Chương 33: Chapter 30

"I'm so sorry about that, honey," the voice of Mila's mother cuts through both the half-dead din of their arrival, a jingly carol playing from somewhere deeper in the house, and a headache behind Trigger's eyes. The hand holding his, bearing a worn wedding band, squeezes gently.

"I want you to know that Erik's comment was totally uncalled for, and we don't talk like that in this house!" The soft, pink eyes staring up at him with apology turn, narrowing into thin slits as they lock-on to the trio through a doorway on the other side of the rustic living room. Trigger follows her gaze, the edges of his lips tugging themselves downward. Inside the Minks family kitchen, one Erik Minks stands with a scowl, a bag of frozen vegetables held to his swollen cheek.

The edge of an indent from Mila's fist in his face fur can still be seen, and he's forced to endure both the lingering pain, and a two-way dressing down from both his sister and his wife.

"I told you to behave!" Mila's screech is partially drowned out by the dull roar of the rest of the home's guests. All her sharp teeth are bared in a snarl.

"I told you! He's not even an ape! He's an alien! One who saved my life! And he's the first guy I've been going steady with since-""Babe, that was so embarrassing…" Erik's wife hisses at him. She's a pretty woman, a mink with a white coat sans a black splotch on her arm. She shakes her head with a little cringe, making the shortly cut tuft on her head bounce.

"We agreed that you'd keep it toned down tonight, remember? Your mother is going to be so steamed…" The matriarch of the Minks family turns back to Trigger, and he finally clears his throat to speak.

"It's no issue, ma'am, truly," he murmurs.

"It takes more than words to upset me." Now those pink eyes narrow for him.

"It is an issue, mister, whether it upset you or not. Regardless, it will not be happening again on my watch." Then just like that, Missus Minks is back to smiling.

"It's so nice to finally meet you, Trigger. Mila adores you, you know. She just has to talk about you at least a little bit whenever she calls home, and now that I've seen you in person…" She releases his hand and slowly runs a finger down his chest, pressing firmly. As she does, a little chittering trill that he often hears from Mila whenever they sit and cuddle bubbles from the older woman's throat.

"... I can see why!" The mink woman giggles, before pulling the hand back and giving her wrist a dismissive little flick.

"Such a serious face! I'm only playing, honey, even if Mama could go for a tall drink of water right about now." With a poorly hidden gulp, Trigger tries to fight away the color on his cheeks and glances at the mantle, into the glassy, reflective eye of a curly-furred, horned creature stuffed and mounted on the wall. In the reflection, a grand total of none of his crew is behind him, and he looks just in time to see Jodie slinking away.

The reflection has little detail to it, but he swears he sees a half-hysterical, half-mortified expression painted across her muzzle.

'Traitors,' he does his best to keep the stormy thought from making it to his face.

'This will be remembered.'

"Mom! Quit flirting with my boyfriend!" Mila, like a guardian angel, swoops in from on high to his rescue, coming to his side and taking his arm. Her pretty face still has some of the poison used on her brother, now directed at her amused mother.

"I'm only teasing, Mila," the elder mink titters behind a hand.

"Oh, goodness. Where are my manners today? My name is Mireille, honey," she gives Trigger a wink.

"Or just Mom if you prefer."

"Thank you for the warm welcome, Missus Minks," Trigger's curt answer earns him a pout, though it lasts only for a moment before Mireille turns to her daughter.

"As for you, missy…" she begins, lips drawn into a thin line. Mireille's mouth moves, but does not open, and one of her ears flick, jingling the gold earring in it. Mila's fire drains under the hard stare, and her grip on Trigger's arm tightens, her claws prickling him. Finally, the conflict on Mireille's face passes, and she throws her arms around Mila, pulling her close and off of Trigger.

One hand rises and cradles the back of Mila's head, feeling twice as if her daughter might slip through her fingers like smoke.

"My baby girl, I've missed you so much…" Mireille whispers, blinking her wet eyes.

"I've been so worried… So, so worried… It seems like every day I hear about some kind of tragedy down in the frontier, with people dying, or planets starving, and I stare at the ceiling in bed praying you're not one of those faceless bodies that never make it home."

"... We're part of the frontier too, mom," Mila's argument, murmured into her mother's shoulder, is weak. Mireille's arms tighten.

"Thats not the same and you know it." Looking away from the reunion, Trigger stuffs his hands in his pockets and pretends he's somewhere else. Anywhere else. Hell, he'd take the solitary box in the 444th base right now.

'Should I say something? Should I even be here seeing this?' he wonders, his gut working itself into an uncomfortable knot. Worse yet, he's not sure why this is so awkward. Before, they were barraged from all angles by curious eyes milling about the house, some wandering in and others lingering in doorways. Now, everyone has remembered some urgent chore, and the spacious living room is abandoned besides the three of them.

