Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author's Note: Yay for random one-shots. This one takes place very slightly before Exile, but that really isn't important. They're in Tomahna now, and Yeesha is a baby. The Age that Atrus is writing a link to isn't Releeshahn, just a random Age, but that really isn't important either. Happy reading!
Cooking With Atrus
Yeesha doesn't like it when I write and cook at the same time.
For a three-month-old she's quite astute, watching me reproachfully with those big dark eyes of hers any time my hand strays from the big pan and ladle to my quill. They're Catherine's eyes, no doubt about that. Oftentimes I've found myself under the very same gaze from Catherine, and I wonder what other traits of her mother's that Yeesha will pick up.
"Don't look at me like that." I grumble good-naturedly after one such instance. Scratching idly at my beard, I put the quill down anyway, breathing in the delicious aromas of stew. From her cradle near the hearth, Yeesha makes a little noise that I interpret as scolding, but it might be of hunger as she then attempts to fit her entire fist into her mouth.
"I'm writing a link to another Age, little one. It's quite important." She looks at me then, gurgling from around her fist – part of me wonders if it's possible for the fist to get stuck, and just what I would tell Catherine when she returns from her visit to Tay to find her child deformed for life.
The fist comes free, along with a good amount of spittle, and it's with relief that I pick my quill up again. She's staring at me again with a look that suggests I just might be the lowest cad in the world for writing. A half-word emerges from her mouth as Yeesha reaches her chubby hands out towards me and the stove.
"Dinner's not ready, little one. It…"
She squeals, clapping her hands, staring rather cross-eyed at a point behind me. And that's when I realize that the food is on fire.
- - -
"Do I smell smoke?" Is the first thing that Catherine asks when I meet her at the door to the study, baby in my arms. I stammer and mutter something about how much Yeesha's coordination is improving, hoping to distract her with maternal pride, but Catherine brushes it off. She sniffs the air cautiously, eyes narrowing.
"Your beard is singed."
"Is it?" I blink. If it's possible, Catherine's eyes narrow even more. Yeesha makes a little noise from my arms that sounds like exasperation and wiggles.
"You were writing again!" My wife finally realizes, hands going straight to her hips indignantly. We both know that she isn't upset about the writing itself, but it's a point that I don't argue. "How many pans did you ruin this time?"
"Only one." I hasten, deciding not to include the fact that it was her favorite stew pot. That point will come later. I wonder idly if it's morally wrong to consider using my daughter as a shield, but the point is moot as Catherine takes Yeesha from my arms and gives her a little cuddle. The baby makes a pleased sound and turns her head, looking at me reproachfully for the umpteenth time tonight.
With both wife and daughter glowering at me, I come to a conclusion. Yes, Yeesha is definitely Catherine's child – and heavens help me when Yeesha learns to speak.