hemmingfambly | (no subject)

WHO: Broderick & Nazikeda
WHEN: Pre-July 2nd
WHERE: The Market
WHAT: Broderick and Keda go shopping. And gossiping.
WARNINGS: They just don’t know how to shut up.

There’s something cloying about the plums sitting primly in their cardboard baskets, sickly sweet and clearly overripe. This is the problem with farmer’s markets; the sights, sounds, and smells are a welcome white noise at the best of times, but a sensory nightmare at the worst - especially for a medium one more ghost away from a crippling migraine. Or maybe Broderick has just become more sensitive living with wolves.

It’s because of said wolves that Broderick’s disdain deepens as he levels the “farmer” with the full force of it: how dare this man try to peddle his reject fruits at criminal costs when they had the perfect (unwanted) birthday barbecue to execute.

“Perrin.”

“Broderick,” his childhood acquaintance sighs at a near whine. “C’mon mate, you can’t – the two of yous’ come flouncing out here right before close!” He gestures accusingly between Broderick and Keda, reddening with defensive futility. “This is what I have left, and you damn well know my plums are the best you’ll find! You – enough with the eyebrows prick!”

Broderick’s stare doesn't waver.

“Cer i'r diawl,” Perrin mutters after a few mullish minutes, avoiding Keda’s gaze as he ducks down to retrieve a basket of far more healthy looking plums Broderick knew he had squirreled away to try to fool the idiot tourists out of more money.

“You’re such a bastard,” he sighs at Broderick’s satisfied smile.

“I know,” the wizard agrees, slapping the pounds into Perrin’s hand. “Mercenary. But you do have the best plums in the county,” he parrots to Keda, settling them gently into her bag.

It could be said, for the record, that Nazikeda quite enjoys a crowd. Perhaps not the press of it precisely - the bustle does tend to brush itself along rather closely at times - but rather the ability to all but disappear in the cross traffic. The implicit anonymity of confluence.

The people watching.

As Nazikeda watches these particular people from her not-at-all-anonymous position with all of the absorbed attention usually afforded to sporting matches, the corners of her mouth are twitched upward and amused. It is not so much the plums. It is not so much the price.

"And to think," she murmurs, low and syrupy, as the fruit is settled in its place. "One may very well have tipped for the inconvenience. Handsomely, even."

Her companion somehow holds back the snicker as Perrin’s face falls. A considerable blow to be chastised by a beautiful woman one hadn’t the whisper of a chance with, let alone outplayed by her.

“This ugly bastard doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Same time next week then,” Broderick smirks, delighted by the deepening shade of red flushing Perrin’s ruddy cheeks (just like when they were kids). It’s at a slow, unconcerned amble that Broderick takes Keda by the arm and steers her away and along.

“I think we can push our luck another week or so. Bracken buys way too much from him to ban us yet.”

Nazikeda goes both away and along willingly, shooting a bright smile and a wave of her manicured fingers back over her shoulder. The rather wretched merriment of the action is a terrible way to make friends, but then she has more than enough of those already to suit her just fine.

"Perhaps," she tips her head, teeters it from one side to the other as though balancing a scale, her hum tapering down a note from agreement to skepticism. "But banning us is not precisely the same as banning Bracken. Our luck and his may not be quite so intertwined."

Broderick appears unconcerned about that, maybe even a little smug. “The worse I behave, the more they like him,” which of course, works to their collective advantage. “Not that it was difficult for them to already. Practically fall over themselves the second their American son comes in with that cowboy swagger and yes ma’ams.” The charming, sweet (annoying) bastard, so profoundly good (annoying) to his very core.

The pride is mixed with only the slightest edge of irritation, an untameable possessiveness over how they fawn over his wolf.

“Anyway, I know it was Perrin who stole Mrs.Hammond’s knickers and ran them up the church flag pole when we were 9. He can’t touch me,” Broderick steps out of the way for a mother and pram. “What else should we grill, asparagus?”

"Asparagus," Nazikeda agrees readily enough, as though she’s the sort of thing that actually subsumes itself on food, the tips of her nails idly running themselves down his tricep to curl into the bend of his arm. "Zucchini, perhaps."