"Oh, Mila…" Mireille pulls back, looking into her daughter's eyes. One of Mireille's hands rises, and a thumb tenderly brushes just under Mila's whiskers.

"I couldn't sleep for a week when you ran away. First dropping out of university, then joining the militia, then flying away in that death-trap of a ship…" She shudders.

"Why, Mila? Did we do something? Did I? Please, tell me, honey. I want to make it right, please."

"Mom…" Mila's lower lip trembles, and tears prickle her eyes.

"Don't say that! It was nothing you did! It wasn't anyone's fault! I… I knew no one would be okay with me wanting to be a spacer. And… And I was afraid you'd try to stop me if I said something." Mireille blinks away her unshed tears, trading her sorrow for indignation in a heartbeat.

"Of course I would try to stop you! Do you know what happens to spacers?! They go hungry, they get sick, and for lone girls, that's a mercy! Do you know what happens to women out there, Mila?" Mila ping-pongs to a new expression just as fast as her mother, her face firming up.

"I do, mom. I know the risks, and I went anyway because-""If you didn't want to get into business, I would have gotten you a job in my office if you just asked!" Mireille's hands shift to her daughter's shoulders, and her expression darkens.

"Or I could have talked with Linda to get you into the fishery directory center. It's easy work, they just need people with good heads on their shoulders to direct those boats around! Now that you're home, I can ask around and-!"

"Mom, it's not about the money or how I didn't want to be some MBA!" Mila yells back, and the low thrum of conversation through the walls drops several decibels amid sucked in breaths.

"I've always wanted to be a spacer! Me and the boys talked about it as kids, and I was serious about it! I can't go back to a normal life now, not after I've had a taste!" At last, Trigger can see where Mila gets her fury from, as it carves itself into Mireille's face with razor angles. Before a verbal shot can be fired, though, it crumbles, and the woman shrinks on herself.

"Please, Mila…" Mireille whispers, shoulders trembling and eyes turned to the rug on the floor.

"If I have to bury another baby, they'll have to send me to the asylum." Mila's muzzle twists in sharp pain, as if a knife was driven between her ribs. Finally, Trigger can't stand by any further, and hoping beyond hope he's about to say the right thing, steps in.

"Mila, Missus Minks…" he begins gently, setting a hand on the shoulder of each of them.

"The reunion has emotions running high. Let's calm down and revisit this another time, when both sides have had time to organize their thoughts. Sounds like a plan?" Mireille starts, seeming to remember that he was there the whole time.

"Oh, I'm so sorry you had to see that, Trigger," she says, smiling weakly. She smooths a wrinkle on her pink blouse and sighs.

"You're right. Let's save it until after dinner, at least. In the meantime…" She seizes Mila in a hug once more, then presses a kiss to her daughter's cheek.

"Welcome home, honey." Mila shakes her earlier funk away, giving her mother a big grin.

"Its good to be home, mom." Inwardly, Trigger lets out a sigh of his own.

'Whatever god is listening, thank you.' The moment lasts for only a second, then Mireille blinks and lifts her nose, giving the air a sniff.

"Oh! The fish bake is still in the oven!" She gasps, flailing her hands and speeding to the kitchen. Mila's hand takes Trigger's, and her excited grin is back in full force.

"C'mon, Trigger!" She tugs him into lockstep with her.

"Let me introduce you to everyone!" With the spat between Mila and Mireille over, the rest of the filled house regains its energy, and the part Trigger has been dreading the most comes to smack him in the face. Socializing. With strangers. Minks from all over have come to see their wayward daughter home. Cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, grandparents, and relations of all types have filled the house to bursting.

Three dozen new names and some change bounce around Trigger's skull, and handshakes come so non-stop that Trigger's palm has had enough time against fur to sweat. There is shady Cousin Ivan, who seems to be everyone's cousin with his title, who has never worked an honest day in his life. Then the twin aunts Alva and Elva, who keep insisting the other sister is them for a laugh. Following them is Stren, a fishermink with a personality as powerful as his booming voice, and his severe-faced otter wife, Olga.

Mila's youngest brother Nils comes in near the end, holding on to a wide-eyed baby with one arm, and the other holding the hand of his wife, who is expecting another little one if the bump pushing out the middle of her dress is to be believed. Erik, Mila's middle brother, is nowhere to be found. Mila introduces Trigger to each and every one after taking her promised big hug from them.

Of course, she makes sure to push in a bit of bragging about him whenever she can, much to the consternation of both Trigger and the women whose lovers aren't millionaire spacers. Trying to distract himself, Trigger's eyes wander his girlfriend's childhood abode. The home of the Minks family is a fascinating blend of vaguely nordic rustic stylings and futuristic greebles, with brick and wood broken by cornerian conveniences that would be fantastical back home.

