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Chapter Text

Orym will be the first to admit that he can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Though he enjoys a melody as much as the next soul, he tends to stick with a quiet off-key humming, or maybe whistling just a few favorite bars, while going about his day. Well, that or applauding when true artists take to the stage.

Folk like Fearne, who is currently tapping one idle hoof against the floorboards and one finger across the longer pipes of her pan flute as she comments on how fickle string instruments are, aren’t they? Folk like Dorian, who just laughs as he finishes tuning his lute, telling her that yes, yes, he’s working on it, give him just another minute!

And because Orym can whistle, at least, he does: with forefinger and thumb just inside his mouth, he sends a cheerful trill of sound, not song, across the common room in encouragement for the two beautiful people who have decided to grace the tavern with their talents this evening. Fearne beams and gives a gracious nod when she catches sight of him over by the bar; Dorian flushes, ducking his head a little, before shaking off some of the nerves and nodding his readiness to Fearne. Then she’s lifting her flute to her lips and he’s setting his fingers to his strings, and at the end of a quiet count from Dorian – music.

Anyone would know this song, just from the first handful of notes that they play: it’s a familiar, well-traveled little ditty where the singer heads out to market seeking a handful of herbs that they’ll present to their beloved back home. And then, just in case anyone missed that much, Dorian softly clears his throat and begins to sing. His silvery voice is the perfect complement both to their skillful playing and the song that they’ve chosen, weaving its own luminous thread right there through the melody of flute and lute, common room chatter and cheap tavern silverware alike.  

Honestly, Orym had only headed over to the bar with the aim of acquiring another drink for the evening. But now that he’s here, he’s also realizing what a perfect view he has of his two partners from this vantage point, and so he resolves to stay put for a bit: to watch them from afar and appreciate the joy that they so obviously share by playing music with each other.

He could watch them like this forever, Orym thinks contentedly. He delights in the way that Fearne’s eyes dance and her head bobs, leaning toward Dorian in joy and excitement as she plays; he basks in the way that Dorian returns Fearne’s easy, open affection with a shy smile, a soft little expression so perfectly in keeping with the lyrics of a familiar love song that it tugs at Orym’s own heart. And when the song is finished with a flourish – when Fearne lifts her lips from her flute and leans across the table to plant a soft kiss against Dorian’s cheek, and Dorian flushes a fetching shade of violet as he lets her – Orym cheers along with the rest of the tavern’s patrons watching them.

Because sure, maybe he can’t carry a tune in a bucket. But, Orym knows, he is also lucky enough to love in a way where he can’t carry that in a single bucket, either: it is always full to overflowing, more than enough to share.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, Dorian had a nice, large, soft bed all to himself. It was quite cold, and it felt very, very empty.

But that was back home, wasn’t it. Or no – not home, not really, for the Silken Squall hasn’t come to his mind as “home” for quite some time now. Say rather: that big, empty bed seems very much like a relic of Dorian’s childhood, and adolescence, and young adulthood, when he thinks about it at all. And the present is a very different story indeed, for now Dorian shares a bed of varying size, and softness, and overall quality – determined by whatever they can find or afford at the time – with two other people.

And yet, honestly, Dorian wouldn’t trade this for all the soft pillows and satiny sheets that the Silken Squall could throw at him. He can hardly imagine going back to sleeping alone, now that he knows he has other options.

And so many options, too! A tried-and-true favorite will find Dorian cradled in Fearne’s arms, his back to her front, and holding Orym close to his own chest in turn. These, they have found, are some of the only nights that Orym seems to sleep truly soundly through the third watch that typically finds him stirring and restless.

Or, Dorian can sleep on his side facing Fearne, with Orym either snuggled between them, or else stretched out across their legs, so that the halfling’s head is pillowed against Fearne’s fuzzy haunches and his legs are slung across Dorian’s own. They tend to find themselves rearranged in the morning, given how Fearne often kicks, but Dorian doesn’t mind an early rising so much if he wakes to the others moving around him.