Her gaze cuts in Broderick’s direction before flitting off again, idly scanning the edges of tables and tops of awnings as she makes an active choice to do very little to counteract his simmering territoriality. It is sweet, really. Unnecessary, but sweet.

"He does give off a rather 'aw, shucks' energy in polite company," she confirms, head bobbing amenably. Broderick snorts. "Though it very likely does not hurt that he is built like a sequoia and possesses the sort of -" She snaps her fingers. "Robust charm that marble would envy."

The knowing look Broderick slides her is too arch to be deadpan, but he also, unfortunately, is so very easy to rile up.

“If Michelangelo’s David wore sequined crop tops that stamped slut across his enormous tits,” there was a strangled gasp as an elderly woman stares, gobsmacked at Broderick’s audacity in so wholesome a place.

The wizard pays her no mind, brow now furrowed and entirely occupied by the subject at hand (as always: Bracken…and the zucchini, now also in hand).

“His arse belongs in a museum,” he agrees with a scholarly finality, but was now ~~pouting~~ grumbling in growing vexation at this imaginary hypothetical. Was other people admiring and touching Bracken a thing for them, satisfying Broderick’s pettiness as much as it did Bracken’s kinks? Yes, but. “Tits too, for that matter. He’d love that, bloody exhibitionist.”

The sharp sound of Nazikeda’s hands clapping themselves together slices through the far side of the woman’s sputtering, cutting off any further protest and jostling Broderick in the process. "Oh!" she chirps, sounding thoroughly delighted at the prospect and her companion is helpless not to chuckle at her enthusiasm. A bit avant garde, to be certain, but fun. The Galleria dell’Accademia could use a little sprucing now and then. "Do you think they make them in that size? The price of rhinestones alone would be exorbitant, but very probably worth it."

Worth the price of admission, at the very least.

She huffs a short breath out through her nose at his ire, eyes crinkled at the corners. "Be a bit macabre to put one in without the other," she remarks. "The tides of time and mishandling of materials do take a toll on an artifact, but to display ass without tits hardly seems like realizing the full artistic vision. As it were."

“Don’t let him hear you call it artistic vision,” Broderick brandishes the zucchini in warning. “What I know a museum does not have the space for is his ego alongside his other sizeable attributes, especially if they’re bedazzled and spotlighted.”

There’s something muttered under his breath, the words indecipherable but the tone an unmistakable harassed fondness of a man so stupidly in love.

“It’s good that we’ll never have to worry about meat for the rest of our lives, because these prices are practically extortion.” Broderick knows the butcher can hear him because he gets an unbothered middle finger in return.

Nazikeda lets out a bright bark of laughter, shaking her head.

"Art is inherently interpretative," she volleys back, the prim cadence dialed up in direct contrast to the way that she snaps her teeth in idle threat after the retreat of Broderick’s weaponized squash. "And gallery space is mutable. Do not act a philistine." The outraged huff of protest earns Broderick another wary look from a passing customer.

The accusation is not in the least hypocritical.

"The real question is what sort of gallery would have him."

Broderick could follow with the usual expected roasting (“Grindr’s Year in Review: Top Bottoms” etc), but instead, sincerely: “The Louvre, obviously. I find them vastly overrated, but their sculpture collection is impressive and it receives more foot traffic and appreciation than any other.” And Bracken was meant to be appreciated and adored. He was singular, not just in physical beauty but at the very core of him, in the complexities that make up such a confounding, irritating (beloved) muppet. “I’d say the Rodin, but he is not a Rodin - thank god,” Broderick sniffs dismissively. “And while I would enjoy him overshadowing the man in his own bloody museum, the French can’t have him.”

Fuck the French.

“But I’m sure he and Briar could make good money at some Route 66 rest stop attraction for world's most aggravating twins.”

Nose wrinkling in mirrored distaste, Nazikeda lets out a short and tutting click of her tongue. "Katiyen. Rodin did not know how to sculpt anything that desired to be touched." Her free hand gestures vaguely in a curving motion, bag swinging with the vehemence of the motion. "Bernini, perhaps."