How the house manages to fit holo-screens and bronzed touch panels amid humble wooden decor without clashing is astounding. Despite the generous space, the constant buzz of conversation, spikes of yelling, shifting bodies and poorly hidden staring drags the walls ever closer and the ceiling ever lower upon Trigger. There is too much movement to keep track of, too many sounds to try and pin to a source. Twice he finds himself grinding his teeth, and twice he has to stop.

Jodie, Stella, and Lars have all since dispersed into the throng of the mustelid family, integrating themselves with an ease that drives an ugly, unexpected spike of envy into Trigger's chest. Jodie stands by Stren and another man, another fisherman, it seems, from how quickly the conversation about solar panel backups on fishing trawlers flows. Stella is a bit further away, having slipped into the little clique of responsible looking women sipping champagne flutes in a far corner.

They're too far away to hear, but from the approval Stella gets when she gestures to the silvery necklace that almost vanishes into one of the women's cleavage, it was a compliment well landed. Lars makes the biggest waves of them, fitting for a man of his presence, both physical and in personality.

"You can feel if you want, señora," Lars offers, his accent thickening to match the depth of his baritone. Leaning down, he flexes his bicep for a few coyly circling cousins of Mila's.

"I do not bite too hard." One mink woman reaches a golden-brown hand out, and can only touch the steely muscle of Lars' arm for half a second before she rips her hand back. Giddy, flustered giggles follow. It cannot possibly be that easy, is it? It always felt like the rules of social niceties always changed each time he looked away. Such a thing is… Manageable when he's forced, but now that he's here, trying of his own will, the field seems naught but landmines.

At some point, someone shoves a tumbler of something strong and cinnamon-spiced into Trigger's hand followed by a boisterous slap on the back, one that sent him reflexively grasping for a pistol that was left on the Aquila. It's only steady sips of the drink and the grip of Mila's hand on his that keep his head from spinning, and spin it desperately wants to. Thankfully, the conga line of new acquaintances finally begins to taper off, ending with the eldest of Mila's brothers, Bjorn.

"Its a pleasure, Mister Trigger," Bjorn says simply, taking his hand and giving it a single shake.

"Likewise, and just Trigger is fine," Trigger replies back, giving the man a once over. Bjorn is tall for a cornerian, only a few inches shorter than Trigger himself. He has the same yellow fur as Mila, but the creme underbelly shading that extends to Mila's nose, painting her lower face in a mask-like marking, only comes up to his lower neck. It's clear he doesn't shy away from labor, as the paw pads on his hands sport calluses that can be felt.

Releasing Trigger's hand, the mink gestures to the woman and boy at his side.

"This is my wife, Sara, and my son, Oskar. My other son, Vex, is around here somewhere…" The woman with Bjorn, a weasel, or perhaps a stoat, is beautiful, and Trigger is wondering if there is any woman in the Minks family, blood or not, who isn't. Svelte and long-legged, her brand of looks is different from the soft curves of Mila's that he's grown to cherish, but no less attractive. Giving him a thin smile, Sara inclines her head.

"Charmed, Mister Trigger," she says, then turns her eyes to her husband.

"Vex and most of the other kids are down in the playroom."

"Ah," Bjorn nods easily, then taps his son's shoulder.

"Say 'hi', Oskar." Between them, a yellow-hued mink boy, maybe seven or eight years old, looks up at Trigger with open fascination.

"Aunt Mila said you blew up a big cruiser and like a thousand bad guys all at once. Did you really?" He asks, all the words spilling out in a nervous, excited bundle.

"Oskar," Sara begins sharply.

"Thats not a proper way to greet someone. Be polite." The boy turns his eyes to the floor, stricken, and Trigger hides a sigh behind a sip of his drink, which is getting far too low.

"Sorry, Mister Trigger," Oskar mumbles.

"It's no issue, Oskar," Trigger answers, giving the boy a small smile that he hopes isn't coming out as a grimace. The expression must be fine, as the young cornerian shyly smiles back. Maybe it's the alcohol pulsing through his veins, pushing some childish desire to impress his lover's family, or perhaps it's just an excuse to leave the writhing walls crushing in from all sides, but Trigger kneels down to the boy's level.

"Do you want to see it?" Oskar blinks his large, reddish eyes.

"See it?"

"The fighter I used to blow up all the bad guys," Trigger offers, nodding his head towards the rear of the house.

"It's right out back." For a moment, the man is stricken by uncertainty as Oskar's eyes widen. Is that too much? Too scary for a child? But then Oskar whirls around, taking a fistful of his mother's dress and his father's pantleg in each hand.

"Can I go see? Can I go see it mom? Dad? I wanna see Mister Trigger's fighter!" He begs, bouncing from one leg to the other.

