[center][h2]Kin and Kind - Greenleaf Day 3 Afternoon[/h2][/center]


[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/pg6Bb2R.png[/img]                                   [img]https://i.imgur.com/nalNq9e.jpg[/img][/center]

JP/Collab from [@sail3695] and [@wanderingwolf]

Captain Strand gave a knock at Abby's door, "You in there, Abigail?"

“C’mon in, Cap’n.  It’s open.”  The door swung free, admitting him to the utilitarian space.  After passing a bank of shelves which contained bedding and cleaning supplies, he found the simple bunk and night table the girl called her own.  The curved aft bulkhead above her bed had been festooned with pictures.  The first of which was a grizzled man who looked to be in his fifties.  His arm hung around a smiling woman, whose hands rested upon the shoulders of a freckle faced six year old Abby.   Nearby was another smiling couple, husband and wife both uniformed in the brown coat and striped trousers of the Independents.  There was a child in this picture as well, a babe in arms.   A Firefly was the subject of another, the name [i][b]Mariposa[/b][/i] boldly painted upon her portside bulkhead.  

The last of the bunch was the most recent.  A young man of curly blond hair grinned toward the capture, his hand resting on the tiller of a sailboat.  All of these pictures were bound together through a series of chalk lines, sweeping graceful arcs between them and the centerpiece of the display, an elaborate seashell.

Abby stood in the space, a bathrobe tied about her as she pulled her hair back with a brush.  “Jest about tah grab a shower,” she said to Cal.  “How can I help, Cap’n?”

The wide chalk lines drew his attention at first, as the winding scrawl made its way through photos and sea shells. Near that, Cal's eye was drawn to a particular photo depicting Independents, a swaddled child in the arms of a couple in the capture. Facing his deckhand, Cal nodded his head.

"Well earned," he said, regarding her still grease-smudged cheek. "Hired that fella, Antonov. Said he'd give you part his share to act as his hands 'til he's healed up. Didn't think you'd mind that one bit. Said we had mechanics lined up to take the gig and he anted up." Cal smoothed a photo on the bulkhead with an errant hand. "You can thank me later."

The girl’s face broke into a smile.  “I’ll thank yah now,” Abby said as happy arms wrapped Cal’s shoulders.   “I’s gettin’ a might nervous ‘bout fakin’ it on another run.  Thank yew.”

Caught a mite off guard by the display of affection from the young woman, Cal nonetheless returned the embrace in earnest, "Way Antonov tells it, you might have just faked yourself into a job. 'Magine you'll be learnin' a bit more while you're his hands for now, besides. Marisol rubbed off on you in more ways than one, I'd wager." Over her shoulder, his eye traveled back again to that capture of Browncoats in a neat line. 

Abby stepped back.  “Sure’n I wanna learn the job, too.  Uncle Bob…that’s him,” she pointed out the photo, “taught me little scraps ‘o’ jobs when he had need fer help.  I can fly a boat in the black.  Can folla a course and handle ‘er.  Jest never did the takeoff or landin’ parts.”  She grabbed a few stray wisps of hair afore tyin’ it all back in a knot.  “An’ I’ll be powerful glad tah learn what Yuri teaches…like that oscillation stuff.” 

"My that hair o' yours really puffs up in all this humidity, don't it?" Something about Abigail screamed kin to the Captain. It was a feeling a man who'd known naught else than the black for two decades was scarce to conjure; yet here it was, beaming as bright as Greenleaf's sun. He pulled back enough to speak to her proper, "You joinin' us for drinks tonight? I hear Hook's got a spot all picked out."

“Yep, I’ll make it, puffed up hair an’ all,” the girl chuckled.  “Gotta head inta town fer an errand first, but I’ll be along presently.”

"Good, don't let me keep you," Cal said, readying to leave the Abigail to her washing up. "When you get a tick, have Antonov cross his 'T's," Strand said by way of farewell and made his way fore.