It is in the curves of the thing. By the curve of his smile, Broderick clearly agrees.

Her shoulder knocks into Broderick’s at the addition. "It is just as well," she shrugs, words tinged with laughter. "It seems very unlikely that Briar would tolerate having to stand for a sculptor for any significant period of time."

Oh, but now Broderick needs this to happen.

“You should test that,” he brandishes a bundle of asparagus this time to punctuate the urgency. “Maybe it’s your greatest dream to have a portrait painted of him, and maybe it’s with a teenage era mullet blowing romantically in oil painted splendor like some hick Fabio.”

The noise that escapes her this time stumbles somewhere between a hitch and a giggle, a gasped choking of sound that she fails to entirely catch between her teeth. "I am afraid that I have fonder dreams," she asserts, resting her knuckles across the bridge of her nose and doing a poor job of shading the upward curve of her mouth. "A wondering, perhaps. An indulgent flight of fancy."

Nazikeda weighs her words with a hum. "Briar would -" Never. Well, almost certainly never. There is a fine distinction there. "Require far more convincing than my whims."

Broderick certainly isn’t convinced. “I find that hard to believe. Acting the long suffering husband while indulging your whims is practically his favourite hobby.” Pot, kettle.

“What are these fonder dreams then?”

"Who says they are for polite company?"

The coy look Nazikeda shoots him from beneath her lashes softens. "Mostly I would like to give him things." She shrugs, last word tilting itself to accommodate something larger than itself before she flicks her fingers to shoo it off. "I do not require him to beg, but I would like him to ask. It pleases me to act indulgent.”

There’s a hum from the meandering crowds, the background noises of the market familiar and insistent, but hardly distracting enough. Broderick’s keen gaze is fastened on Keda.

“What kind of things.”

In response, Nazikeda’s chin tilts up and away. Her own gaze remains fastened forward, wandering the displays, through the corners of her eyes crinkle like the sort of wretched thing he’s well-aware she is.

"The precise things he would ask of me."

Unintentional as it may be, the show Broderick makes in crossing his arms to more effectively lean against the wooden post of the bakery stall, is arresting.

“You realize that doesn’t work on me.” His mouth quirks as he settles into his new spot, eyebrows raised in pointed encouragement to disclose.

Nazikeda takes her sweet time coming to a stop, ambling on a few more steps before turning to face him. She raises her eyebrows in return, tipping her head to the side like a particularly troublesome bird.

"I do not need it to work," she counters, propping the heel of one hand on her hip. "I merely require that it serve me in the act of prevarication."

Broderick’s unimpressed brow doesn't lower and he seems to sink further into his lean.

“And it serves you well. You are serving,” he assures her dutifully, dismissively. “Now tell me. Are you two pregnant?”

The straightforwardness of the question startles an almost delighted sort of blink from her. One imagines there would be more fancy footwork involved. Yes or no questions are more difficult to dance around, it is true. And there is something to respect in such blatant brazenness in front of baked goods. She pauses just long enough for the dramatic flourish of the delay to be a striking let down, concludes with a dry: "Not as of yet."

(He and Bracken are rather meant for one another.)

And then she brandishes her index finger like a weapon, slashing the air next to her nose. "And should that ever be the case, we would not be anything. As I would be doing the entirety of the work."

That earns a chuckle, grin lingering as her snoop raises his palms in defense. Behind Broderick, the stall attendant is slipping surreptitious glances their way, and has been since they’d first gasped hearing Broderick’s question. “You would, I should never have lumped that useless tosser together with you.”

The grin deepens. “Does this mean you’re trying?”

The wider the cheshire curve of Broderick’s mouth reaches, the narrower her glare becomes. All showy and sour. If one is to play, they should at least play to the audience. "I am trying nothing." She jabs her finger in his direction. "You, however, are drawing ever closer to trying my patience."

Nazikeda wrinkles her nose. "You are very good at asking, but what manner of thing are you working on yourself, hm?" Her hand flutters, a forward sweep of 'go on, then.' "What do you have to show?"

Broderick straightens, intrigued and buzzing with even the slightest suggestion that this was now a game.