"Please please please?!" Doubt flashes past Sara's face, and Bjorn's mouth twitches as if to frown. He turns his eyes to his sister.

"Mila? Is that safe?"

"Ah, sure?" Mila answers, caught flatfooted as she glances at Trigger.

"I-I mean, it is. Maybe we can take the Wyvern out of the hangar so no one gets up to mischief in the Aquila?" She says, before she eyeballs the near empty glass in Trigger's other hand.

"I'm not sure I want to fly it out, though. I'm not too good with it yet…"

"Nidhogg can bring it out easily enough," Trigger nods. Mila smacks her forehead with the heel of her palm.

"Duh! I forgot about Niddy! In that case, bring out my Caracal too! It'll be eezy peezy and super safe!" She assures both Bjorn and Sara, much to Oskar's joy. Bjorn and Sara exchange a short glance.

"Get your coat, first, Oskar," Sara orders, making the child zoom off to the closet by the front door.

"And ask your brother if he wants to see too!"

"Okay!" He promises, throwing on a puffy, lime-green coat and racing deeper into the house.

"Oh, I can't wait to see their faces!" Mila grins, wiggling in place. Switching his glass to his right hand, Trigger pulls back the left sleeve of his dress blues with his pinky and holds his wristcomm to his mouth.

"Nidhogg, bring the Wyvern and Slinky II out into the back yard, please, and inform the crew on-board so there is no panic."

"Acknowledged." The AI answers simply. Mila's Caracal might have gotten away with a stealthy move from the Aquila out into the snow with its anti-grav based hovering, but the scream of the Wyvern's jet VTOL is plenty audible through the walls, and most conversations swiftly die when everyone hears. Draining his glass, setting it on a side table beside a candle, and stuffing his hands in his pockets, Trigger makes for the backdoor, leaving the explaining to Mila.

"Come on out back if you want to see some real starfighters! The same ones Trigger and me use on missions!" She tells everyone who will listen.

"Coolest stuff you'll ever see!" This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Not for too long!" Mireille's voice cries over Mila's.

"Dinner is almost ready!" Most of it is lost to Trigger when he opens the door and steps out, letting the cold wind breathe through his feverish clothes and open sky above lift a weight that was bowing his back. He's just in time for the Aquila's bay doors to close, and for both the Stratos Wyvern and Slinky II to settle on the frozen ground a few dozen meters away, whipping up a hurricane of powdery snow fifty feet high that claws at his clothes and hair.

When he feels the weight of feet stepping onto the wooden deck, Trigger raises a hand in a sharp gesture, warning anyone behind him to stay back. Both fighters wind down, leaving two overlapping circles of frozen grass around them, before the engines of both cut as one, leaving the fighters inert once more. Turning, he's greeted with a sight that swiftly turns this little reprieve sour with anticipation.

Front and center, held back only by adult hands on their shoulders and eyes on their backs is a gaggle of children, all attracted by the news Bjorn's son likely yelled to the entire family. Oskar heads the bug-eyed group, with an older boy who must be his brother, Vex, for he's a dead ringer of Bjorn. Behind them, parents stand, eyeballing both him and the ships carefully. The one who sticks out most, however, is Mireille.

Clutching her jacket, her expression is inscrutable, but somewhere in there, Trigger can't help but feel some kind of disapproval being leveled at him. Clearing his throat, Trigger gestures to the pair of fighters as he walks out to them.

"These are mine and Mila's fighters. The white one is the X-03 Stratos Wyvern, and the red one is the Slinky II, a Caracal-7. Come up and look if you like, but don't touch. Parts could be hot and we-" That's all he can get out before he's mobbed by a swirling swarm of little minks.

"How fast does it go?!" One boy who pushes his way to the front blurts, pointing a chubby, claw-tipped finger at the Wyvern.

"Does it have big guns? Whats the biggest thing you've ever blowed up?" A younger boy lifts and waves his hand like he's speaking up in class. Behind him, his tail whips in tune with his hand.

"I like the red one better," another exclaims.

"White is boring!"

"Is that an arwing!?"

"Mister Trigger!" Oskar reclaims his spot at the front and yanks at Trigger's sleeve.

"Can we go for a ride? I wanna ride in a real starfighter!" That throws a lit match into the proverbial powder keg, and the next thing he knows, all of the children are pushing close, clamoring their own desires to go for an exciting ride in the cool spaceship.

"I…" the man's mind goes blank, overwhelmed. So many of them are so close, and… and… What does he do?

"Hey!" Mila once more saves him, making her way to Trigger's side and shooing back all of the grabby hands.

"One at a time! And no rides! Not tonight at least. Grandma made dinner and it's almost done. You don't want the food to get cold and make grandma sad, do you?"

