as kindred should

seven

"See, kiddo," Dorian said through a mouthful of cheap burger. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

He laughed, the sound as bitter as it was relieved. Pip stared up at him, at his burger, eyes wide like a puppy's. A streak of yogurt lightened her lower lip. Dorian instinctively reached down to wipe it, and in the moment following scooped up another little spoonful for her.

"Sorry I couldn't get you anything better," he said to Pip, who received the spoon with both hands wrapped around the stem, one bent just so over the tip of Dorian's broad finger. He tore off a chunk of his own meal. "Something more breakfasty, anyway. Not that yogurt isn't."

He cast an incredulous glance at his burger.

"More sorry you have to witness this part of my life. Rest assured that I only do it sometimes, you know, not always. I eat salads and stuff, too, I just... well, my last diet was a wreck," he continued. Pip responded with a smack of her lips. He offered her another spoonful. "Caveman diet, they called it. Oh, it would have worked quite well if I weren't... I won't dive into that, but to make a long story short I saw a Yorkie bar and I went a bit mad, you know? I bought five and ate them on the way home. I didn't feel especially hunky after that, but it's chocolate. Who cares? I held it down.

"Anyway, you did good at your appointment. Better than I usually do. I wish I could reward you with something bigger to eat. I suppose we'll have to settle with buying you a few extra toys at the store," he said, pointing his burger-occupied hand at the building erected before them.

"See what you like, teddies or instruments or what."

If Pip knew what that meant, she showed no sign, her attention focused on her yogurt and the contours of Dorian's face.

About ten minutes later Dorian crumpled his wrapper and shoved it into the hollow of the yogurt cup, and tossed both of them into the gap between the front and back seats. He could have sworn Pip eyed him incredulously, so he shrugged his shoulders, a sheepish smile on his face.

"I'll throw it in the bin later," he said, lifting her to his chest. "We all have flaws, you know? Except for you. You're a baby. Fairly obvious."

The Baby Store was a plain looking building now. When Dorian had first seen it, it had been whitewashed, its glass windows painted gentle shades of blue and pink, the title a bold, kiddish font in stark white. It had looked impressive and a bit gaudy, but its stock had worked for his budding family. Nearly everything Mira and Clara had used as infants had been purchased here.

It had been passed over to another company in the gap between the girls and by time Dustin had arrived, it was on its third owner, this one for high class babies, or at least high class parents. If he'd been even marginally less responsible with his money (and he'd never been responsible to begin with,) he might have gone broke there.

And now it was something else, property of an entirely different owner, and he did not know how many times it had been passed around from Dustin's time to Pip's. He did not know what its titles had been, could not even remember how the old ones went, and so it was the Baby Store.

The warm tackiness he had first associated with this place had evaporated, and the following gilded suavity, too, was gone. In their stead was a very casual, almost rustic appeal. The floor was sleek caramel-colored wood, the walls a medium beige, the decorations somewhere between an explorers curiosity and modern ease.

"Not bad," he said, leaning for a cart. He gave it a yank and stopped it with the toe of his boot. "Let's explore then, right?"

He started with a scrap of a plan, most of it obscured by a growing sense of excitement and the increased confusion that came with it. Dorian eyeballed the outer shelves, Pip sat in the cart's little seat, and he resisted almost every urge to grab something he didn't need.