“Oh is this quid pro quo, now? I suppose it’s smart to establish the terms of this engagement, lest we be forced to go to war.” He inclines his chin, imperious and soused with his typical overconfidence. His smile is goading. “What do you want to know?”

"We are on the brink of war?" The arm not encumbered by groceries rises, fingers spanning delicately across her breastbone. "In the middle of the market?" There’s a second spared to looking deeply scandalized before Nazikeda’s shoulders tick themselves upward in a shrug. "Well, if we must."

Her fingers tap at the flat of her sternum, a measured tick of option weighing. "Now that you are well and properly living in sin -" The air quotes are practically palpable. Sin is relative. And also boring. "What are your intentions?"

“Sin adjacent, actually,” Broderick corrects, unable to hide the thrill of being challenged, even as companionably as this. “We don’t live together yet. But we will,” it's a statement of fact. “I intend to be lousy with sin and make your brother-in-law both unbearably miserable and happy for the rest of our lives.” A promise and a threat to Bracken, as was their way.

It probably says something very deep and nuanced that public games of Twenty Questions with the fae are an exciting pre-dinner activity for him, but that is for someone more qualified to speak on. The fae present, for their very specific part, are having a lovely time.

"It could be argued that by percentages alone, it is rounding firmly in favor of sin already." Nazikeda parries. "If one was intending on asking something in this scenario, they would be running low on opportunity."

In favour of sin, wasn’t having his home become Bracken’s home in the way that Broderick wanted - no matter how clearly it was essentially just that. Aside from a few days here and there where Broderick was away for work, or something came up, the two of them always fell asleep in the same bed. Sometimes though, the greedy monster Bracken had turned him into craved more with a feral impatience, even when Broderick would always put Brook first too.

He was learning patience, had no idea how content he could be in the…existing. There wasn’t even any waiting, just the fulfilment and certainty of who they were to each other in every moment that passed, every disgustingly domestic gesture followed by a marathon of bickering, every early morning watching Bracken tend to the horses while Broderick grunted grumpily into his coffee by the fence (Bracken’s own resting in the wizard’s other hand, waiting for its owner).

Which was why Broderick hadn't thought about questions in the present. He didn’t think it was currently on the table. Their future was a distant certainty.

“I already asked him to move in when we first broached the Wales subject. He knows there's no time limit,” he answers, perhaps misunderstanding.

He is and he isn’t. This is a simpler reply to answer to without wandering too far in any direction she’s promised not to. "You are asking questions of a Hemming. You may have to ask several times." Nazikeda arcs an eyebrow, bobs her head back and forth like a pendulum. Broderick merely grunts in agreement. "And then later reassure that you meant to ask it. And that you wanted to ask it. And that you want it."

Her hand raises, fans out to the side of her face. "But I suppose that is my turn done."

Broderick knows that one eavesdropping Sea Bakes stall worker has become two, their attention nowhere near the buns they keep packing and unpacking. He’s unconcerned.

“You’re obfuscating,” he throws back easily. “You two haven’t talked about it have you? But you’re thinking about it,” referring of course, to hypothetical babies. “You’ll need a bigger house.”

"That is very nearly the same question," Nazikeda points out helpfully, hypothetical babies aside. "You are repeating yourself."

But rules are rules, even unspoken ones. So there must be something of an answer now that the terms have been, if not set, at least vaguely implied. "I am thinking several things." As far as replies go, it’s less helpful - but it is accurate. "Nothing that should immediately necessitate the negotiation of real estate."

There’s a pause, the sounds of the market rushing to fill the space, before, gaze softened: “what are you worried about?” Broderick knows there’s little rush about any of this, but he’s admittedly surprised it’s something Keda appears to be dwelling on.

Nazikeda pulls in a breath through her nose, huffs it out shortly. The more uncomfortable the topic, the more still and poised she holds herself, her shoulders rolled back and the angle of her jaw neat and upright. "I resent my mother. I had imagined that I no longer cared overmuch, but it turns out that was incorrect." Unfortunate, that. "I do not wish to be what she is for someone."