Having Fearne in the middle takes some coordination, given her stature, but they can manage it: she snuggles Orym, while Dorian molds himself along her back. And when they are arranged this way, Dorian has found, he can peek over Fearne’s shoulder and just bask in the sight of them there: Orym pillowed against her ample chest, and Fearne stroking through his hair with blackened fingertips, both of them quietly content in a way that makes Dorian’s heart sing sweeter, truer, than his lute or flute could ever capture.

Once upon a time, Dorian could never have imagined anything like this: the trust and the intimacy and the warmth that come of sharing such a vulnerable time with not just one, but two, others. If asked then, he’s certain that he would have said he needed his personal space and his comfortable bed-things, and he would have balked if told that someday he would share the first freely while giving up the second entirely.

Goodness, how things change. But honestly, Dorian would be quite happy if this particular thing never does.

Chapter Text

Maybe it should be awkward, the way that when Anni follows Milo out into the Krook house kitchen in the morning, Fresh Cut Grass is already there and the two of them immediately start chatting up a storm as Milo clatters about looking to fix up some breakfast. Because – to Anni’s keen nose at least – Milo still smells like everything that the two of them got up to last night, even after Ashton left for the evening. And although the little aeormaton always claims he doesn’t have senses to process shit like that, Milo’s bedhead and just-slightly-too-big borrowed clothing and ginger steps around the kitchen are pretty damn big shiny clues too.

Or maybe Anni just expects it to be awkward because there have been others who made shit awkward. Who took one look at Anni’s boundaries and decided that they didn’t want to – or have to – deal with those, or who expected that stepping out with Ashton or Milo one time automatically meant that they could demand things from Anni too.

Which, just – no. At least her others have always dropped the trouble-makers the second they showed their true colors that way, choosing Anni’s comfort over whatever kind of tail they could be pulling on the side. And so far, Fresh Cut Grass hasn’t seemed like the type who would even think of trying that kind of shit. But still, the aeormaton’s new enough to their whole equation that Anni remains – wary.

Here and now, though, Fresh Cut Grass quickly realizes that it’s not just him and Milo here, and when they do, they direct a sunny grin right in her direction. “Smiley day to ya,” they greet her. “I was jest tellin’ Milo here, I’ve got some coffee brewin’ if you’re interested!”

Nothing awkward. Nothing out of the ordinary. Not one damn thing.

“Sure,” Anni says slowly. “If there’s any left over after what you’re making for Ashton.”

At this it’s Milo who snorts, distracted for the moment from their hunt for – jam, by the look of it. “Hah. Like they’re even awake, Anni!”

“Oh, they ain’t,” Fresh Cut Grass confirms sunnily. “An’ I’m highly doubtin’ that they will be for a while yet! Whatever y’all got up to last night left them hungry for more when they came t’ bed afterwards – I got a nice little surprise re-surfacin’ from stasis, that’s for sure!”

Revisiting it again now, Anni can admit up front: whatever it is that Milo and Ashton – particularly Ashton, who’s got it bad, completely ass over heels to the point that it’s embarrassing to watch sometimes – see in Fresh Cut Grass, she just doesn’t quite follow. The eternal cheer is a bit strange, particularly down here in the Fownsee Hollow, and even now, Anni sometimes still catches herself waiting for the other shoe to drop. And from another angle entirely, the aeormaton’s whole – physique? Sure, let’s go with that – ain’t really her cup of tea.

Still. Fresh Cut Grass treats both her others right, and if she had to, Anni would put up with a lot of shit just for that alone. But with the aeormaton, she’s never even had to: the weirdest thing that Fresh Cut Grass has ever done on this score is *not* be weird about the way they’re involved with Milo and Ashton, but not her. The way they just wheel on over and place a chipped mug of coffee by her hand, offering her another sunny smile before trundling back toward Milo, who gets a hand on their hip and a quip about how they should go wake up Ashton later.

And the coffee’s dark and strong, too, just the way she always takes it. No one else who’s come by tapping Milo or Ashton has ever paid enough attention to even know that, let alone think to make some for her.

Maybe ‘awkward’ isn’t the word she’s looking for, Anni thinks slowly, sipping her coffee as she watches Milo beaming at their newest other. Maybe it’s – ugh – maybe it’s something more like ‘nice.’

