Log: Bailey and Paddy Make A Deal
Who: Bailey, P'draig
When: Morning, D11 M6 T22
Where: Beach House Kitchen/Cothold, Ista Weyr
What: Bailey's got spices for sale and apparently, really likes Paddy in an apron. Just an apron.
Innuendo, flirting and adult situations implied.
Beach House Kitchen, Ista Weyr
The chimney and the hearth are the heart of the cothold, built for multiple purposes, though heat is rarely a requirement at Ista. One side of the hearth is devoted to line cooking with a full-featured grilling station, holding station and fry vat, while the other is a baker's dream, with multiple vented doors set up to easily control the relative heat level. A single cook can easily pull coals out of the central hearth to layer under any one of the stations, or push them back inside. To one side, another door is used to pull used coals and log bits out to cool and then be scattered in the little plot designated as a kitchen garden. Beyond the hearth a long double-sided counter opens up with room to work on the inner side and plenty of space to set out plates for pick up or for customers to perch on the other.
>---< Local Weather for ISW >------------------------------------------------<
Current Temp: 82 F Today's Lo/Hi: 80 F / 88 F
Belior: waxing gibbous Timor: last quarter
Weather: Rain
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The day begins hazy but the sun burns that away as afternoon approaches.
However just past lunch a thunderstorm erupts and soaks all of Ista, doing
little to take away the oppressive humidity that clings to everything.
There's quite the impressive display of lightening strikes. As the day
drags on the ocean winds cool the area down, making it more bearable.
>-------------------------------------< 9:14 D11 M6 T22, summer morning >---<
Morning light dapples the restaurant which is still closed at this hour of the morning, though the sounds of prep work going on in the kitchen announce the presence of at least one cook getting ready for the day ahead. Any kids are currently not in evidence, neither are the serving staff, though smoke does puff lazily up through the chimney and the scent of fruit slowly dissolving into compote emanates from the kichen. Crossing into the kitchen proper will reveal P'draig standing at the stove over a massive pot, forehead lightly beaded with sweat, apron well-smeared with what looks like berry juice, occasionally humming something slightly off-key.
Life on the docks starts early, as such it's not unusual for Bailey to be up and about long before most people are. Sandals removed and dangling from a hand, Bailey's barefooted approach may or may not go unheard until she's almost right up behind the brownrider, the heavy aroma of stewing fruit overriding the fainter scent of vanilla the young woman brings in with her. With light amusement for the apron and the task he seems so intent on, "You'd make someone a good wife."
Absorbed and singing, Paddy does miss Bailey's entrance and jumps just a little as her voice sounds right behind him. Still, the brownrider only tilts his head her way at first, grinning and draws the long-handled spoon up out of the fruity stew in the pot, gives it a couple of light taps and then sets it across the pot's rim for safe-keeping. The heat is turned down, leaving the mixture at a heady simmer. "Arguably," he notes, "I already do," the brownrider says with a laugh. "Though T'mic is the one who's good at the housework, so we might have to battle it out for the title of top domestic in our particular partnership," he jokes and turns around slowly enough that if she needs to, she can reclaim some of her personal space. "How's things?"
Childlike pleasure spreads across Bailey's features when she gains just the reaction she'd hope for. She'll try peering into the pot and then stepping out of the chef's cooking space adding with a slightly bemused, "But T'mic's a guy's na..." and ending with a comprehending, "Oh." She gets it now. Although not really, "Sorry, my mistake, I just assumed Palia was yours." Confused much? The brunette does give a short chuckle and even tries a tease, "Maybe if you wore just that," a finger flicking at his apron, brows waggling mischievously, "and nothing else, perhaps he'd share the title?" grin. Shrugging easily at the query, "Not bad. In fact, a recent discovery I made is what brings me here today. Found something," right, she found it, "you might be interested."
Mixed berries in the pot, a little bit of spatter up the sides, rich burgundy in color from the pop of fruit under heat. P'draig lifts his arm and swipes the corner of his elbow across his forehead, grin going a little lopsided. "Yeah. T'mic's a guy," he says gently. "Palia /is/ mine," he informs mildly, "as are her two younger half brothers and baby half sister. T'mic has six kids, two boys, four girls." The brownrider hesitates for a moment, picking up on that momentary confusion and settles on: "We're not exclusive." Another pause follows as gray-blue eyes scan Bailey's face for a reaction. Her tease though pulls his smile wide again and his brows waggle a little. "And who's saying I haven't?" he quips back about the apron which at the moment, he's reaching around to unlace and lob towards a basket kept in the corner for the purpose of collecting dirties. Underneath, not nothing, but the usual shorts and half-buttoned shirt. "Yeah? What'd you find?" Paddy asks gamely, grinning again. "You've got a talent for finding things, don't you?" Teasing in force once more.
Inhaling the heady scent of the berries, Bailey asks hopefully, "Bubbly pies?" as to their intended use. Happy to accept the gender of Paddy's partner, the brunette's eyes grow wide as he lists the number of children the two men share between them. Realizing she's staring at the brownrider, lips parted in small amazement, she quickly drops her gaze to the simmering pot, clears her throat and puts forward hesitantly, "They all live with you?" The matter of non-exclusivity obviously not an issue for her. Thankfully, there's humour in which to recover her equilibrium once again a sly grin stretching out to meet the restaurateur's waggle of brows, "Now there's something I wouldn't mind seeing." Naughty. Given the opening to do so, she slings the carrysack off of her shoulder, dips a hand into it and pulls out four small pouches. Holding them up with a little triumphant flourish, "These." If the man unties the cords at their necks he'll find that they contain separately, cloves (a mix of whole and ground), saffron, allspice and mint. The latter sadly, appears to have gone off. A crooked grin appears for the tease and she taps the side of her nose, "You just got to know where to look."
