"They've a hyacinth macaw?" Tegan's brows crinkled behind her sunglasses, still on in spite of her presence within the walls of the Woofle Corporation's no-kill shelter. Her lips tightened as her fingers did the same around her umbrella's handle, her restraint reading to the scruffy, bearded intern as hostility.
As the scrub-adorned young man stepped daringly forward to square his shoulders with Tegan's, meeting that perceived threat in the worst way possible, a denim-clad arm swung gently between them, presenting the enormous blue bird to the tall, pale, bristling young woman dressed in a dowager's finery. Bart bobbed his head as he regarded the bird on his arm, his action mirrored by his charge. "Huh. I just thought it was a big-ass parrot that was actually kinda nice to me. But... yeah, if you say it's a hyacinth macaw, then sure."
Tegan payed an eerie lack-of-mind to the intern as she released one hand from her umbrella's handle, very carefully running the tip of a silk-gloved finger along the top of the bird's head. He closed his eyes and warble-whirred, warm to the attention, at least for the moment. "Their sort has suffered great losses in the wild. To see one here, both as a pet and as well-socialized as this, is a treat for me." Her rasp remained in its vague monotone while they resided in public, leaving to question the nature of her joy regarding the bird.
The intern, finally seeing that neither cared that he was in the room, wandered off in a contained huff to fetch his clipboard from an errant desk and held it out to Bart. "I'm going to need your information, your signature here... here... and sign and date here. I've got some pygmy manticores that need their sand bath, so I'll leave you to it." He raised the pen in indication and set it down juuust a bit too hard on the clipboard, causing the bird to rustle and rumble in agitation, before hustling out of the room.
"Yeah... mmkay, buddy." Bart waved as the intern left, yet the moment he rounded the corner, the gearhead turned his hand and dropped all digits but the center one, a wince touching his lips as he felt the bird's talons go from tight to relaxed around his arm. "Bet you won't last the week, turdblossom." He sighed and shook his head before walking to the desk, his left arm crossing to his right to encourage the bird to switch perches, freeing up said right arm to start scribbling down his info and scratching out his signature on the page. "Anyway... looks like the previous owner named her Curacao." He dared to look over his shoulder at Tegan to spot her suddenly animated sour-face before continuing to fill out the forms, a secret smile touching his face. "Tacky, but I dunno how much names matter to parrots. She doesn't seem the judgmental type, either way."
"Pfeurgh." Tegan fluttered her hand as she reached behind one of her twin braids to scratch behind a hidden ear, maintaining her sour puss. "This obsession with alcoholic spirits is much beyond my comprehension, yet I leave all things of this bird between Mona and you. I'm but visiting the bird, not living with the decisions made about her." Her hand jerked down before slowwwly reaffirming its grip on her umbrella handle, her chin dipping enough to show her eyes' tight closure as memories flooded in.
Bart added the last numeral on the dated sections before freeing the paperwork from the clipboard, backpedaling toward the hall to peer down it one direction, then the other, and finally slipping the paper trail into the appropriately-marked bin on the wall. "I don't trust that kid, but I trust him to **** this up." Once he righted himself, he turned to catch Tegan's sudden stiffness, her body looming in a column of private angst and terror. Curacao, for her troubles, hopped from his arm to his shoulder, sitting backward and bobbing in quiet excitement.
Bart took a deep, slow breath as he stepped twice, softly, toward Tegan, still leaving a berth between them, yet not so much of one as before. "Look... I'm heading back to Indiana in a little bit. Taking Mona with me. I'm gonna go settle some things there, sure, but more importantly, I'm gonna get some **** together on how to--" His own voice stopped as the ghost of his illness crept into his memory, stopping his tongue and leading him to run his hand across his mouth. As he swallowed, he turned to look sidelong at Tegan, too raw to look at her dead on. "We're gonna make sure you can close the book on all of this."
Tegan turned sharply as she raised her umbrella, tip still pointed town, and turned it to tuck beneath her left arm, her stride toward the door exiting to the lobby a fast-paced snail's crawl beneath the train of her skirt. A single look over her shoulder with the glasses pulled down by a finger, equal parts tender, embarrassed, and grateful, passed to Bart, bidding him to follow. "Thank you, Mr. Fitzroy."
Bart met her look with a smile as he started his amble out... only for Curacao to leave a casual squirt of bird-offal running down the front of his thankfully unsentimental denim jacket, bidding him to scrunch his face with a beleaguered smile. "You're allowed to call me Bart... or... Bartholomew, or whatever. I think we're at that point of familiarity, if we haven't passed it already."
Tegan kept herself composed as she zipped out to the burly blue '69 Mustang Mark I in the parking lot, waiting for Bart at the passenger door with her head bowed. As he emerged, lugging Curacao in a travel cage in one hand and a stuffed manila folder in the other, she reanimated, deftly folding her excessively tall form into the passenger's seat and buckling herself in as Bart set the cage in the back seat and brought the engine to roar to life. After a few bars of Talking Heads' Life During Wartime played over the radio, she finally piped up, her voice tender behind her ever-present rasp. "... I'm not used to having friends, Bartholomew. I'm not used to people being close. I still find it uncomfortable."
As Bart backed his steel steed out from the lot, he leaned his head left, leaned his head right, touched the strange yantra dangling from his rearview mirror made from rubber and metal, and coaxed, by way of clutch, gearbox and gas, the engine to open itself and allow them to fly through the barren streets, weaving past straggling cars like a serpent 'round stationary stones. Curacao could not have been more pleased. "Thing is about friends, Tegan, is that the best ones are people who make it safe, make space for you to do things that're uncomfortable. No right way to keep 'em outside of not being a dick to them."