Chapter Text

“I am very sorry,” Dorian says slowly. As if maybe all of this will make sense, somehow, if he repeats the query a second time, in his own words, and at a rather different speed than he was initially asked it. “You want to know what now?”

Ashton, the unrepentant irritant that they can be sometimes, simply grins, leaning back in their chair to balance on its two back legs. “I was asking,” they repeat cheerfully, sounding far too amused and at ease about all this. “Whether you are free to have a little fun on the side, and if you are, whether it’s possible that I can tempt you to try a sample of all this.”

No, nope, that doesn’t clear up anything for Dorian at all. In fact, that rather sounds like Ashton is hitting on him, which can’t be right because –

“You do know that I am in a relationship with Orym, yes?” Dorian asks. He was – pretty damn sure that everyone in their group knew that already. And what is more: “And I thought that you had something going on with someone too? I mean, I’ve, uh, heard things from your room sometimes. When, ah, we’ve all taken rooms at the Spire by Fire or the like.”

He realizes too late how this must sound, but alas, his frantic backtracking is hardly the most convincing tale that Dorian has ever spun. “Not that I was trying to listen in, I swear! I just, you’re rather loud sometimes, and – oh no, gods, no, that’s worse, I’m sorry, that sounds like I was trying to listen in, but I swear I wasn’t, and-“

“Hah!” But Ashton’s wheeze of laughter doesn’t sound judgmental, which just confuses Dorian even more. “See, I’m told I’m fun like that. But yeah, I know about you and Orym, and me, I’m with FCG and Milo, though sometimes you’re probably hearing me entertaining others over there. Easier when we don’t have to navigate who’s sleeping where, you know – unless. Wait. Unless you don’t know.”

“Ashton,” Dorian says slowly, and with as much dignity as he feels like he can muster in the face of this yawning crevasse in his knowledge that he’s just watched open before his very eyes. “I do not even know what it is that I do not know here.”

“Fuck, you’re adorable.” Ashton lets the chair’s front legs drop back to the floor again with a heavy thunk. “Let’s put it this way: I’m in an open relationship, and I was wondering if you were too, because I think you’re cute and I would not at all mind tapping that.”

“That” is accompanied by a gesture that seems to take in Dorian’s entire body, which is – flattering? Probably? But Dorian is reeling a little too much to quite tell.

“But,” Ashton continues, musing now: “I think that maybe I was accidentally being an asshole and assuming you’d know what I meant, when maybe that was not the case. Sorry. I swear to fuck, I wasn’t actually asking if you wanted to cheat on Orym. And if it helps, ‘Grass would have some choice disappointment for me if they’d seen how this went down, hah.”

“They really would,” Dorian says weakly, and Ashton snorts.

“Don’t hurt yourself thinking about it,” they say easily, already pushing their chair back and getting ready to stand. “Sorry I assumed that you’d know what I meant, and if I made shit awkward with you and Orym, you just let me know and I’ll go tell him I’m sorry too.”

“No, wait.” Dorian leans over, reaches out, catches their wrist as Ashton rises to their feet. He’s under no illusion that he only manages this because Ashton lets it happen, but still – it’s a start.

“Mmm?” Ashton’s watching him closely.

“I’m not in an – open relationship,” Dorian tells them, stumbling for a second over the new term. “But not because I am – opposed to the very idea of it, and more because I didn’t even know that was a thing? So I’ve never talked to Orym about it, and I have no idea what he’s interested in or how he feels. But Ashton – I learned something new today. Thank you.”

“Sure thing,” Ashton says simply, but this seems too solemn a note to conclude such a conversation on, so Dorian releases their wrist and leans back in his own chair in turn.

“And I make no promises,” he says slowly, letting himself look, actually look, at Ashton with appreciation and noting how Ashton shifts a bit beneath his gaze. “But if anything pertinent comes up, then I promise, you will be the first to know. I assume that I can probably follow the noise I noticed before to find you, yes?”

The answer to that seems to be another resounding yes, and the slight sting of Ashton’s friendly clap on Dorian’s shoulder is well worth it for the other genasi’s loud guffaw of laughter.  