"Not pies, sauce for custard," P'draig explains the current usage of the stove and there goes the corner of his mouth quirking again as her eyes pop so. "No. Palia, Dylan and Dharia live here with me. Jaivery lives with his mother and my brother at Telgar, though he visits often and regularly, or I take the whole crew up there. Mic's kids all live with their mothers or well, his oldest, Tosolla, she's a greenrider here." Beat. Confidential: "He got started early. Before I was ever in the picture." Her naughty remark draws a merry laugh and P'draig shifts over a little to lean against the counter. "That can be arranged," he quips back, eyes dancing, then brows lift again as she produces the little pouches. "Oh?" Taken, he slips each open and sniffs each carefully, takes a pinch of the allspice, chews on a single clove. "Mint's too wilted," he notes, "but that's okay, I've got some growing in the kitchen garden and a pretty steady supply of it already," he notes. Her last though makes him chuckle again. "And you seem to know all about where to look!"
The tip of a pink tongue darts out and swipes across her bottom lip when P'draig divulges the berries intended use, "Sounds yummy!" Especially considering just how uncultured that palette of hers is. Bailey brightens at knowledge that the little girl resides with her father. Perplexity has her frowning slightly, "With your brother? Isn't that, you know, a little weird? You knock his woman up and he takes care of the kid?" Weyrs! Go figure. A brow arches upward, and the brownrider is given a thorough going over, interest peaked, "Promise?" But then he's investigating her 'find' and its back to business once again. Disappointment hovers for a moment before she comments with a wrinkle of nose, "Should have smelled some of the other stuff I found," shuddering at the thought, "Smelled like ground up rodents or something." Lips twitch with amusement and she adds with a proud little lift of chin for her ability to unearth things, "My Da always said I could find a dragon lost between." Leaning a hip up against the counter in alluring fashion (it might help the sale) and gesturing to the spices, "So are you interested? There's plenty more where those come from and some other stuff I don't have samples of right now."
"Should be, berries are coming into season, so they might still be a little bit tart, but that should play nicely with a sweet custard," P'draig remark about the apparent dessert special of the day. Amused, he tilts a look up at her about his brother. "It's more complicated than that. Long story short, Jaivery happened before Vrys and Remi got together and it's worked out pretty well that he's had his uncle there for him when I can't be, if only due to the distance," Paddy explains, voice quiet. Could be there's a hint of regret in his voice even, but it passes soon enough. He's closing the pouches up again as she gives him that once-over and he winks at her. "Can do," he pronounces blithely and sets the spice pouches down on the counter, starts to unbutton his shirt. "I'm not sure I want to know where you found this stuff if there's rotting rodents around, /but/ a good supply of saffron like that? What do you want for it? Talented finder that you are."
She may not be a culinary expert, but she understands the notion of tart and sweet, even if it's not of an edible nature. The deep smirk that appears bearing testimony to that although she makes no comment. Bailey listens in silence, watching the brownrider intently as he speaks of the child not living with him. Picking up on the quiet tone he uses she adds with genuine empathy, "It must be hard." Oooh, he's unbuttoning his shirt! The almost somber mood is quickly erased and she turns to lean her elbows back on the counter, mouth pulling into wily pattern, "Remember, nothing but the apron." Just in case P'draig forgot. Eyes fixed onto whatever flesh is coming into view there's a low chuckle, "It wasn't really," ground up rodents, "Just smelled that way. The fish didn't seem to like it either." She doesn't go into the disastrous effects the pouch of hemlock had had on nearby marine life. Saffron, that was which one again? The brunette covers up her inadequate knowledge of the wares she's peddling with a confident sounding figure, probably quite a bit below the going rate, "Anything else you have...need of? A fine chef such as yourself must find himself lacking for all kinds of things spicy...and sweet." Flattery and the echoes of innuendo slid into her tone.
"Can be," P'draig agrees. "Vrys and I don't always see eye to eye about how to raise him," the brownrider continues in the more serious vein, though his shirt has come free and is held up for a moment, then set aside, though not neatly folded, onto the counter. Then Paddy leans against the counter again, bends to pull open a drawer and brings out a fresh apron. Looking up, he shakes the canvas out and brows lift Bailey's way: will that one do? "Sounds like a shipwreck?" is what he asks aloud about the provenance of the spices she's hawking. "And that's quite a deal." A little pause follows. "If you're going to sell saffron though, you should probably know it usually goes for four times that much." Flattery and innuendo bring back Paddy's grin. "For the restaurant, it varies. Anything that tastes good, is fresh and I can work up into interesting dishes. And I wouldn't say lacking, but I'm always interested in new flavors."
Pale eyes appreciatively take in every plane and angle of the bared torso. Speaking to P'draig's choice of apron before addressing the issue of raising his son, "Personally, I preferred the one with berry juice splattered all over it. Sort of more spontaneous, don't you think?" wink. Bailey has no personal knowledge of such things, but she'll ask anyway, "How do you want to see him raised?" and adding with a quick glance about should his daughter be lurking somewhere, "Palia turned out alright, far as I can tell." How convenient, the brownrider offers her an out. Nodding in apparent agreement, "Off the coast of a small island a few days sailing from here." Not being too exact should he decide to go looking for her source. Four times as much? Blink. Quick recovery, and in a most businesslike tone, "That's just for the first delivery, as way of thanks for your custom. Thereafter the price is..." three times what she'd previously stated but still under the going rate. His grin is met with a low chuckle when he pointedly brings the restaurant into things. Smirking a little as she drops a rather lame cliche that manages to double up as a pun, "Variety I've found, is the spice of life."