"Noooooo…" multiple voices all chorus out of sync, many of them looking away. Mila points a finger down to the first boy who spoke.

"Gunnar, you wanted to know how fast it is?" She asks, getting an eager nod. Turning to Trigger, the mink stands on the tips of her toes to whisper in his ear.

"Just keep it short and sweet," she mutters. Swallowing, Trigger gestures to the Wyvern once more. Why are these eyes so much more nerve-wracking than any before?

"The Wyvern can fly at Mach two-point-seven in the atmosphere. That's over twice as fast as sound." Ohhhhhs and ahhhhhs follow, and Mila points out the next young mink, who asked about the Wyvern's armament.

"The guns are indeed pretty big," Trigger nods, pointing up to the Wyvern's nose, where the muon cannon's barrel sits nearly flush with the rest of the aircraft.

"It has a charged particle cannon, two different types of missiles, and an electromagnetic launcher hidden in the weapons bay that can destroy a small capital ship, like a cruiser." Mila pokes him with her elbow.

"Show them the railgun!" With an unsure frown, Trigger lifts his wristcomm, shifts over to the remote control suite Nidhogg built for him, and types in a command. A second later, the belly of the Wyvern splits open, and the railgun unfolds with a CHUN-KACHUNK, much to the audible amazement of his little spectators. With Mila to keep some semblance of order, the unpleasant anxiety breathing down Trigger's neck begins to abate, and… Dare he say it? He finds himself having a bit of fun.

The awed, excited faces staring up at him begin to intimidate less, and make more sense all at once.

'Was I mistaking things all along?' he ponders, his stomach doing a little flip as eyes all around light up each time he gives them his attention. While the parents of the kids have been hovering close the entire time, a few other adults have wandered out to look at the fighters as well, most of them gazing upon the Wyvern and Caracal with something between reverence and disbelief.

It's the same expression family members of the original Strider would wear during base visits, especially when they stepped into the hangar for the first time.

"Of course, I'm the best at flying the Wyvern when we swap fighters for VR training," Mila boasts to the audience, taking over for a bit to let Trigger rest his voice. She throws her hair over her shoulder and scarf with a flourish of her wrist.

"You should have seen our grump of an executive officer fly it. He pulled a maneuver so hard that he knocked himself out and crashed! Boom!" She mimes the explosion with her hands to a smattering of giggles.

"He was so mad!" Near the back, Mireille checks her watch, so Trigger takes that as the cue to wrap it up.

"Okay, one more for tonight." Oskar's hand shoots into the air, beating out five others by scant milliseconds.

"Yes, Oskar?" Trigger smiles, making the boy shy away at being addressed by name. Oskar bites his lip, seemingly unsure what to say.

"Did you always wanna be a pilot? Do you think I could be one when I grow up?" he finally asks.

"I dunno what I wanna be when I grow up…" The question gives Trigger pause, and for a moment, he's back less than ten years ago, Matron Octavia at his side, with the air force recruiter's card in one hand and the orphanage's yellowed phone in the other. He stared hard at a scuff on the windowsill as he waited for the call that would change his life to pick up. He had no idea at the time it would change him, nor how extremely so.

"I… Wasn't always sure what I wanted to be when I was your age," Trigger admits, staring up at the sky, now largely consumed by glittering stars sewn into a blanket of dark blue.

"I joined my planet's military when I was eighteen, and I had no idea how much I loved flying until I finally tried it for the first time. I knew then and there what I wanted to do with my life," he smiles, and looks back down to the boy before him. The boy meets his gaze, eyes wide for what seems the hundredth time tonight.

"For now, don't worry too much about what you want to be. You've got a lot of time to try things and see what you like most. If you want to be a pilot, give it a try. Maybe it'll be your calling like it was for me, or maybe you'll be happier doing something else. When you do find it, though…" Trigger lifts his hand and raises a finger, focusing all of the rapt attention on him to a single point.

"Don't let anything get between you and your one true passion, and you'll be happy." If the young boy's eyes were awed before, they're sparkling now.

"Dinner is ready!" Looking up with several others, he spies Mireille's apron-clad form leaning out the back door.

'She must have gone back in when I wasn't looking.'

"Okay, everyone, back inside!" Mila orders, marching around the group, and prompting all the kids to follow 'Cool Aunt Mila' in single file.

"Time to eat!" Dinner is a rowdy affair filled with loud laughter and the heat of forty bodies, but despite the dining room being packed like a can of sardines, the walls don't seem so eager to come in and press tightly down anymore. Between their arrival and returning inside, something shifted. What, Trigger cannot say, but all of a sudden the proximity becomes almost tolerable, and many of the words directed towards him are less wooden.