Chapter Text

Their kitchen table has seen some shit.

Ashton could burn water: just ask the others how they know this. FCG doesn’t have a sense of taste and doesn’t really eat what most would consider food regardless. Milo can follow a recipe if they have one at hand, and if not, then that’s fine, because they tend to treat the combination of ingredients as a kind of grand experiment anyway. Anni chops, mixes, and assembles with a deft precision, but she also tends to lose interest in the whole deal long before those activities fully come to fruition.

But that’s ok! They make it work. Various things get left on the table until the next person in the process comes along to move them.

Ashton accompanies Milo on their market runs, where their role is to carry a basket and look intimating at any vendors who might try to overcharge their human partner. Purchases get left on the table until they’re either cooked or put away.

FCG can carry a basket too, or they will stick around with Milo during the afternoons or evenings spent on certain meals. Whatever Milo’s fiddling with between steps often nestles atop the table between ingredients, and the two of them often while away the time between simmers and bakes just chatting there.

Anni will dip in and out to cut what needs cutting and sneak tastes of the meal in progress, bickering with Milo about their lola’s recipes or the level of spice that they could be having if only human tongues weren’t so dainty, as she puts it. That leaves a cutting board and bits of spice strewn across the table too.

Then once the food is ready, and enjoyed, that’s the table to be set up, everything else shoved to the center to make room. And in the aftermath, things usually shift back to Ashton, who’s in charge of dishes – a sturdy earthenware set made specifically to survive daily use – and sometimes, in the wake of a particularly arduous cooking session, hefting the chef up in their arms and carrying them off upstairs to sleep, instead of letting them nod off right there at the table.

So honestly, the kitchen table is at the heart of the Krook house. While everyone has their own room, and most people are welcome in most rooms with only a knock, the kitchen table is fully open, ready and waiting for whoever wants to work out in an open space, signaling to the others that they can stop by and peek at whatever’s in progress. And while the front room of the house has a ratty couch and some rugs that can technically fit them all, it’s not the same to be camped out there when in here there are three chairs and a low stool, complete with ramp, already waiting.

Place to eat, place to talk, place to wait, place to plan. This table’s seen a lot of shit, and it’s probably going to see a lot more yet. Kind’a weird to think that, if Ashton ever pays down their debt and the crew decides they might want to be someplace other than the Fownsee Hollow, this beat-up old piece of furniture might not make it up topside with them.

But that’s a ways off, if it ever comes at all, and for now, each day’s a new one for putting things out where everyone can see ‘em and reach ‘em and have ‘em.

Chapter Text

When Ashton first mentions that they and Fresh Cut Grass are probably heading out of town on a job in the Heartmoor, Milo starts worrying pretty much immediately.

Partly it’s because this is apparently a job for Jiana Hexum. Ugh. Milo would be completely happy if Ashton never had to go anywhere near that woman again, let alone take on big, dangerous jobs for her, in the hopes of landing a windfall that will maybe pay off most of their remaining debt. Ugh. Ugh.

And partly it’s because Ashton hasn’t left Jrusar much since – then. Since their fall. There was that one job out in the Oderan Wilds that led to them bringing back Fresh Cut Grass, and there have been a couple of jaunts to the bases of various Spires, sure, but nothing as long or as far out as this run is fixing to be. So if anything goes wrong with Ashton’s various patch jobs, or if FCG glitches out again in the way they do sometimes, then Milo won’t be able to help them. In fact, Milo won’t even know that anything happened until their others have dragged themselves home again, and by then of course it’s gonna be much, much too late to do anything but deal with the aftermath.

And, honestly…. Partly this is Milo worrying because their whole crew hasn’t been apart this way in, like, ever. None of them have any frame of reference for how this is gonna work, and they still won’t know until they’re all in the thick of it: Anni and Milo staying here, Ashton and FCG traveling out there.

“Yeah?” Ashton asks when Milo brings up this general sense of concern. Without getting into the specifics yet, of course. “You worried about what we might get up to without you, buddy?”