Laughter answers the quip about the apron. "It was getting sticky," P'draig confesses with humor still thick in his tone, though bringing up his kids again turns his expression serious. As serious anyway, as a man who is putting that apron on, then dropping trou can look anyway. His foot hooks up dropped shorts and he catches them with one hand, puts them down atop his shirt, then reaches around to tie the apron in place, without totally flashing Bailey. "Mostly, I'd like him to be happy and be near family and get a wide range of views on the world. We disagree about when he should get fostered to a hold," the brownrider explains. "That's ... the short version anyway." He turns to check on the berry sauce (which will provide a very nice view of his backside), even with the reduced heat and gives the mixture a stir. "Palia's a good kid. And there's another long story to go along with her background too," Paddy continues and shoots Bailey a look over his shoulder. "That's still a good deal, for a large amount of saffron." He clears the spoon again, sets it down and holds a hand out. "Shake on it?" The cliche, lame or not makes him laugh again. "Absolutely," P'draig agrees, gaze steady on hers.
Sticky? Bailey starts out saying something entirely wicked; thinks better of it and ends up uttering a soft snicker instead. A wide grin greets the dropping of shorts and P'draig is rewarded with a playful wolf whistle before a finger lifts and makes a twirling motion. Yup, she fully intends getting an eyeful of brownrider butt! Waiting to see if he'll comply her brows draw down into a slight frown, "Is it set in stone that he even has to be fostered to begin with?" Being of seahold stock she may be a little more liberated than most, but holdbred is holdbred and the notion of fostering clearly doesn't sit well with the brunette. Oh look, he turned! How wonderfully delightful! A low wolf-whistle and a round of applause, before purring a rather smug and satisfied, "Verrry nice! No wonder you have so many kids." And then he's ruining the whole gratuitous moment of perving and offering her a hand like a gentleman. Taking the extended hand up she'll grip it with pressure enough to suggest she's no stranger to hard work. A grin appears, stating mischievously, "So long as I get treated to sights such as this when I deliver? Deal!" Still gripping the brownrider's hand, that steady gaze has her take a step in closer, another languid flow of eyes over all the wonderful bits of flesh the apron fails to cover. Shoulders, sides of chest, long well shaped legs. Lips part and the brunette has no qualms about offering a low, "Mmmm. If only you didn't have so many offspring attesting to your fertility. Such a pity." And she truly seems to mean that!
Patient and more amused than anything else through the wolf-whistling, P'draig laughs again when she teases him about fertility. His handshake though, is firm and business-like, rather than flirty. "I think we can work out some more sights easily enough. I'm not shy," the brownrider claims. "As for the fostering, no it's not set in stone, but we have an agreement." Which is where he leaves that for now, because she steps closer and his fingers tighten on hers fractionally, a light tug offered to pull her the rest of the way in and this time, his smile does hold invitation in its lopsided curve. "For what it's worth, that ... doesn't have to be a problem," P'draig relates, again in a mild tone, steady-voiced. "All of my children are from the aftermath of flights. When I've been too addled to take precautions." A little pause follows in which he's searching her face again, fingers still lightly curled around hers.
Patient amusement - What did he expect? She's been raised on the docks. With P'draig's agreement, the brunette's grin relaxes into an easy line, "Then we have ourselves a deal!" Bailey's astute enough to know when a topic should be set aside. As such a simple nod is all that greets words on fostering. The way his mouth pulls into that lopsided smile, has her catching her bottom between teeth. Such temptation! What the hell. She's young, its summer, there's a good looking brownrider standing before her butt naked save for an apron. Agreement comes in the form of one curvy twenty turn old allowing herself to pulled in against him, a hand coming up to trace a pattern along apron clad chest, and lifting a hungry look up to him, "Lead the way, dragonrider." To wherever he feels may be most appropriate for such deal sealing liaisons.
Patient amusement - What did he expect? She's been raised on the docks. With P'draig's agreement, the brunette's grin relaxes into an easy line, "Then we have ourselves a deal!" Bailey's astute enough to know when a topic should be set aside. As such a simple nod is all that greets words on fostering. The way his mouth pulls into that lopsided smile, has her catching her bottom between teeth. Such temptation! What the hell. She's young, its summer, there's a good looking brownrider standing before her butt naked save for an apron. Agreement comes in the form of one curvy twenty turn old allowing herself to pulled in against him, a hand coming up to trace a pattern along apron clad chest, and lifting a hungry look up to him, "Lead the way, dragonrider." To wherever he feels may be most appropriate for such deal sealing liaisons.
"Deal," P'draig echoes, smile widening a little as she steps in close. His other arm, which has just been hanging out as decoration until now curves around Bailey, supportive, but his hold light enough still that she could step away easily if she wanted to. His breath catches briefly as her hand goes a-wandering, but he chuckles again at the quality of her reply. "Wherever the lady wishes," Paddy murmurs and his head bends, mouth seeking hers for a kiss that starts out soft and sweet but winds up answering that hungry look of hers in spades. His hand slides over along the counter to turn the heat on the fruit all the way off to avoid turning a nice berry sauce into berry caramel or worse. Thereafter, apparently 'appropriate' seems to be 'right here on the counter' at least for the opening steps of the dance, though laughter outside on the beach will interrupt things at least long enough for Paddy to lead the way through the cothold to what is apparently his room. With a door. That closes. And blinds to draw down over the window that does not face the beach. Sometime later, green-hued light slants through those blinds, tracing dark bars along bare, tanned skin and the tangled mess of sheets that got pushed to the end of the bed. Here and there, otherwise smooth skin shows signs of old scars - light marks of threadscore. And yes, the brownrider is very fit, ample evidence of a life lived actively in spite of his current line of business.