“Resenting parents and combating the lingering impact of their trauma seems to be popular in our little family,” Broderick observes with a sardonic slip of a smile; the huff that follows is rueful.

“I understand the fear. I’ve had more practice, but I’ve spent most of my life actively working to erase any perceived similarities anyone could have when comparing me to my Father. Of being the kind of parent my siblings deserved,” he’s never confident that he’s accomplished that, but the love and trust they give so freely to him in return at least lets him believe he hasn’t cocked it up spectacularly.

“I worry about the mistakes I’ll make with my own children, but whether they come to resent me or not, it won’t be because they lacked love and support. Hell, it’ll probably be because they had a suffocating amount of it.” He grins like a shark, self-aware. “I can’t imagine a world where you aren’t everything good to your own kids. Just like you are for Briar.”

Because that’s what Keda was, trouble incarnate, but love and light as well.

"You do not remind me at all of your father. Which you may think is merely practice, but it is clear that you love people correctly all on your own." His siblings, yes. But others too. Bracken, most certainly. "I have had the distinct pleasure of two hundred years distance from my mother and still, upon looking at her again, I can see myself there. Which does beg the question of nature, I suppose."

The conclusion of his statement draws a laugh, however, the malcontent parabola of Nazikeda’s mouth tugging upward into something more indulgent. "And now I know you are being excessively flattering. My husband finds me a nuisance."

“Exactly. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive when it comes to him,” he pushes off the wooden post, exposing their two eavesdroppers more fully behind him, resulting in a distant crash of baked goods as they scramble to be convincingly natural.

“Hell, they’re the same,” Broderick stops beside Keda, pressing his arm against hers. “But I think the fact that you’re worried you can see yourself in her speaks to the fact that you aren’t anything like her. And nature vs. nurture is so reductive,” he rolls his eyes, not at her, but at a number of pompous psychology professors he’s had to suffer about this very topic. “The choices you’ve made, the person you are – I think it’s pretty clear you love people correctly all on your own too. You’d be an amazing mother, if that was something you wanted to be.”

He bumps her shoulder.

“And Briar would make a great Dad, sure. Whatever,” he waves away, performatively dismissive about it. Nazikeda snorts, indecorous and unladylike. (And in firm agreement on this point, at the very least.)

"I do believe the question of nature comes into play at least slightly when one is less than strictly human." She threads her arm easily back into his, fingers curling into the crook of his elbow once more. "Or more than. A nebulous distinction. I am me, yes, with all the qualities that entails but what I am is also something. It is unavoidable."

It imbues a thing with a certain level of both quintessence and constraint. And Broderick won’t argue with that (he will, because he can never help himself, but he recognizes what experiences he can never speak to).

"Your late husband," she says after a moment, in what could seem a sharp crack of misdirection if not for the gentleness with which she asks it. The tender thread of thoroughfare. It startles Broderick to mistake his next step though, eyes flashing momentarily to something in the distance, before he blinks himself back to steadiness. "Tell me about him. What manner of art was he?"

“Uh,” the wizard is uncharacteristically inarticulate for a pregnant moment, caught on something in his throat that must suddenly be cleared. His brow furrows, not with displeasure, but with thoughtfulness. Nazikeda lets the moment linger without further prodding, tipping her temple to alight his shoulder.

“Miles was…literature.” A quirk of his lips settles into fondness as Broderick retreats inwards to memories. “It sounds like a cop out, the man was a librarian, but there was nothing he felt more passionately about than how the written or spoken word could capture human experience or emotion, share it and make it understood by complete strangers. People are stories, he’d say,” the smile flickers a bit, the thought that that's all Miles would now be hardly a comfort. “When I think of Miles I think of books, quiet and unassuming on the outside. Comforting. But inside, it’s loud with ideas, dreams, depth and layers. That was him. He’s literature.”

His voice in that moment is a plucking of strings, something warm and deep and resonant. It maybe echoes just a bit. "A story is a lovely thing to be, I think," she murmurs in unknowing contradiction, but an earnestly felt one. If one stretches on for long enough, they treasure quite a number of stories. "Especially one that is thumbed over a thousand times for the pleasure of revisiting. To be loved enough to be whispered across pages and recited like a revelation even after the cage of you has opened."