And they’re poking a blunt finger into Milo’s ribs as they ask, but the touch is real gentle. Like this is a way for Milo to deflect, to go start complaining about the tickling, if they aren’t actually quite ready to discuss what’s winding them up yet.

“Little bit,” Milo admits, making the snap decision that they want to lean into that touch instead of pulling away from it. So they do.
“Are we gonna be ok, Ash?” they ask quietly.

“Mmmm.” And, seeing how they’re feeling about the poking, Ashton gives it up to gather them in instead, tucking Milo’s head beneath their chin and letting them cuddle close. It’s rare that they’re both feeling quiet enough, and Ashton is doing ok enough to initiate full contact, that they get to just do this: it’s nice, Milo thinks absently.

“I think so,” Ashton continues, easy enough. “But. If something is fucking with you, Milo, I wanna know. ‘S there any particular part of us that’s got you whirring away like this?”

“It’s stupid,” Milo mumbles. Because it is stupid, this silly little worry that Ashton and FCG will find something better out there in the big bright sunlit world than this ramshackle old house in the depths that Milo has managed to hold together for their crew all these years…

“Whatever it is, it’s really probably not,” Ashton retorts. With Milo tucked this close against them, the genasi’s voice is a deep rumble that resonates through Milo’s entire frame. “Stupid, I mean. Hey. I know. You think it might be easier to talk to ‘Grass about it?”

“Dunno…”

“Fair enough. You want to try talking to ‘Grass about it?”

Milo hadn’t thought about that option, actually, but it makes sense – FCG is a consummate communicator, they’ll understand what Milo’s struggling to say. “Maybe?”

“Deal,” Ashton says easily. “Only problem is that you’re going to have to let go of me long enough for me to go find them.”

“Nope,” Milo protests, snuggling closer still in their determination to make the most of this rare moment while they can. “Guess you’re just gonna have to use these muscles of yours for something besides looking pretty around the place, huh.”

Ashton gives a snort of laughter, but just like Milo knew they could, their other does scoop them up before heading out the door of their room in search of Fresh Cut Grass.

Still. Even talking to the little ‘bot and getting their help in reasoning out why Milo is feeling the way they feel ain’t magic, of course. Still takes work, and FCG shooing an anxiously hovering Ashton off with a gentle hand when Milo can’t quite get the words out around them; still doesn’t vanish the feeling or the fears about this upcoming trip like a nice prestidigitation could.

Comets in the night, Milo’s heard this kind of situation called: you only touch in passing, at rare intervals, when you’re all within range of each other.

An odd and fascinatin’ metaphor, and definitely one that they’ll be considerin’! Fresh Cut Grass muses. But maybe not the most applicable t’ their situation, is it, since Fresh Cut Grass an’ Ashton ain’t enterin’ any kind of trajectory away from Milo an’ Anni in the long-term: they’re just shootin’ off one-time, an’ if this is too much for anyone involved, then it won’t happen again. Right, Ashton? Even though you were s’pposed to go further than just the door for a moment?

It’s not a perfect answer, and Milo’s still worried. Still. The weight of it all has lessened a little, and this time when Ashton gives them a gently inquiring poke in the side, Milo flops against FCG with all the dramatic gusto this jab deserves. Then the two of them have to try and explain to the ‘bot what ticklishness is, and Ashton gets it into their head to demonstrate on Milo’s ribs, and Anni just sighs when she gets home to find the Krook house front room strewn with every pillow the four of them own.

‘S good to have a crew to work through this kind of thing with, Milo thinks drowsily, tucked among their others. Even if it’s being crew that also raises those kinds’a questions in the first place. Honestly, they can’t imagine things any other way.

Chapter Text

Cyrus blinks, slowly, and seeing it, Dorian has to stifle a sigh.

“It’s no use, you’re not subtle,” he tells his brother wearily, fighting the urge to simply lay his head in his arms across the tavern table. For one thing, it’s sticky. For another, he’s probably the best one to deal with anything strange or insensitive that might fall from his brother’s well-meaning mouth right about now. “If you have questions, then you might as well just go ahead and ask them.”