Counters are such spontaneous affairs, a choice that has Bailey responding with lusty enthusiasm. Surprisingly a woman of few inhibitions despite the frustration she puts some through. Engrossed in all those wickedly delightful things Paddy is doing to her she almost misses the laughter. Dragged off to his bedroom on legs of a rather rubbery nature, she happily complies, but not before casting a lust glazed glance over her shoulder to check there's not a curly haired little girl poking her head around a corner or something. Well tousled hair spilling over one shoulder, a leg resting lightly over the brownriders, she leans up on an elbow and gazes down at him. Eyes following along the old scars. Aside from the vociferous sounds drawn from her just moments earlier, there's not been much talking. Until now that is, a low satisfied chuckle, "Not bad, for an old guy," tease. Fingers move to trace along the markings, as she asks in husky tone, "Does it still hurt?"
Lucky for Bailey, the kids have harper lessons most mornings and are currently up at the Weyr. Not quiet himself, by any stretch of the imagination, P'draig's arm currently drapes across his eyes as breathing slowly dials back down to normal. His hand and wrist move aside though so he can focus on her face when she speaks, lift to trail through that waterfall of tousled dark hair and sighs softly, gaze tracing the contours of her face, smile hitching up one corner of his mouth at the quality of her voice. "Hm. I could take that as a challenge," Paddy answers with a touch of hoarseness in his words. His eyes drop to follow the movements of her fingers and his head shakes. "No. Not really. That one," he tips up his knee slightly so a mark along his thigh is more visible, "sometimes aches when Ista gets a rare bout of chilly weather. But otherwise ... I'm still mostly in one piece." Wicked grin there as his palm finds the curve of her cheek.
Brunette hair silks across his chest as Bailey dips her head, trying to peer under his arm and find his eyes, a crooked grin gracing a well kissed mouth, "You should," teasing challenge sent out in return. Her head turns following the movement of his leg and oh, would you look at that? Guess where next her fingers find themselves dancing, progressing ever higher once their tips have softly investigated the scarring P'draig speaks of. Leaning her cheek against his palm she's soon taking the initiative and claiming his mouth with her own once again, murmuring in reply moments before she does, "The parts that count anyways." Here's to hoping hope that berry sauce hasn't become a gooey, sticky mess by the time these two finally have their fill of each other.
"Oho ... well then," Paddy's grin widens, wickeder, though his eyes crinkle up a little at theh corners when he smiles so. "I'll take that challenge and hopefully give ample proof that some kinds of stamina come with age," the brownrider jokes, though his thumb is brushing lightly and even fondly perhaps, across her cheek. "I can tell you more about those later," he adds decisively about his scars, his very amused laughter silenced by that kiss. Rolling up onto one hip and then over, his hand sliding along her shoulder and along elsewhere promises to make very, very good on his answer to the challenge. The sauce might get cold, it's true, but hopefully won't suffer for flavor while the pair are otherwise engaged. It's entirely possible that Paddy's entire small bottle of 'precaution' will get emptied before lunchtime and it's also probably fortunate he's got an outdoor shower just a short distance from his back door. Gee. You'd think someone put it there on purpose. And whatever else Bailey might aim to get out of P'draig, she can be sure of good meals at least, because he'll make her lunch, or brunch as the case may be, before heading back to work.
Bailey slides a hand up around Paddy's lower back, arching up against him, legs wrapping around his. From thereon in the young woman is left in no doubt as to the talents and stamina of older men. That bottle of 'precaution' earning its usage in good measure. The usage of the shower gratefully accepted, as is the meal. Wheeling and dealing works up -such- an appetite! Before she leaves a medium sized bottle is extracted from that wonder'sack of hers and given over to the brownrider, "For Palia, to rinse her hair with." If he chances a sniff of it, he'll find it to be a pint of vanilla infused water. Rising up on her toes the damp haired brunette will offer her mouth to him one last time before she leaves, a last tasting to take with her for the day. Leaving with a satisfied sway to hips, she turns at the last moment a suggestive grin on her face, "Same time next seven?" One would assume for the delivery of Saffron, then again given the activity of the passed hour or so there's more to be considered.
Quite an appetite. Paddy'll join the deal-maker at the counter to eat what he's whipped up. The fruit sauce gets moved onto a back-burner to warm back up slowly for further cooking wizardry, so at least that won't go to waste. Through the meal, P'draig keeps the conversation light, relating little tidbits of his past, amusing anecdotes and the like, but nothing very serious. The bottle from the 'wondersack' is taken, regarded with interest and when Paddy looks up at Bailey, his smile is warm indeed. "Thank you, I'll let her know. I'm sure she'll like it." That last kiss is returned with a combination of lightness and the promise of renewed heat and as he stacks up used dishes, gray-blue eyes follow swaying hips on out towards the door. Bailey's suggestion is answered by a delighted peal of laughter. "Same time next seven," the agreement is made and Paddy waves as she goes, still chuckling to himself as he cleans up. The laughter and Bailey's swishing hips might earn her a /look/ from Dyla, incoming for her shift, but as far as the brownrider's concerned, she can ask all she wants: he won't kiss and tell.