Mila takes center stage between bites of a home cooked meal, retelling her adventures until now to a captive, nail-biting audience. From the slow first months, to the fateful meeting with Trigger, the formation of Strider Squadron, and everything ever since, all in vivid, technicolor detail that Trigger doesn't bring back down to earth. He would have, if the meal before him wasn't so scrumptious that it demands his full attention. One Uncle Joel, sitting beside Trigger, snickers and leans in.

"How did ya tame that wild child, boyo?" He asks, lifting a finger off his glass to point to a still orating Mila on his other side.

"Ain't never seen her this calm."

"Tame?" Trigger raises an eyebrow and dabs the edge of his mouth with his napkin.

"I'm being pulled along by the leash. The bottom of my boots are already worn flat." Like he does every other deadpan joke Trigger has told thus far, the older man breaks out into great belly-deep laughs. Seconds are passed around, then dessert in the form of a crispy, skalkaf-flavored cake not unlike a tiramisu. Once everyone is left full and sleepy before Mireille's satisfied eyes, the hour is growing late, with hugs and kisses goodbye being passed out left and right.

Notably, Erik, his wife, and their son and daughter that Trigger didn't get to properly meet are the first to leave. Before long, the house empties out and grows with a comfortable quiet. The silence only being broken up by the occasional small talk of those helping to clean the dining room, as well as the humming of rudimentary vacuum bots passing through. Jodie and Stella both came to bid their captain and the hostess goodnight before returning to the Aquila, but Lars has vanished somewhere without a word.

Upon checking his wristcomm, Lars' pings back with a location somewhere in the heart of Braskel.

'He'll be fine,' Trigger drops his sleeve and leans back into the couch under him, enjoying the warmth of the fireplace as the remaining members of the Minks clan talk in the spacious living room.

"You thought you weren't going to be able to get clean water?" Fran, the wife of Nils asks from another couch, aghast. The ferret woman shakes her head at Mila's admission and clenches her husband's arm a bit tighter.

"Goodness…"

"It's fine, nothing that a little rationing didn't fix," is Mila's nonchalant answer, oblivious to her mother's flat stare from the armchair. She sniffs and inspects the claws of her right hand, as the left is busy kneading Trigger's thigh.

"Griath III was a hot mess, so it was better to wait until we were sure that we were getting purified water rather than waste our own emergency purification stuff right away. Sometimes you've just got to tough it out, right babe?" She asks the man at her side.

"You begged me not to extend the water rationing to showers," is Trigger's blunt answer. The hand that was migrating up his thigh smacks him on the chest.

"Did not!" Little baby Lyna, Mila's youngest niece so far, giggles at the spectacle from Nils' arms, and the sound banishes Mila's faux scowl in a heartbeat.

"Okay, enough about me!" Mila says, leaning over and reaching her arms out to Nils.

"Catch me up with the rest of you, starting with this cutie! Oh, I've wanted to hold you since the first picture!" Nils smiles, carefully passing his daughter to Mila, who cradles the baby close with a sound of delight building her chest.

"It's the same old, same old, sissy," he says, pulling off the glasses that compliment his bookish looks to clean them with his shirt. Left lens first, then right, before he places them back on his face.

"Lyna is the star of the show when it comes to news for us. She was born down at Sable Memorial-""-After being a week late and putting her mommy through fifteen hours of labor…" Fran huffs without heat.

"After being a week late and putting her mommy through fifteen hours of labor," Nils adds without missing a beat.

"She just turned one three weeks ago, but you'd think she's almost two with how fast she nailed walking and getting into things she's not supposed to," he ends with a tired sigh, looking over to Mireille.

"Mom? Thanks for helping babyproof the house." Mireille smiles into a sip of wine, and sets the glass on the side table by her chair.

"I've done it several times before, honey. You don't have to thank me."

"Oh, a troublemaker, huh?" Mila is all smiles. She tickles the pink pawpads on the bottoms of the baby's feet, making her squeal in delight and kick at her aunt's wiggly fingers.

"I've got so many bad things to teach yoooooou."

"Sissy, please," Nils whines.

"I love you, but one of you is enough…" Mila sticks her tongue out at him, and Lyna rewards the funny face with another bright giggle.

"What else?"

"Besides me getting moved to the graphic design department over at Jordis?" Nils places a hand on his wife's pregnant belly.

"You're looking at it."

"Huh. Well, I bet it's an experience!" Mila replies, not at all minding Lyna giving her hair a yank, and instead just bowing her head to the chubby-fisted pulls.

"It's gotta be less work than being one of the telecom guys."

"Telecom is what I went to college for, but you're not wrong," Nils muses out loud.

"Now if only we didn't use Eboda Suite for everything…" Mila finally regains sovereignty over her own hair by blowing a raspberry into Lyna's belly, and if her laughter was something before, it's an uproar of joy now. Once the baby loses her grip on her aunt's blonde locks, Mila safely tucks them back and lifts her head. All the while, Trigger watches with a smile.