He’s expecting something along the lines of Brontë what were you thinking?? or Brontë what are you doing? But that’s not actually what he gets at all.

“Forgive me, Dorian,” Cyrus says quietly. “I fear I lost track, somewhere along the line. Might you explain again how all of these good, vibrant people are courting you?”

Oh. Goodness. Gracious, no.

“No, no, no,” Dorian hurries to promise, before any of the others can overhear this and come back over to the table to witness Dorian’s death from embarrassment. Or, gods forbid, decide that they need to help. “It’s not quite like that, brother. Here, um… Do you need everyone’s names again too, or just, um, I don’t know, the explanation?”  

“I feel fairly confident of their names, but I would not reject a reminder, either,” Cyrus says, sounding solemn and chagrined at once.  

“Well, that’s a start!” Dorian promises him, trying for cheerful and hoping that it doesn’t come out sounding more like manic instead. “All right. Well. Here we go!”

By this point in the evening, the others have dispersed about the common room, getting into their last activities for the night before everyone heads off to bed. Which at least means that Dorian is able to point them out with a minimum of fuss.

“So you already know that’s Orym, over there by the bar; he’ll be there to keep an eye on Fearne, right beside him, so that she doesn’t steal anything too valuable and get us banned from this fine establishment. They – I – all three of us are courting one another, and we have been for some months now. Since we met in Tal’Dorei, actually! And in fact, back then, Orym and I were both dancing around another very handsome fellow too, name of Dariax, who was also greatly admired by another friend in our group, Opal. And I am fairly certain that Fearne had a fling with a woman even more fiery than she is, Fy’ra Rai.”

“Mmmm.” Cyrus acknowledges this with an absent hum, his gaze trained on Orym and Fearne. “These two are your primary lovers, then?”

Dorian cannot quite catch the splutter in time, and from the heat he feels on his face, he is fairly certain he is blushing. “Yes, well. Bit of old-fashioned language there, but yes, I suppose they are. Yes. Now.”

The common room is fairly empty, this late, so even though the others are spread out, they can certainly still be seen. One by one – or little group by little group, as it were – Dorian nods his head toward each of the other people in his life now.

“By the fire, that is Imogen; she and the tall woman beside her, Laudna, are a pair, though the two of them are also seeing Fearne, and Imogen and I – well, we have spent the evening together upon occasion. Then over in the corner there, that is Chetney; he and Fearne are also an item, and Chetney has high hopes of drawing Imogen’s attention someday, but I rather doubt that that will ever pan out. Leaning on the bar, that’s Ashton; at their side, that’s Fresh Cut Grass. Sometimes Ashton will spend the night with me and Orym, or with Fearne, on a casual basis, and Imogen likes to experience their exploits vicariously - in their mind, from what I've heard? - but Ashton is committed primarily to FCG and two others who live elsewhere in the city.  I’ve met them both, once or twice: lovely people. Actually, meeting Milo and Anni – that’s when Orym first grew a flower for me. For luck, he said. As if I needed anything more than them at my side.”

And now Dorian is rambling, of course, but in his defense – given the topic, it’s rather easy to do! So it’s not until he turns to face his brother, intending to make sure that the ongoing quiet at his side doesn’t mean Cyrus is blanking on him again – that he finds Cyrus is actually watching him.

“What?” Dorian asks, a little defensive. “Were you even paying attention to any of that?”

But Cyrus just smiles, small and almost a little wistful. “I was,” he says simply. “It is hard not to, brother, when you care for all of them so clearly that it shines in your very face."

“Oh gods, hush,” Dorian hisses at him, even as he feels the flushing intensify.

“Too much?” Cyrus asks with concern, his voice only a shade lower than before.

How can Dorian even explain…

“Not too much, per se,” he admits. “It’s just – hard to believe that I get to have this, sometimes. And hearing someone else say it out loud – makes it real. Real-er? You know what I mean.”

“Dorian,” Cyrus says quietly, and while it still strange, so strange, to hear his chosen name from his brother, Dorian cannot deny the pleasant twist of it all the same.

“Mmmm?”