When: Morning, D11 M6 T22
Where: Beach House Kitchen/Cothold, Ista Weyr
What: Bailey's got spices for sale and apparently, really likes Paddy in an apron. Just an apron.
Innuendo, flirting and adult situations implied.
Beach House Kitchen, Ista Weyr
The chimney and the hearth are the heart of the cothold, built for multiple purposes, though heat is rarely a requirement at Ista. One side of the hearth is devoted to line cooking with a full-featured grilling station, holding station and fry vat, while the other is a baker's dream, with multiple vented doors set up to easily control the relative heat level. A single cook can easily pull coals out of the central hearth to layer under any one of the stations, or push them back inside. To one side, another door is used to pull used coals and log bits out to cool and then be scattered in the little plot designated as a kitchen garden. Beyond the hearth a long double-sided counter opens up with room to work on the inner side and plenty of space to set out plates for pick up or for customers to perch on the other.
>---< Local Weather for ISW >------------------------------------------------<
Current Temp: 82 F Today's Lo/Hi: 80 F / 88 F
Belior: waxing gibbous Timor: last quarter
Weather: Rain
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The day begins hazy but the sun burns that away as afternoon approaches.
However just past lunch a thunderstorm erupts and soaks all of Ista, doing
little to take away the oppressive humidity that clings to everything.
There's quite the impressive display of lightening strikes. As the day
drags on the ocean winds cool the area down, making it more bearable.
>-------------------------------------< 9:14 D11 M6 T22, summer morning >---<
Morning light dapples the restaurant which is still closed at this hour of the morning, though the sounds of prep work going on in the kitchen announce the presence of at least one cook getting ready for the day ahead. Any kids are currently not in evidence, neither are the serving staff, though smoke does puff lazily up through the chimney and the scent of fruit slowly dissolving into compote emanates from the kichen. Crossing into the kitchen proper will reveal P'draig standing at the stove over a massive pot, forehead lightly beaded with sweat, apron well-smeared with what looks like berry juice, occasionally humming something slightly off-key.
Life on the docks starts early, as such it's not unusual for Bailey to be up and about long before most people are. Sandals removed and dangling from a hand, Bailey's barefooted approach may or may not go unheard until she's almost right up behind the brownrider, the heavy aroma of stewing fruit overriding the fainter scent of vanilla the young woman brings in with her. With light amusement for the apron and the task he seems so intent on, "You'd make someone a good wife."
Absorbed and singing, Paddy does miss Bailey's entrance and jumps just a little as her voice sounds right behind him. Still, the brownrider only tilts his head her way at first, grinning and draws the long-handled spoon up out of the fruity stew in the pot, gives it a couple of light taps and then sets it across the pot's rim for safe-keeping. The heat is turned down, leaving the mixture at a heady simmer. "Arguably," he notes, "I already do," the brownrider says with a laugh. "Though T'mic is the one who's good at the housework, so we might have to battle it out for the title of top domestic in our particular partnership," he jokes and turns around slowly enough that if she needs to, she can reclaim some of her personal space. "How's things?"
Childlike pleasure spreads across Bailey's features when she gains just the reaction she'd hope for. She'll try peering into the pot and then stepping out of the chef's cooking space adding with a slightly bemused, "But T'mic's a guy's na..." and ending with a comprehending, "Oh." She gets it now. Although not really, "Sorry, my mistake, I just assumed Palia was yours." Confused much? The brunette does give a short chuckle and even tries a tease, "Maybe if you wore just that," a finger flicking at his apron, brows waggling mischievously, "and nothing else, perhaps he'd share the title?" grin. Shrugging easily at the query, "Not bad. In fact, a recent discovery I made is what brings me here today. Found something," right, she found it, "you might be interested."
Mixed berries in the pot, a little bit of spatter up the sides, rich burgundy in color from the pop of fruit under heat. P'draig lifts his arm and swipes the corner of his elbow across his forehead, grin going a little lopsided. "Yeah. T'mic's a guy," he says gently. "Palia /is/ mine," he informs mildly, "as are her two younger half brothers and baby half sister. T'mic has six kids, two boys, four girls." The brownrider hesitates for a moment, picking up on that momentary confusion and settles on: "We're not exclusive." Another pause follows as gray-blue eyes scan Bailey's face for a reaction. Her tease though pulls his smile wide again and his brows waggle a little. "And who's saying I haven't?" he quips back about the apron which at the moment, he's reaching around to unlace and lob towards a basket kept in the corner for the purpose of collecting dirties. Underneath, not nothing, but the usual shorts and half-buttoned shirt. "Yeah? What'd you find?" Paddy asks gamely, grinning again. "You've got a talent for finding things, don't you?" Teasing in force once more.
Inhaling the heady scent of the berries, Bailey asks hopefully, "Bubbly pies?" as to their intended use. Happy to accept the gender of Paddy's partner, the brunette's eyes grow wide as he lists the number of children the two men share between them. Realizing she's staring at the brownrider, lips parted in small amazement, she quickly drops her gaze to the simmering pot, clears her throat and puts forward hesitantly, "They all live with you?" The matter of non-exclusivity obviously not an issue for her. Thankfully, there's humour in which to recover her equilibrium once again a sly grin stretching out to meet the restaurateur's waggle of brows, "Now there's something I wouldn't mind seeing." Naughty. Given the opening to do so, she slings the carrysack off of her shoulder, dips a hand into it and pulls out four small pouches. Holding them up with a little triumphant flourish, "These." If the man unties the cords at their necks he'll find that they contain separately, cloves (a mix of whole and ground), saffron, allspice and mint. The latter sadly, appears to have gone off. A crooked grin appears for the tease and she taps the side of her nose, "You just got to know where to look."
