It was Friday. 

Traditionally, this was a busy day for Death & Company, but only after about eight o’clock.  There would be the earlier customers, of course, but Margo seldom came in for opening.  She had Dorsey and the early crew for that: they could handle a dinner shift without her – or at least starting it.  Margo usually stayed past close to help shut things up and that meant she could take her time in coming in. 

At least she thought so.  And since she was the boss, she sort of made the rules and that automatically made it okay.  Shoving open the door of the ice cream parlor, she knew she wanted something sweet before she went to work. 

The smell of the ice cream parlor was distinct -  a mix of the sugary cones and the cream iced treats… baked goods as well, toppings you could only imagine… Margo wasn’t usually a consumer of sweets, but sometimes the urge hit you and you had to feed it.  Margo wasn’t going to deny herself. 

So, she strolled up to the counter and looked at the numerous flavors.  Name tags in the glass identified the flavors and she pursed her lips.  There were a lot of choices she could make.  But, as soon as her eyes set upon a flavor she knew: chocolate whiskey caramel?!

She ordered a heaping cone – emphasizing the word heaping – and a spoon along with it.  “Thank you!” she chirped and grabbed the cone after smacking her coins on the counter.  She ducked her head and took a generous bite of the ice cream: perfectly chosen! before looking around. 

There was a single table left.  Sure, she was alone – and sure there were extra seats at it, but she didn’t want to leave yet and she was going to enjoy her ice cream!  Dropping into the chair, she pulled the spoon out of the scoop and sunk into her chair as she leisurely lapped at it. 

This was really an ace way to spend time before a shift.   

Nate, clad in his work robes, entered the icecream parlor. His small daughter, Calliope led the way with purpose. It was Friday, and Fridays meant that he closed the office early and got icecream after work. It was a weekly tradition that both father and daughter looked forward to, regardless of the weather.

Callie chose strawberry cheesecake as her icecream flavor.

"Go claim a seat for us, honey." Nate said as he put coins on the counter to pay. She nodded obediently, dark eyes looking around the restaurant before resting on the last couple seats in the restaurant. There was already somebody at that table, but people were supposed to share. With a determined look on her face, she approached Margo's table and climbed into her chair. "I'm sitting here." She announced, daring the woman to challenge her.

Nate turned around, cone of lavender icecream in hand.  It took no more than a few seconds to see his pink-sparkle clad daughter sitting with a local bar owner. A bar owner that Nate was more than familiar with. He did a poor job at hiding his embarassment as he approached the table, not yet taking a seat.

Spending time with her ice cream, Margo was invested in making sure it didn’t leak down onto her fingers, cleaning up any melting drops with a swipe by her tongue before she dug the spoon back in.  For someone who worked at a bar and had previously worked in the mountains and spent nights in tents and without showering or self caring for quite long stretches of time, she hated the feeling of sticky fingers from ice cream.  So, she was meticulous – or tried to be. 

So consumed with the task, she hardly noticed the tiny, sparkling human approach her until she declared she would be sitting at the table.  She hadn’t paused and climbed into the chair.  That was the the kind of attitude Margo appreciated in a kid.  Margo shrugged, “S’alright with me,” she announced matter of factly before taking another lick at the base where the ice cream scoop met the cone.  “What flavor?” she asked the tiny human in front of her. 

For whatever reason, it hadn’t registered that the tiny human would come with a normal sized one, but as soon as the adult that belonged to the precocious little girl in front of her about a million things clicked in her mind.  One, about a dozen mostly-formed memories passed immediately through her mind: drinks clinking, clothes flying, heavy breathing… all the ideals now juxtaposed with two, he had approached her table… which looked largely by accident…. Because three, she glanced back at the tiny human and: oh double shite.

While he was the picture of awkward and refused to make eye contact after a bout of serious gasping fish face, Margo did what she did best and faked it before clearing her throat. Her smile would read as anything but authentic. “Take a seat,” she gestured to the empty chair.    "Plenty of room." 