“I cannot recall the last time I saw you look so happy,” Cyrus tells him. “And it makes me gladder still that we both found our way here, into the anchored world, that I might witness it.”

“Brother,” Dorian returns, helplessly. “You know that I love you, but if you say one more heartfelt saccharine thing tonight, I will combust.”

Chapter Text

Recognition-happiness-excitement-anticipation-hopefulness!!

Imogen is just looking up to see where this sudden – but surprisin’ly, not overwhelmin’? – onslaught of feelin’s is comin’ from when she sees that Fearne is headin’ their way. Ignorin’ the stares that follow her like these are just so much water off a duck’s back, the faun clops across the tavern floor to drop onto the bench across from Imogen and Laudna both.

“Hi, Imogen,” the faun woman greets her. Her ears are twitchin’, Imogen notes with some amusement. “Hi, Laudna.”

The grand, whisperin’ music that is always playin’ in the background of Laudna’s thoughts swells and crests for a moment as she returns Fearne’s greetin’ with her usual enthusiasm. Which jest makes Imogen so happy, seein’ and hearin’ that her kissmate is connectin’ to other people now! So of course Imogen follows suit, greetin’ Fearne with a smile before she decides that she just has to know:

“You plannin’ somethin’ special and excitin’ for this fine evenin’, Fearne?”

“Nooooo,” Fearne says slowly, even as her left ear twitches a little more freely at the denial.

“You lyin’ about not havin’ plans this evenin’, Fearne?” Imogen presses, settin’ her elbow on the table and proppin’ her chin in her hand so that she can lean over toward the fey woman a little. Beside her, Laudna chortles. “I jest have to ask, because your mind sure sounded like it belonged to a woman with a plan when you came trottin’ on over here.”

“Yeah, ok, maybe I was lying,” Fearne admits, with a twinkle in her eye as she gives an easy shrug. “I guess I thought, maybe I’d keep the plan a surprise for a little longer, but now that I’m here I’m thinking, where’s the fun in that?”

“My goodness, Fearne.” Now Laudna is leanin’ forward in her own turn: the soothin’ whispers of her mind have receded to their usual comfortin’ volume. “What kind of plan are we talking? Like, the kind where we step up and, mmmm, create a distraction while you lift something shiny you wanted to steal?”

“Honey, maybe let’s not encourage theft,” Imogen tells her kissmate – not without some mild amusement, though – but Fearne is already shakin’ her head.

“No, though that is an idea,” the fey woman muses. “Maybe later. But actually, what I wanted to know was whether you two wanted to go on a date!”

A – what now?

“Oh!” And Laudna straightens up from her languid lean. “It isn’t too soon after, you know, Pretty and all that?”

“I don’t think so,” Fearne muses, proppin’ her own elbow up now against the expanse of the table lyin’ between them. “I mean, you both said that you hadn’t gone on dates before, right? Between the way people on this plane tend to get silly about the hot ooze thing or the hot mind thing and whatnot.”

The first is said with a genial nod toward Laudna – which, all right, Imogen has to admit that it’s spot on the money – and the second, oddly, is toward her?

And Laudna, bless her, goes right for this openin’ like every compliment’s a shiny new toy. “So you think we’re hot?! Imogen! We’re hot!”

“You really are, honey,” Imogen tells her, lookin’ over with a smile – and because she’s turned for a second, it’s a surprise to feel a large, warm hand lain over her own.

“You are too, Imogen,” Fearne tells her solemnly, when she looks back with some surprise. “And, I think, we all deserve this. A proper date, where no one’s going to dump anyone at the end, because we already know we all like each other.”

“Goodness,” Laudna says quietly, and Imogen’s feelin’ jest stunned enough to echo that with her own: “My gracious, Fearne. That’s mighty sweet of you to say.”

Fearne’s ears lift as she smiles. “Really? Is this a yes, then?”

The whisperin’ music in Laudna’s mind swells again as she turns to look at Imogen, dark eyes wide and hopeful, and if Imogen really were on the fence in any way about any of this, that would be the decidin’ factor right there.

“I think so,” she tells Fearne slowly. “You’re right – we deserve this. And I - I’m mighty lookin’ forward to it.”