the leaves on a tree, and she keeled her head the touch. On her brow, a frown was burgeoning.

“ Do you like mysteries, Paramviiga? “

She tilted her hip, to support the basket better against it.
 
Might he could say that same breeze that shook her rich curls had stolen the breath right out of him. He would be lying, of course. And that came easy enough when it need be. It was her doing entire.

Did he like mysteries?

"Never know where one might lead you," he put forward. Hands slipped about hers and past to grab up the basket with a sure heft. Stole it away and took it with welcome against his own hip. "What's your name?"
 
She should’ve felt victorious, but managed it not. There was something cheap in the snare she’d set up for him, the fork in the road where no answer would do, not truly. Or perhaps the one he gave would’ve sufficed just fine, had she not lost the basket for it. Was this supposed to be cunning, a little tit for tat — I trap you, you trap me?

Fucking idiot.

“ Well. “ Her face made the motions of a demure smile for the time it took for her to close the remaining inches of air betwixt them. Just a step. She’d already pulled the knife, bringing it up from where it’d rested undersleeve — sharp point against the soft of his gut, softly pressed.

“ Give back the basket— “ She ordered, voice level over the baby’s upset mewling.

“ And maybe I’ll tell you. “
 
His tail swished. Knife there pressed. A smile across his lips.

Wasn't this curious? Nothing to be lost or gained but the tell of a name, and a basket full of loot. He pressed himself more to the point. Felt it dig through against the cloth. What fat about his belly sheathed, dimpled there to its press. Pinched. Stung.

"And how might you want it?" he asked calm, as to not upset the baby any further. "With knife there in one hand?" he craned his neck to see if he could spy another. "There on the floor?"
 
Some serious cockerel this was, smiling. She held firm against the counterweight on the knife, half the mind to check whether he’d left blood on it already. All she’d have to do is thrust firm — then he’d really feel it. Why couldn’t you just let me leave?

Her mouth remained pressed to a line, through all the questions. Again, more complicated than it had to be, running his mouth. It didn’t bode well, so she snapped.

“ Just drop it. “

She didn’t give him time to actually do it, aiming a thunderbolt of a knee to the groin instead. And a shove with what hand she had free as she turned on heel to leg it out the door.
 
A thump that bent him over. Had his guts twisted right up and his breath good and gone. Still his hand slipped bout that daggered wrist, like one shanty dancer knocked might hold another to keep from falling. Yanked back and two stepped to thump there behind her flat, he wheezed out a laugh.

"Aye now, Miss Mystery," he said holding fast that hand there with the blade, wrenched up. Just enough turn to him and pivot to keep her from feeling comfy enough to try another stab at him. "You'll forget the diapers," he said with a kick of the basket forward there between the twirl. Then let her go. Hands up as he backed a step. "Didn't mean nothing by it," he said out to her. "Just tryin to help, what with the tits aching and all," his eyes squint, too happy.

Saw the spot there, welling red against the gold of his cloth. Tail twitched. Clicked his teeth. "That's gonna leave a spot,"
 
Her yelp was a shrill scream, traded for the grip about the wrist. And he was stronger, holding her straining arm from biting out. From gutting him, which was about due, she swore, if he ever let her go again.

“ I’m no Miss, to you! “ She managed through grit teeth, making about as much sense as she felt. There was no comfort in calm words, for how sure they sounded — making a mockery of how she’d never afford their ilk. Just the kicking and the screaming and the biting.

She had to result to none of those, this time, for how unceremoniously he released her therein. The knife remained up, pointed loosely at him, held beneath her gaze like she meant to prosecute his fortune by the blade. She wouldn’t even glance at the basket, just stare at him and his damn eyes and that stupid blemish on his shirt.

Only a spot? Pity.

“ If you actually were interested in my tits, you would’ve done about half— “ She twirled the knife, index and thumb on the grip pinched an inch apart. “ As much as you have, now. “

The child’s crying moored her before she could sneer anything more, cutting through the hot point of her focus. She wrapped an arm around the bundle, shush-shushing the little she could in that disappearingly small window of time. Distress transmuted further to mere disappointment as she huffed a breath, in and out, and shrugged.

“ I suppose it was nice— “ Skirt snapping in the saline wind come through the open door, she turned on heel and stepped past the frame. To the gardenpath and all that gently swaying grass. Chin up, shoulders back.

“ Until it wasn’t. “
 
Tail flick flicked one way then the other. His eyes wide and bright, a sharp tooth poking out over his bottom lip. "Well," he said, sing song. "What are you to me, then, Oh Mystery?" he teased along. Watching as she strut that high backed strut. "If not a Miss, then a mighty fine Hit at the least," he said, and scooped up the basket of linens there in her wake.

Hazard to his health that following her was sure to be. He made sure to make it all the worse by running his mouth. "And if," he said, minding the reach of her swipe. "You were in a need for milking, you could've just asked," he went on smiling as they went out the garden path.
 
What the hells was this drivel, now? You aren’t hitting shit, mister.

“ Anna mun kaikki kestää. “ She spoke, glancing down at the baby that’d deceptively calmed a touch. The thinned out patience was in the squirming and strained breath yet, a child’s impermanence escaping in mumbled huffing that twisted the face. And the grass spoke twicefold.

He was escalating, again, and at the lewd remark, she whipped around. One brow quirked over a gargoyle’s stare, the weary dismay of an adult listening to children’s inflammatory remarks. She shouldn’t have bothered, but—

“ You’re cute, with your confidence. “ She sneered, gaze refreshing on the length of him. Judgemental. “ As if I’d let you anywhere near these, dear. “

Beads about the neck clicked faintly beneath the shirt as she adjusted the chest of it. The knife was slack at the side, if only for the fact he had been smart enough to keep distance. She reversed the grip and turned away.

“ So stop following me. “

Her gait resumed, beelining for where they’d taken tea in the sun. Kneeling, she picked one side of the quilt and shook all things off it. Orange peels and porcelain left to rest went flying, the shrill sound of a cup shattering amidst the whip of fabric as she made quick work of rolling and folding the quilt to a neat square. The furies upon her face.
 
The shatter of the porcelain had him bolt straight a beat. Hands tight about the basket handles with his tail on end. A step there after, and he fell out of the freeze, all hot wax.

"Well," he said, matter of fact as a shiver worked through him. None the bit bothered, save for the quiver in his voice. He cleared his throat. "Since you asked so nicely, dear," he remained standing there in the garden, basket still leaned against his hips. "What'll you do about the linens?" he asked, eyeing the horde of cleanly cut diaper squares she had made sure to gather into the basket. "Be a shame to leave em behind," he rocked on his heels.
 
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