"Not pies, sauce for custard," P'draig explains the current usage of the stove and there goes the corner of his mouth quirking again as her eyes pop so. "No. Palia, Dylan and Dharia live here with me. Jaivery lives with his mother and my brother at Telgar, though he visits often and regularly, or I take the whole crew up there. Mic's kids all live with their mothers or well, his oldest, Tosolla, she's a greenrider here." Beat. Confidential: "He got started early. Before I was ever in the picture." Her naughty remark draws a merry laugh and P'draig shifts over a little to lean against the counter. "That can be arranged," he quips back, eyes dancing, then brows lift again as she produces the little pouches. "Oh?" Taken, he slips each open and sniffs each carefully, takes a pinch of the allspice, chews on a single clove. "Mint's too wilted," he notes, "but that's okay, I've got some growing in the kitchen garden and a pretty steady supply of it already," he notes. Her last though makes him chuckle again. "And you seem to know all about where to look!"
The tip of a pink tongue darts out and swipes across her bottom lip when P'draig divulges the berries intended use, "Sounds yummy!" Especially considering just how uncultured that palette of hers is. Bailey brightens at knowledge that the little girl resides with her father. Perplexity has her frowning slightly, "With your brother? Isn't that, you know, a little weird? You knock his woman up and he takes care of the kid?" Weyrs! Go figure. A brow arches upward, and the brownrider is given a thorough going over, interest peaked, "Promise?" But then he's investigating her 'find' and its back to business once again. Disappointment hovers for a moment before she comments with a wrinkle of nose, "Should have smelled some of the other stuff I found," shuddering at the thought, "Smelled like ground up rodents or something." Lips twitch with amusement and she adds with a proud little lift of chin for her ability to unearth things, "My Da always said I could find a dragon lost between." Leaning a hip up against the counter in alluring fashion (it might help the sale) and gesturing to the spices, "So are you interested? There's plenty more where those come from and some other stuff I don't have samples of right now."
"Should be, berries are coming into season, so they might still be a little bit tart, but that should play nicely with a sweet custard," P'draig remark about the apparent dessert special of the day. Amused, he tilts a look up at her about his brother. "It's more complicated than that. Long story short, Jaivery happened before Vrys and Remi got together and it's worked out pretty well that he's had his uncle there for him when I can't be, if only due to the distance," Paddy explains, voice quiet. Could be there's a hint of regret in his voice even, but it passes soon enough. He's closing the pouches up again as she gives him that once-over and he winks at her. "Can do," he pronounces blithely and sets the spice pouches down on the counter, starts to unbutton his shirt. "I'm not sure I want to know where you found this stuff if there's rotting rodents around, /but/ a good supply of saffron like that? What do you want for it? Talented finder that you are."
She may not be a culinary expert, but she understands the notion of tart and sweet, even if it's not of an edible nature. The deep smirk that appears bearing testimony to that although she makes no comment. Bailey listens in silence, watching the brownrider intently as he speaks of the child not living with him. Picking up on the quiet tone he uses she adds with genuine empathy, "It must be hard." Oooh, he's unbuttoning his shirt! The almost somber mood is quickly erased and she turns to lean her elbows back on the counter, mouth pulling into wily pattern, "Remember, nothing but the apron." Just in case P'draig forgot. Eyes fixed onto whatever flesh is coming into view there's a low chuckle, "It wasn't really," ground up rodents, "Just smelled that way. The fish didn't seem to like it either." She doesn't go into the disastrous effects the pouch of hemlock had had on nearby marine life. Saffron, that was which one again? The brunette covers up her inadequate knowledge of the wares she's peddling with a confident sounding figure, probably quite a bit below the going rate, "Anything else you have...need of? A fine chef such as yourself must find himself lacking for all kinds of things spicy...and sweet." Flattery and the echoes of innuendo slid into her tone.
"Can be," P'draig agrees. "Vrys and I don't always see eye to eye about how to raise him," the brownrider continues in the more serious vein, though his shirt has come free and is held up for a moment, then set aside, though not neatly folded, onto the counter. Then Paddy leans against the counter again, bends to pull open a drawer and brings out a fresh apron. Looking up, he shakes the canvas out and brows lift Bailey's way: will that one do? "Sounds like a shipwreck?" is what he asks aloud about the provenance of the spices she's hawking. "And that's quite a deal." A little pause follows. "If you're going to sell saffron though, you should probably know it usually goes for four times that much." Flattery and innuendo bring back Paddy's grin. "For the restaurant, it varies. Anything that tastes good, is fresh and I can work up into interesting dishes. And I wouldn't say lacking, but I'm always interested in new flavors."
Pale eyes appreciatively take in every plane and angle of the bared torso. Speaking to P'draig's choice of apron before addressing the issue of raising his son, "Personally, I preferred the one with berry juice splattered all over it. Sort of more spontaneous, don't you think?" wink. Bailey has no personal knowledge of such things, but she'll ask anyway, "How do you want to see him raised?" and adding with a quick glance about should his daughter be lurking somewhere, "Palia turned out alright, far as I can tell." How convenient, the brownrider offers her an out. Nodding in apparent agreement, "Off the coast of a small island a few days sailing from here." Not being too exact should he decide to go looking for her source. Four times as much? Blink. Quick recovery, and in a most businesslike tone, "That's just for the first delivery, as way of thanks for your custom. Thereafter the price is..." three times what she'd previously stated but still under the going rate. His grin is met with a low chuckle when he pointedly brings the restaurant into things. Smirking a little as she drops a rather lame cliche that manages to double up as a pun, "Variety I've found, is the spice of life."