Why the sight lightens his chest is yet another point of confusion to the already confusing, tiring day, but mustering the willpower to question it is out of his reach for now. Of course, Mila catches him staring, and gives him a smile of her own.

"Do you want to hold her, Trigger?" The pinched expression that crosses both Fran and Nils' faces is not missed in the corner of his vision, so he shakes his head.

"Another time, maybe," he denies. Something in his chest twinges when Fran can't hide the way her shoulders loosen in relief, but it's ignored for now.

"Are you sure?" Mila badgers, leaning towards him until their shoulders touch.

"C'mon, just look at her." He does just that. Curious eyes the color of wine, framed by an eyemask of creme fur, meet his gaze in a way many grown men can't replicate. There is no fear, no wariness, no understanding of who she is locking eyes with. Nausea rolls his stomach back and forth. There is no place for regret, not in wild space or in war, and almost never has a man slain by Three Strikes ever been given any consideration beyond"Is he confirmed down?"

Secondary victims spout from a corpse the moment it goes cold, and thoroughness demands he seed his battlefields corner to corner. The countless children he taught death by taking someone from them? Unfortunate, but not his intent. The poor luck and decisions of others are what put sons and fathers in his crosshairs, not his own malice. But here, those little eyes don't judge. No, to them, all things in the world are good, and just being in their line of sight turns them both into liars.

It feels as though just touching such a creature would leave a stain that would never wash out. Unintended collateral damage is one thing, but to directly spoil something so pure is…

"Trigger? Do you think you'd ever want a family?" Once more, his stomach rolls. He breaks first, turning his head to the fire.

"Another time," he lies. Mila's brows furrow, but before she can comment, little Lyna makes a pinched face and shifts about, a whine in her mouth slowly building into a cry.

"Oh, what's wrong, Ly…" Mila's nose twitches, then her whole muzzle wrinkles.

"Oh. Back to your daddy you go!"

"Hold on!" Nils complains as his soiled, fussy daughter is foisted back into his arms.

"We've always done hot potato rules! You were holding her, so you change her!"

"Sorry, Nils, but it's getting late and we had a long trip here, so it's bedtime!" Mila shoots up and takes Trigger's wrist.

"Good night! Love you all!" she calls, dragging him to the stairs at a clipped pace.

"There are extra pillows and blankets in the closet!" Mireille calls before they make it to the top and round into a long, L shaped hallway.

"And some new toothbrushes in the bathroom! Brush before bed!" Still holding his wrist, Mila takes him down to the last door on the left, wiping non-existent sweat from her brow.

"Phew. That was a close one…"

"You're telling me," Trigger mumbles. Without any other eyes on him, the pilot allows his shoulders to sag, and Mila is quick to notice.

"Trigger? Babe?" The hand that was pushing open the door helpfully labeled "MILA" pauses.

"Are you okay? You're pale." For a second, he considers lying, but relents.

"Today has just been tiring, is all," he downplays.

"No. None of that," Mila turns and gives him her full attention. Those ruby eyes try to look firm, but the way she bites her lip undermines it. Realizing she was giving her own worry away, she hides her expression by hugging him, pressing her face to his chest.

"What's bothering you?" she asks into his shirt. His arms circle her on reflex, and he rests his head on hers. The soothing scent of mink, his mink, brings his heartrate down, but only makes the sluggishness of his thoughts that much worse.

"I'm not one for loud crowds or confined spaces," he finally admits.

"I never was. It's left me drained."

"Oh, Trigger…" Mila pulls back to look up at him once more, her ears pinned back.

"If you weren't having fun, you could have said something. I would have gotten everyone to back off and give you some space."

"That would have been rude of me to push them away, I think," he replies, taking a deep breath and letting his nerves steady.

"I do not want your family to think of me as insecure or standoffish, not when my place as both your captain and significant other places me in a precarious social situation with them." He leans back some, and Mila follows, holding him and rubbing his back the entire time.

"It's clear you love your family, and I do not want to complicate things for you." She huffs out a tiny laugh.

"Trigger, I ran away from home and no one expected to ever see me again. Whatever you could possibly add is a drop in the bucket. Heck, after Erik made an ass of himself in front of everyone over you, no one would blame you being a little unfriendly. But don't worry!" Mila gives him a sparkling smile.

"That party was a one time thing, so the house won't be that packed again for the rest of our vacation!" He doesn't even try to hide his relieved exhale.

"That's good to hear."

"Now," Mila releases him and pushes open the door.