She tilts her chin just enough to catch his eye if he allows it, "Was he your first great love?"

Christ.

“Not exactly how I’d –” he’s almost studious in how he doesn’t look away from her, an uneasiness masking years of profound grief, guilt, and yes love, that doesn't seem to wane with the passage of time. Can’t, when a ghost lingers.

He wouldn’t disrespect Miles’ memory by stating that he was anything but the first great love of his life. He was. But they had been young, hadn’t gotten a chance to live and grow with each other in the way that they’d wanted to. To see if they could. And Broderick’s guilt is almost suffocating, making it impossible to simplify anything about their relationship. First Great Love seems so trite a title.

“Yes,” he says, finally. “I’d never felt that way before him.” And honestly never thought he would again, but what he feels for Bracken is also its own immense thing.

“Why the sudden interest in him?”

There is, Nazikeda has come to find, a sound to the sort of remembrance that lingers around in an empty space. (There are variations, of course: The reflection of old laughter set off anew. A wrenching something that shreds its way through. The grace of recitation, or the stuttering of uncertain recollection.) All remembrance ricochettes. Sometimes freshly struck, sometimes very nearly still. But in spite of the space between strikes, it rings.

"I think it is important," she says first, which is too small of a reply. It doesn’t encompass nearly enough, but there is no simpler or more plain way to say it. It is important. It doesn’t become less important with distance. "He matters to who you are. And you matter to me."

If ever there was a way to melt someone like butter, that gesture was exactly that. Felled entirely, Broderick tugs her into his chest so that he can properly wrap his arms around her, hiding his chuckle into her hair as he squeezes.

“Fuck off, that’s sweet,” he accuses, softened already by talk of Miles, but now emotionally ensnared. “You matter to me too. Don’t presume this is you winning, though.”

The bright sound of laughter is startled out of her as she stumbles slightly into his hold, but she’s more than content to snake her own arms around the breadth of him and secure her fingers into knots in the space along his spine. He is warm in a way that is still pleasant in the heat. And altogether rather good at hugs.

"Oh, far be it for me to presume anything." Nazikeda tips her head up, lets the point of her chin rest. "You may quid pro quo me at any time, balım."

She can likely feel the deep chuckle in his chest as it bubbles up, his hold tightening briefly before he smacks a sloppy kiss against the top of her head.

“You’ll regret that,” he promises her as he draws away. “Should I interrogate you further about future babies? Or your thoughts on the plot of land next to mine?”

"That one is easy," she replies, ignoring his first question entirely and expressing very little in the way of regret (or shame) about it. "We will move when Bracken does. Briar will accept nothing less." She grins, righting the bag of groceries at the crook of her elbow. "And I will enjoy him being forced to utilize our bank account."

It’s incredibly hypocritical for Broderick to find joy in that, to snicker at the prospect, since he finds himself in the same stubborn sugar baby position. He does anyway.

As they move on, leaving behind their less than furtive little eavesdroppers, Broderick’s mood sinks a little under the weight of old doubts (reignited from talk of his ex-husband).

“Do…” he shouldn’t ask, how many god damn times has Bracken settled him with that look, unimpressed as he assures him of Broderick’s stupidity in even thinking it. But, he can never help himself.

“Do you want to live in Wales,” the question bullies it’s way out, uncharacteristic hesitance trailing in the drawn out syllables. “A great many decisions have been made about futures that I know I’m not directly responsible for or even factor into, but I know I’ve also limited those choices.” He is well aware he acts like he knows better than everyone, is overbearing and domineering more often than not. With his siblings, since Miles…he doesn’t want to be that to more people he cares about, or keep them where they don’t want to be.

The expression on Nazikeda’s face very likely isn’t quite as chiding as Bracken manages - perhaps it is that she is unaccustomed to seeing Broderick uncertain, or perhaps it is that she saves her most scathing expressions for special occasions - but it makes an admirable effort all the same.