Laughter answers the quip about the apron. "It was getting sticky," P'draig confesses with humor still thick in his tone, though bringing up his kids again turns his expression serious. As serious anyway, as a man who is putting that apron on, then dropping trou can look anyway. His foot hooks up dropped shorts and he catches them with one hand, puts them down atop his shirt, then reaches around to tie the apron in place, without totally flashing Bailey. "Mostly, I'd like him to be happy and be near family and get a wide range of views on the world. We disagree about when he should get fostered to a hold," the brownrider explains. "That's ... the short version anyway." He turns to check on the berry sauce (which will provide a very nice view of his backside), even with the reduced heat and gives the mixture a stir. "Palia's a good kid. And there's another long story to go along with her background too," Paddy continues and shoots Bailey a look over his shoulder. "That's still a good deal, for a large amount of saffron." He clears the spoon again, sets it down and holds a hand out. "Shake on it?" The cliche, lame or not makes him laugh again. "Absolutely," P'draig agrees, gaze steady on hers.
Sticky? Bailey starts out saying something entirely wicked; thinks better of it and ends up uttering a soft snicker instead. A wide grin greets the dropping of shorts and P'draig is rewarded with a playful wolf whistle before a finger lifts and makes a twirling motion. Yup, she fully intends getting an eyeful of brownrider butt! Waiting to see if he'll comply her brows draw down into a slight frown, "Is it set in stone that he even has to be fostered to begin with?" Being of seahold stock she may be a little more liberated than most, but holdbred is holdbred and the notion of fostering clearly doesn't sit well with the brunette. Oh look, he turned! How wonderfully delightful! A low wolf-whistle and a round of applause, before purring a rather smug and satisfied, "Verrry nice! No wonder you have so many kids." And then he's ruining the whole gratuitous moment of perving and offering her a hand like a gentleman. Taking the extended hand up she'll grip it with pressure enough to suggest she's no stranger to hard work. A grin appears, stating mischievously, "So long as I get treated to sights such as this when I deliver? Deal!" Still gripping the brownrider's hand, that steady gaze has her take a step in closer, another languid flow of eyes over all the wonderful bits of flesh the apron fails to cover. Shoulders, sides of chest, long well shaped legs. Lips part and the brunette has no qualms about offering a low, "Mmmm. If only you didn't have so many offspring attesting to your fertility. Such a pity." And she truly seems to mean that!
Patient and more amused than anything else through the wolf-whistling, P'draig laughs again when she teases him about fertility. His handshake though, is firm and business-like, rather than flirty. "I think we can work out some more sights easily enough. I'm not shy," the brownrider claims. "As for the fostering, no it's not set in stone, but we have an agreement." Which is where he leaves that for now, because she steps closer and his fingers tighten on hers fractionally, a light tug offered to pull her the rest of the way in and this time, his smile does hold invitation in its lopsided curve. "For what it's worth, that ... doesn't have to be a problem," P'draig relates, again in a mild tone, steady-voiced. "All of my children are from the aftermath of flights. When I've been too addled to take precautions." A little pause follows in which he's searching her face again, fingers still lightly curled around hers.
Patient amusement - What did he expect? She's been raised on the docks. With P'draig's agreement, the brunette's grin relaxes into an easy line, "Then we have ourselves a deal!" Bailey's astute enough to know when a topic should be set aside. As such a simple nod is all that greets words on fostering. The way his mouth pulls into that lopsided smile, has her catching her bottom between teeth. Such temptation! What the hell. She's young, its summer, there's a good looking brownrider standing before her butt naked save for an apron. Agreement comes in the form of one curvy twenty turn old allowing herself to pulled in against him, a hand coming up to trace a pattern along apron clad chest, and lifting a hungry look up to him, "Lead the way, dragonrider." To wherever he feels may be most appropriate for such deal sealing liaisons.
Patient amusement - What did he expect? She's been raised on the docks. With P'draig's agreement, the brunette's grin relaxes into an easy line, "Then we have ourselves a deal!" Bailey's astute enough to know when a topic should be set aside. As such a simple nod is all that greets words on fostering. The way his mouth pulls into that lopsided smile, has her catching her bottom between teeth. Such temptation! What the hell. She's young, its summer, there's a good looking brownrider standing before her butt naked save for an apron. Agreement comes in the form of one curvy twenty turn old allowing herself to pulled in against him, a hand coming up to trace a pattern along apron clad chest, and lifting a hungry look up to him, "Lead the way, dragonrider." To wherever he feels may be most appropriate for such deal sealing liaisons.
"Deal," P'draig echoes, smile widening a little as she steps in close. His other arm, which has just been hanging out as decoration until now curves around Bailey, supportive, but his hold light enough still that she could step away easily if she wanted to. His breath catches briefly as her hand goes a-wandering, but he chuckles again at the quality of her reply. "Wherever the lady wishes," Paddy murmurs and his head bends, mouth seeking hers for a kiss that starts out soft and sweet but winds up answering that hungry look of hers in spades. His hand slides over along the counter to turn the heat on the fruit all the way off to avoid turning a nice berry sauce into berry caramel or worse. Thereafter, apparently 'appropriate' seems to be 'right here on the counter' at least for the opening steps of the dance, though laughter outside on the beach will interrupt things at least long enough for Paddy to lead the way through the cothold to what is apparently his room. With a door. That closes. And blinds to draw down over the window that does not face the beach. Sometime later, green-hued light slants through those blinds, tracing dark bars along bare, tanned skin and the tangled mess of sheets that got pushed to the end of the bed. Here and there, otherwise smooth skin shows signs of old scars - light marks of threadscore. And yes, the brownrider is very fit, ample evidence of a life lived actively in spite of his current line of business.
