airborn

It was cold, early December, and Tilly was wearing her pink sweater — courtesy of Phoebe, of course. And partly Teddy, too. He thought she looked very cute and sweet in it.

"Well. She's better than Meryl Streep," Birdy affirms, cooing at Tilly, smiling delightedly at the little sweater. "Like. Better dressed, too. I would say. It looks designer."

"Yeah? Your hands are perfect. Kinda small."

"Oh. Hmm. And yours are kinda big. But that's perfect too. Because I think the size difference means you can hold mine. Um. More securely. Um. It fits nice."

Teddy watched their fingers interlace together. He felt his heart squeeze in a very comfortable, familiar way. "This is perfect," he replied, brushing his thumb over her own.

Thumb brushes. Birdy's heart skips. It feels like she's just successfully scaled a mountain. "Your hand is like your wrist. I mean. Also very good for holding."

"No, I don't need it back. I like it right where it is."

"Okay. I'll just. Borrow it for a while then." Birdy does something brave— for her. She slides her hand up his wrist. Folds her fingers through the gaps of his own.

"Do I look like a fibber? Be honest." Teddy looked into Birdy's eyes, sincerely, deeply. "You can hold onto my wrist for as long as you want."

"....Probably not," Birdy ventures. That stare is making her lightheaded and loopy. She keeps her hand on that wrist; lets her thumb nestle there in the natural, subtle divot. "...You're sure you don't need it back?"

Teddy was not afraid to admit that he held his breath, the second that Birdy finally touched his skin. It was electric and warm, all at once, and instead of staring at her penmanship, he was staring at her. When she finally finished up, he smiled, swallowed, clearing his throat. "It's beautiful. You have perfect handwriting."

He's staring at her. It seems like, at least, that Teddy was staring at her, and not the looping scrawl at his wrist. Oh! It makes Birdy utterly reluctant to drop his wrist, fingertips lingering at his pulse for one last second. "I can't tell if you're fibbing or if you really believe that. But. It helps that your wrist is so nice. Good to. Hold. And write on, obviously."

Teddy watched as Birdy dug through her clutch purse, pulling out a little sharpie. Perfect. "Yes, I really do want you to write on my wrist. Write my name. Please."

Birdy finally allows herself to touch him. Gripping his wrist, carefully, bringing nib to skin, gentle strokes, careful attention to each 'e', the 'd', 't', though she fears it will be wonky regardless. And— done. There. "Uh. Remember how we said we wouldn't get offended? Well. I won't be offended if you think my chicken scratch is totally hideous."

"Maybe you can write something for me. Like my name. Do you have a pen, or a marker?" Teddy patted at his suit, knowing he hadn't packed any pens or markers. He looked around. "You can write it right here," he said, rolling up his sleeve slightly, exposing his wrist. "You can tattoo me."

"Oh, well—" Birdy is forcing open her clutch, fingers scraping against silk lining, pulling out the little fine-point sharpie left near-forgotten at the bottom. Her hand hovers carefully above his wrist, uncertain. It's a very nice arm. "Hah. Do you— uh. Do you really want me to write on your wrist?"

"Mmm. No. I think I like it better that it was Bernice and not Birdy. Like, I still love the name Birdy, but I bet you wrote your E's in a really cute way, or something."

"You have a lot of faith in my scrawl. Though. I'm guessing I probably like all your 'e's too."

"Adorable."

"Hmmm. But 'Bernice' written out in my ugly handwriting? Maybe not even you could stomach that."

"I think chimps are pretty cool. And I bet your handwriting was really cute. What's the problem with that?"

"It was somehow both squashed and loopy... if you can still manage to find that cute."

"I don't think there's anything about you that I could dislike."

"When I was in the 5th grade my brother told my penmanship looked like a chimp learning to write."

"You do look like a Birdy. Very much so. I really like the name. I like Bernice, too, but I think we should save that for really special circumstances, maybe. Same with Theodore."

"You do? That's nice. I think you're like. The first person ever who has liked my full name? Even my mom only named me because it was a family thing. But. Yeah. Yes. We'll reserve Theodore and Bernice. For the very right time."

Teddy entered in his details into Birdy's phone. That was really her name? He loved it.

"It was, uh. Technically for Bernice," she says, grimacing. "But I feel like I look like a Birdy? My mom says I was really chirpy. As a kid. Like talking a lot." A shrug. She can barely think, with the grin she wears as she extends his phone back. Each name was.... tragically cute. "Oh. Wow. What? Those all suit you— I like them all!"

Teddy pulled out his phone, unlocked it, handing it over. They could exchange information this way. Finally.

She unlocks, exchanges, the sensation of relief as she types 'Birdy.' No matter what happens next— they have numbers. Contact point.

"Yeah, just a work emergency. I kept beating myself up for not just asking for your number right away. So, I'd like to do that right now, if that's okay."

"Oh. Yes. Definitely. You can just take my phone. I was kind of kicking myself too, hah, I was taking my earrings out that night and thinking how dumb I was. Wondering how I could find someone with only a dog's name. That, and. Well. Your physical description."