(Untitled)
The whole week has been remarkably eventful (and remarkably weird), but yesterday in particular was interesting, and yesterday evening had some never-before-seen events, too. Candice, as a result of those events, is curled up in Martel Dessoir's bed, stirring awake at an hour early enough that it's definitely giving her plenty of time to get ( Read more... )
At this hour, anywhere else, Martel would be showered and dressed and drinking tea already; at home, he's usually awake, but more often than not he makes a point of not getting up until he's been bombarded by a small child. After a week that leaves him mostly just wanting to sleep for the rest of the next one, he's still mostly dozing when Inga hits him full-speed in the stomach.
"...Daddy's spleen, Inga," he groans, still groggy, even as Inga puts her knee on his side and rolls over to examine the other occupant of the bed. A challenger appears.
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Oh. Right. He mentioned this before. Well, you never show fear to a child - that's something Candice learned while she was one. She props herself up sleepily in bed, and is glad she's wearing some semblance of clothing.
"Hi, Inga," she says, mildly, "you're up early."
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"Kidneys," Martel protests, until she rearranges herself - between them, using her father as a leaning post.
"You're not," Inga returns with interest, obliingly not threatening anyone's internal organs with feet, hands, elbows or knees. (She has a memorable headbutt, too, but they should be safe.) "Did you get cold?"
At this point somewhat more awake, Martel pushes himself up to lean against the pillows and settle Inga more securely in his lap. "No, I was thinking of keeping her."
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Candice glances at Martel, and decides to... go ahead with the sanitized version of honesty.
"Your dad and I have gotten pretty close lately, and we're - well, 'dating' might be the best term. Do you know what we mean by that?" She'll address the notion of keeping later on, thank you, but she does smile briefly at Martel over Inga's head.
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"It means rent to own!"
"Who in God's name told you that?" ...pardon Martel, he's momentarily distracted from the actual conversation.
"Uncle Dieter did."
"I've told you before not to listen to anything that man says. It does not mean rent to own, it's...a sort of relationship that adults sometimes foolishly engage in. What your idiot godfather meant is that sometimes people who date end up marrying one another."
"What has that got to do with buying things?"
"Absolutely nothing."
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Candice is just laughing, quietly, as she observes this exchange.
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"But that's what you're doing."
"Dating, not renting. We do not rent people."
"Mmmmhmmn. If you keep her, does that make her mine, too?"
Inga is her father's child.
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"Does it, Martel?" Candice affects wide-eyed interest; already, they begin to troll him in unison.
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"Yes, absolutely," he replies, blandly.
Inga seems to find this a satisfactory answer, flopping sideways against Martel's chest. "Okay."
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The look on Candice's face is something like 'well, that went well.'
"All right, then."
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"Go bother Sophie for breakfast," Martel instructs, bouncing her on his knee. "We'll be down shortly."
"How shor-"
"Shortly."
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"I'll hurry him along," Candice promises, amused. It's nice seeing them like this - though part of her wonders if she's intruding, they don't seem to feel as much, so she'll let herself get comfortable.
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Probably the fact Inga attaches much easier than Martel - and already had - comes into play, there. For his part, Martel sinks back down, covering his face with his hand and yawning.
"Good morning," he says, ruefully.
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"Good morning. That went smoothly," she notes, balancing over him on one hand, the side of his shirt slipping over her shoulder.
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"Almost too smoothly. Maybe she's up to something." She's six years old, Martel. He pulls Candice down to him, rolling her over his other side to hold onto her.
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"I'm sure she is, but I'm not sure it has to do with our relationship--hello." She slips an arm around him and kisses him, since he's got her positioned so conveniently.
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