Counters are such spontaneous affairs, a choice that has Bailey responding with lusty enthusiasm. Surprisingly a woman of few inhibitions despite the frustration she puts some through. Engrossed in all those wickedly delightful things Paddy is doing to her she almost misses the laughter. Dragged off to his bedroom on legs of a rather rubbery nature, she happily complies, but not before casting a lust glazed glance over her shoulder to check there's not a curly haired little girl poking her head around a corner or something. Well tousled hair spilling over one shoulder, a leg resting lightly over the brownriders, she leans up on an elbow and gazes down at him. Eyes following along the old scars. Aside from the vociferous sounds drawn from her just moments earlier, there's not been much talking. Until now that is, a low satisfied chuckle, "Not bad, for an old guy," tease. Fingers move to trace along the markings, as she asks in husky tone, "Does it still hurt?"
Lucky for Bailey, the kids have harper lessons most mornings and are currently up at the Weyr. Not quiet himself, by any stretch of the imagination, P'draig's arm currently drapes across his eyes as breathing slowly dials back down to normal. His hand and wrist move aside though so he can focus on her face when she speaks, lift to trail through that waterfall of tousled dark hair and sighs softly, gaze tracing the contours of her face, smile hitching up one corner of his mouth at the quality of her voice. "Hm. I could take that as a challenge," Paddy answers with a touch of hoarseness in his words. His eyes drop to follow the movements of her fingers and his head shakes. "No. Not really. That one," he tips up his knee slightly so a mark along his thigh is more visible, "sometimes aches when Ista gets a rare bout of chilly weather. But otherwise ... I'm still mostly in one piece." Wicked grin there as his palm finds the curve of her cheek.
Brunette hair silks across his chest as Bailey dips her head, trying to peer under his arm and find his eyes, a crooked grin gracing a well kissed mouth, "You should," teasing challenge sent out in return. Her head turns following the movement of his leg and oh, would you look at that? Guess where next her fingers find themselves dancing, progressing ever higher once their tips have softly investigated the scarring P'draig speaks of. Leaning her cheek against his palm she's soon taking the initiative and claiming his mouth with her own once again, murmuring in reply moments before she does, "The parts that count anyways." Here's to hoping hope that berry sauce hasn't become a gooey, sticky mess by the time these two finally have their fill of each other.
"Oho ... well then," Paddy's grin widens, wickeder, though his eyes crinkle up a little at theh corners when he smiles so. "I'll take that challenge and hopefully give ample proof that some kinds of stamina come with age," the brownrider jokes, though his thumb is brushing lightly and even fondly perhaps, across her cheek. "I can tell you more about those later," he adds decisively about his scars, his very amused laughter silenced by that kiss. Rolling up onto one hip and then over, his hand sliding along her shoulder and along elsewhere promises to make very, very good on his answer to the challenge. The sauce might get cold, it's true, but hopefully won't suffer for flavor while the pair are otherwise engaged. It's entirely possible that Paddy's entire small bottle of 'precaution' will get emptied before lunchtime and it's also probably fortunate he's got an outdoor shower just a short distance from his back door. Gee. You'd think someone put it there on purpose. And whatever else Bailey might aim to get out of P'draig, she can be sure of good meals at least, because he'll make her lunch, or brunch as the case may be, before heading back to work.
Bailey slides a hand up around Paddy's lower back, arching up against him, legs wrapping around his. From thereon in the young woman is left in no doubt as to the talents and stamina of older men. That bottle of 'precaution' earning its usage in good measure. The usage of the shower gratefully accepted, as is the meal. Wheeling and dealing works up -such- an appetite! Before she leaves a medium sized bottle is extracted from that wonder'sack of hers and given over to the brownrider, "For Palia, to rinse her hair with." If he chances a sniff of it, he'll find it to be a pint of vanilla infused water. Rising up on her toes the damp haired brunette will offer her mouth to him one last time before she leaves, a last tasting to take with her for the day. Leaving with a satisfied sway to hips, she turns at the last moment a suggestive grin on her face, "Same time next seven?" One would assume for the delivery of Saffron, then again given the activity of the passed hour or so there's more to be considered.
Quite an appetite. Paddy'll join the deal-maker at the counter to eat what he's whipped up. The fruit sauce gets moved onto a back-burner to warm back up slowly for further cooking wizardry, so at least that won't go to waste. Through the meal, P'draig keeps the conversation light, relating little tidbits of his past, amusing anecdotes and the like, but nothing very serious. The bottle from the 'wondersack' is taken, regarded with interest and when Paddy looks up at Bailey, his smile is warm indeed. "Thank you, I'll let her know. I'm sure she'll like it." That last kiss is returned with a combination of lightness and the promise of renewed heat and as he stacks up used dishes, gray-blue eyes follow swaying hips on out towards the door. Bailey's suggestion is answered by a delighted peal of laughter. "Same time next seven," the agreement is made and Paddy waves as she goes, still chuckling to himself as he cleans up. The laughter and Bailey's swishing hips might earn her a /look/ from Dyla, incoming for her shift, but as far as the brownrider's concerned, she can ask all she wants: he won't kiss and tell.