The last time he had seen Margo, he had high fived her and said "Nice work, good fundamentals." Then he drunkenly found his clothes and left her flat. That had been a couple weeks ago. It was awkward. He still felt weird about it. Part of what felt weird was the fact that it was a one night stand, and he was not a one night stand kind of guy. The other part was the fact that he had made a night go from good, to uncomfortable in no time at all.

Nate sat down in the empty seat between Margo and Calliope.

"Margo, this is my daughter, Calliope." Callie didn't care, she was focused on her ice cream cone. He swore, the scoops were the size of her face. There was absolutely no way she was going to finish the thing.

Margo had some good stories.  That was ultimately the truest thing about her.  She’d spent a majority of her adult life being awesome at finding herself in the most unforeseen of circumstances.  Granted, things hadn’t been altogether too unforeseen in the recent past.  A night at the bar, he was very good looking, Margo was decently attractive and usually had a charm about her so she got what she wanted.  It was funny how many American men she found herself in the presence of recently.

While that was all well and good and Margo hadn’t been disappointed at all – she was the sort who didn’t find it strange or awkward to see someone and just chat with them after a one nighter – she’d been so shocked at his comment she hadn’t even asked which of the fundamentals he had been particularly pleased with.  After all, Margo was likely an expert by now, even with a few missing pieces. 

If there wasn’t a tiny human here, she might have smirked and mentioned it.  Instead, she censored herself and bit the inside of her cheek, knowing that she’d seen them together once or twice before – having come in for lunch.  “I've seen you around,” Margo nodded to the little girl and then licked her cone again. "Guessing this is better than sandwiches, eh?" and tipped her cone just a tad before another clean bite. 
 
Clearing her throat – a chunk of sticky caramel stuck at the back of her mouth, clinging to a tooth or something, Margo shifted and leaned back in her chair, crossing her bum leg over the good one under the table.  “Her flavor looks normal,” Margo appraised, turning her eyes back to him (it was really hard to not picture him shirtless), “what the devil are you eating?”  (The right answer was not appropriate).

Frankly, Nate was relieved that Margo seemed to be on her best behavior. Hopefully, his daughter would be oblivious to any sorts of sly, crass remarks that the bartender would give. Callie was a sharp child, but she was still a child.

"Sandwiches are never better." Calliope said with a child's casual seriousness as she got icecream all over her face in the process of eating. Nate handed her a napkin, though it was highly unlikely that she was going to use it. Kids were messy, no matter how often you made them wash up.

Nate met Margo's eyes as she judged his icecream. "Mine is a perfectly normal flavor!" He defended his flavor preferences, "It's lavender. I assure you, it's a civilized flavor." He paused, "Strawberry cheesecake is acceptable too." Nate amended, not wanting to offend his child. "What flavor did you pick anyway?" The most awkward of small talk.

She had sense.  At least a little bit of it, anyway.  Margo didn’t know much about little people, but she could recognize one that made sense.  And this one agreed with her, so obviously she made sense.  “Fact,” Margo replied with a lopsided smile, the corners of her lips dipping  just slightly as the child seemed to be dripping with ice cream.

It had been doing so well.

Scooting her chair back just a bit, Margo didn’t want to be that kind of sticky.  Hell, before work? She didn’t want to be any kind of sticky.  After…?  Different story entirely.  Taking a long, rather inglorious lick of her cone, she raised her eyebrows.  “Lavender?!” she was incredulous after she swallowed.

“That’s a soap – not an ice cream flavor,” she informed him with a disgusted expression, before she looked to the tiny human who didn’t even seem to bat an eyelash.  How could she not care at all?  This was a travesty.  “Ice cream isn’t the time to be civilized,” she informed him.

If she wasn’t being so serious (ice cream was truly too important for lewdness), she would have gone with it.  But she shook her head, “Chocolate whiskey caramel,” Margo used her feet to push herself up in her chair a bit more.  Even if she was still a bit clumsy with her new hand, she was dexterous enough to remove the spoon from the side of the cone and dig it in, without hesitation holding it: “You need to try a real ice cream flavor,” she informed him, “or else you’ll go your whole life eating soap and never know what you’re missing.”