Tegan had no more words, yet the smile that finally broke across her lips for the remainder of their journey back to the beach house spoke volumes.
As the scrub-adorned young man stepped daringly forward to square his shoulders with Tegan's, meeting that perceived threat in the worst way possible, a denim-clad arm swung gently between them, presenting the enormous blue bird to the tall, pale, bristling young woman dressed in a dowager's finery. Bart bobbed his head as he regarded the bird on his arm, his action mirrored by his charge. "Huh. I just thought it was a big-ass parrot that was actually kinda nice to me. But... yeah, if you say it's a hyacinth macaw, then sure."
Tegan payed an eerie lack-of-mind to the intern as she released one hand from her umbrella's handle, very carefully running the tip of a silk-gloved finger along the top of the bird's head. He closed his eyes and warble-whirred, warm to the attention, at least for the moment. "Their sort has suffered great losses in the wild. To see one here, both as a pet and as well-socialized as this, is a treat for me." Her rasp remained in its vague monotone while they resided in public, leaving to question the nature of her joy regarding the bird.
The intern, finally seeing that neither cared that he was in the room, wandered off in a contained huff to fetch his clipboard from an errant desk and held it out to Bart. "I'm going to need your information, your signature here... here... and sign and date here. I've got some pygmy manticores that need their sand bath, so I'll leave you to it." He raised the pen in indication and set it down juuust a bit too hard on the clipboard, causing the bird to rustle and rumble in agitation, before hustling out of the room.
"Yeah... mmkay, buddy." Bart waved as the intern left, yet the moment he rounded the corner, the gearhead turned his hand and dropped all digits but the center one, a wince touching his lips as he felt the bird's talons go from tight to relaxed around his arm. "Bet you won't last the week, turdblossom." He sighed and shook his head before walking to the desk, his left arm crossing to his right to encourage the bird to switch perches, freeing up said right arm to start scribbling down his info and scratching out his signature on the page. "Anyway... looks like the previous owner named her Curacao." He dared to look over his shoulder at Tegan to spot her suddenly animated sour-face before continuing to fill out the forms, a secret smile touching his face. "Tacky, but I dunno how much names matter to parrots. She doesn't seem the judgmental type, either way."
"Pfeurgh." Tegan fluttered her hand as she reached behind one of her twin braids to scratch behind a hidden ear, maintaining her sour puss. "This obsession with alcoholic spirits is much beyond my comprehension, yet I leave all things of this bird between Mona and you. I'm but visiting the bird, not living with the decisions made about her." Her hand jerked down before slowwwly reaffirming its grip on her umbrella handle, her chin dipping enough to show her eyes' tight closure as memories flooded in.
Bart added the last numeral on the dated sections before freeing the paperwork from the clipboard, backpedaling toward the hall to peer down it one direction, then the other, and finally slipping the paper trail into the appropriately-marked bin on the wall. "I don't trust that kid, but I trust him to **** this up." Once he righted himself, he turned to catch Tegan's sudden stiffness, her body looming in a column of private angst and terror. Curacao, for her troubles, hopped from his arm to his shoulder, sitting backward and bobbing in quiet excitement.
Bart took a deep, slow breath as he stepped twice, softly, toward Tegan, still leaving a berth between them, yet not so much of one as before. "Look... I'm heading back to Indiana in a little bit. Taking Mona with me. I'm gonna go settle some things there, sure, but more importantly, I'm gonna get some **** together on how to--" His own voice stopped as the ghost of his illness crept into his memory, stopping his tongue and leading him to run his hand across his mouth. As he swallowed, he turned to look sidelong at Tegan, too raw to look at her dead on. "We're gonna make sure you can close the book on all of this."
Tegan turned sharply as she raised her umbrella, tip still pointed town, and turned it to tuck beneath her left arm, her stride toward the door exiting to the lobby a fast-paced snail's crawl beneath the train of her skirt. A single look over her shoulder with the glasses pulled down by a finger, equal parts tender, embarrassed, and grateful, passed to Bart, bidding him to follow. "Thank you, Mr. Fitzroy."
Bart met her look with a smile as he started his amble out... only for Curacao to leave a casual squirt of bird-offal running down the front of his thankfully unsentimental denim jacket, bidding him to scrunch his face with a beleaguered smile. "You're allowed to call me Bart... or... Bartholomew, or whatever. I think we're at that point of familiarity, if we haven't passed it already."
Tegan kept herself composed as she zipped out to the burly blue '69 Mustang Mark I in the parking lot, waiting for Bart at the passenger door with her head bowed. As he emerged, lugging Curacao in a travel cage in one hand and a stuffed manila folder in the other, she reanimated, deftly folding her excessively tall form into the passenger's seat and buckling herself in as Bart set the cage in the back seat and brought the engine to roar to life. After a few bars of Talking Heads' Life During Wartime played over the radio, she finally piped up, her voice tender behind her ever-present rasp. "... I'm not used to having friends, Bartholomew. I'm not used to people being close. I still find it uncomfortable."
As Bart backed his steel steed out from the lot, he leaned his head left, leaned his head right, touched the strange yantra dangling from his rearview mirror made from rubber and metal, and coaxed, by way of clutch, gearbox and gas, the engine to open itself and allow them to fly through the barren streets, weaving past straggling cars like a serpent 'round stationary stones. Curacao could not have been more pleased. "Thing is about friends, Tegan, is that the best ones are people who make it safe, make space for you to do things that're uncomfortable. No right way to keep 'em outside of not being a dick to them."
Tegan had no more words, yet the smile that finally broke across her lips for the remainder of their journey back to the beach house spoke volumes.