Calan
Calan is busy spitting out feathers when Carlo’s shoulder finally appears beneath his searching foot, and honestly, that improves things by at least half. Maybe more than half. His fingers are still clamped around the windowsill, the Hel is still flapping furiously against the side of his head as if it has important business inside his ear, but at least now his leg has somewhere to go that isn’t Carlo’s mouth or the empty air.
"Yea—" he starts, because he is good, actually, or close enough to good that the distinction feels unhelpful, but then the window next door clacks open and his head turns sharply toward it. The Hel turns too, and for a second, boy and bird stare in the same direction, both of them caught by the sight of Fern’s face squished against the glass and the scissors lifted in her hand with what Calan can only assume is either authority or malice Possibly both.
By the time Carlo’s explanation reaches her, Calan is already nodding along, his expression smoothing into something bright and professionally helpful despite the bird trying to reorganize his hair by force. "Exactly," he calls, beaming as if this is all going perfectly. A feather sticks to his lip; he spits it away with as much dignity as a boy hanging from a windowsill can manage. "The Hel is so we can walk out on water and get the very best stuff to clean Fern’s windows with." The Hel squawks immediately, which Calan chooses to treat as confirmation. "She’s very picky about that sort of thing," he adds with a decisive nod, though the motion nearly makes his fingers slip and sends the bird into another offended burst of wings. "But we always do our best!"
"Yea—" he starts, because he is good, actually, or close enough to good that the distinction feels unhelpful, but then the window next door clacks open and his head turns sharply toward it. The Hel turns too, and for a second, boy and bird stare in the same direction, both of them caught by the sight of Fern’s face squished against the glass and the scissors lifted in her hand with what Calan can only assume is either authority or malice Possibly both.
By the time Carlo’s explanation reaches her, Calan is already nodding along, his expression smoothing into something bright and professionally helpful despite the bird trying to reorganize his hair by force. "Exactly," he calls, beaming as if this is all going perfectly. A feather sticks to his lip; he spits it away with as much dignity as a boy hanging from a windowsill can manage. "The Hel is so we can walk out on water and get the very best stuff to clean Fern’s windows with." The Hel squawks immediately, which Calan chooses to treat as confirmation. "She’s very picky about that sort of thing," he adds with a decisive nod, though the motion nearly makes his fingers slip and sends the bird into another offended burst of wings. "But we always do our best!"
I've never been one to half-ass shenanigans.