"Oh, hush now," she scolds, but the sting of it is mild and all burred up with affection. "A place is a place. They are all very fine in their own way, but most often they are only as fine as the people that are in them." Her shoulder ticks upward, knocking itself into his. "So if it is where you will be? If it is where most everyone will be? Then it is where I wish to be."

The pleased smile that stretches across his face is hard to fight, so Broderick throws an eyeroll in there as well to preserve some modicum of humility that he does not in fact possess.

“So what you’re saying is you want to leave Briar for me.” He nods like it was a foregone conclusion. She snorts, attempts an equally serious nod of her own. “I understand completely, I’m sure we could work something out with Bracken.”

"Would that I could lie to you." Nazikeda reaches over with her free hand to pat him sympathetically on the shoulder. "Though, between the two of us, who has recently spent time tethered to my husband? Perhaps it is a different arrangement you are seeking."

The hot flush that climbs across Broderick’s cheeks and around the curve of his ear, is made even more comically obvious by the way his jaw snaps shut.

Protests spluttering he merely sniffs: “Boniest cuddle I ever had. About as comfortable as a sack of bricks. I’m so sorry for the ways you suffer.”

"Oh, but that is not at all what hayatım said happened," she teases, her lower lip jutted out in a theatrical moue. Nevermind the specifics of what Briar had said about the entire affair. Or hadn’t. Such trivialities are neither here nor there.

The thread of Nazikeda’s magic reaches out, a thin and whispery thing that tugs at the lobe of one of Broderick’s reddened ears. "And if that is at all true then perhaps you were acting a poor cuddler yourself. If one is doing it correctly, Briar fairly melts like a stick of overwarm butter."

“Ugh.” Keda’s punishment for so disgusting a statement is a magical swat to her long hair that blows the strands right into her face. “That is revolting, I don’t want to hear anything about Briar and thermodynamics, dairy related or otherwise. How am I supposed to supervise Bracken making cookies with scarring mental images like those? And,” he’s brandishing a finger now with all the potency of Han Solo’s. “I am a fantastic cuddler, champion cuddler, because I am tender and tactile, a persistent warm hug your husband was lucky to be enveloped in for 11 solid, blissful hours.”

However loathe Nazikeda is to looking at all put out of place is very nearly eclipsed by her need to remain willfully unaffected, so she lets her hair catch at her eyelashes as it wishes with a barely restrained wrinkle of her nose. She flattens her palm in front of her, nails of her thumb and index finger on the opposite hand pinching together to a fine point and miming the checking off of each description with a very serious nod. "You are wasting very good material here. Are you certain you would not rather have this argument with Briar? I am sure he would have counterpoints."

The look she is served back is withering.

She taps her chin, flicks the last of her hair from where it has stuck to her lipstick. "What are your feelings on balloon arches? Environmental impact notwithstanding."

Broderick’s answering smile grows slowly with sinister delight. “Oh, very positive. Let’s make sure at least half of them have birthday boy stretched in neon latex. Maybe a bouncy castle? It is their big day and I don’t think the magician we hired will be embarrassing enough, though he did promise to saw them in half.”

He frowns. “Hm, too many wolves. That shite is getting punctured before we zipper them in.”

Nazikeda hums, a low note of regret. "Yes, that would void the warranty."

She perks up again quickly enough, turning to him with her teeth sunk into her lower lip and her eyebrows raised. "Do you think if we set up a table with icebreaker games as a threat, we could head that off at the pass?"

“The more potential threats they feel they need to eliminate the better. I told the Rodeo Clown to keep leaving barrels in random places too, like he's about to use them at any given moment. Oh,” Broderick snaps his finger and starts moving them both towards another aisle, pace increasing. “Almost forgot the bloody cake. Irma wouldn't usually debase herself with funfetti, but it's for the cause. She told me she used her best glitter icing for writing ‘Bracken and Briar's 44th Rodeo.’ Even hand painted the candy rope for the lasso trim.”

With a delighted noise, Nazikeda catches his fingers between hers to better snake their way through the people around them still content to mill about. "Yes, come then," she insists, her own steps lengthening from their former stroll. "I wish to see!"

She flashes a grin over her shoulder. "I will quid pro quo you later."