"Lemme show you my room!" Having never been in a girl's bedroom before, which sounds like something that would get him made fun of if he admitted, Trigger isn't really sure what to expect. Inside, the room is neat and clean, a far cry from what he anticipated considering the minky junk caches that keep popping up around the Aquila. The corner has a simple vanity, along with some brushes and a half-open bag of make-up.

The opposite corner holds a small desk, where a laptop sits closed along with a lamp in the shape of a fighter he can't name. The bed, a curious bowl shape set low on the floor and piled with blankets, sits opposite of a closet so full that the door won't close all the way. A shelf of knicknacks, strings of unlit fairy lights, and posters make up the bulk of the decor.

Ones for bands, one for what looks like a racing team, and finally one that spans the whole back wall, with Star Fox posing on a rocky, star-skied vista. Oh, and Fox McCloud's face is circled in pink marker hearts. Mila zeros in on the poster and freezes in place, fingers hooking as a shiver runs up her whole body.

"H-Haha…" She forces out, zooming over and tearing the poster from the wall with a resounding RIIIIP.

"W-Well, uh…. Mom said she'd clean the place," Mila forces out through a nervous grin." Apparently she didn't!" she finishes, voice pitching up.

"Oh my god mom…" A single low laugh finds its way out of Trigger's mouth, and he throws an arm around Mila's shoulders.

"I'm the silver medal, hmm?"

"Noooooooooooo. No no no! I was sixteen when I did that!" She punctuates each mortified denial with a slap to his chest before she balls the poster's remains up and throws it to the trashbin by the vanity. The paper ball flies in a graceful arc, hits the rim, and bounces right out onto the floor. The wad uncrinkles just enough for Slippy Toad's cheerful eyes to bore into her. Red bleeds through Mila's face fur, all the way up to her ears, despite how she tries to hide in her hands.

'Okay, any more teasing and Mila might explode,' Trigger withholds any more humor at her expense and sheds his outer layers, leaving him in his comfortable undershirt and thermals. It doesn't take long for her to follow suit to an extent, unbuttoning her skirt as she grumbles her way to the closet, throwing it open.

"Oh wow, I had to leave so much behind when I went to college…" Mila murmurs, looking the inside of her closet up and down.

"Definitely taking some of this back to the ship and - Oh!" Dipping a hand in, it returns wrapped around the shortest, tightest, most neon-colored hotpants known to the galaxy.

"I've missed these so much!" Mila exclaimed, eyes shining. She kicks off her plaid skirt, and Trigger's eyebrows hit his hairline when he sees panties underneath for once.

'Must have wanted to put her best foot forward for the family.' Hopping into the shorts, Mila pulls them up, struggling some to get them past her hips. They sit low enough to lack a hole for her tail, so there is no fumbling with that when she gets them on. Turning away, Mila wiggles her rear for him.

"What do you think? Great, right?" Sitting down as best he can on the nest-like bed's edge, he stares deeply into the semi-reflective surface of the stretchy hotpants, hands steepled on his knees. With a hum, he beckons her closer with a finger. Giggling, she hops two steps backward.

"Is it that good? or- Ooooohhh~! T-Trigger~?!" Maybe it's the several drinks he's had, or the stress of the day leaving him addled, but his first instinct the moment that shapely rear is close enough is to reach out and shamelessly seize it with both hands. The noise that comes from Mila's lips sends tingles down his spine as he feels up, down, and around. The way the Cornerian woman's warm, soft body gives under his fingers is a tactile banquet.

Mila looks back at him, a red flush in the velvet of her inner ears, and her mouth caught in a wobbly middleground between giddy and uncertain.

"If you want to take old clothes with you," Trigger begins, then is forced to stop and lick his dry lips. One of his thumbs traces the straining waistline.

"Then we should inspect them. There is limited space on the Aquila, and it shouldn't be wasted on articles that are damaged or do not fit." The giggle that bursts from Mila is clearly more from excitement than humor, but she still manages to say: "You don't need an excuse to feel me up, you know. You can just say you need some mink booty in your life! Ask and receive!"

"I'm not making excuses," he shoots back, taking her hips and coaxing her to turn, then tracing his thumbs over the lines of her groin, earning him a shiver.

"This is a proper evaluation of your equipment."

"My captain is so lewd …" Mila hides her face behind a sweater sleeve. No matter how bashful she pretends to be, though, her titters and how she presses into his hands give her away.

"But, like, big milestone! Every boy needs to get up to something naughty in his girl's childhood bedroom at least once!" A grunt is what she gets back. Glancing past a twitchy tail to the closet, he frees up one hand to point to a frilly, purple tubetop on a hangar.

"Why not that one next?" Mila's sweater practically teleports off, and…

'Huh. No bra. I guess expecting a full set of underwear was a little much.' By the time the"inspection" winds down, it's midnight and they're only halfway done. Of course, another inspection is on tomorrow's agenda.