"I'm going to venture a guess that you two will be desiring breakfast?"

The wisp of a voice that broke the comfortable quiet of sleeping belonged to a bean pole of a wick who had slipped purposefully into the bedroom (one of however many) without a sound. Wavorly Adams, ex-pirate turned-butler, would hardly have looked his part had it not been for the well-pressed semi-formal attire he'd come to enjoy wearing. The red-headed, freckled little man was hardly older than his employer and somehow managed to nearly resemble him in galdor heritage, save for the weaker field and penchant for piercings.

Met with silence, the wick nonchalantly waited for a response, gathering clothes from off the floor in a similar fashion to a bird building a nest. Pausing, he couldn't resist the SNAP! of accelerated fabric as he desperately tried to rescue a disheveled shirt from its helpless state.

Corwynn finally stirred with a groan, hardly embarrassed by the other man's presence so much as annoyed at having to wake up in the first place. The blond gunman found himself staring at the floor, having slept where he'd fallen, which was thankfully at least still mostly in bed, "Gods, Wavorly, don't I pay you enough for privacy?"

"Perhaps, Mister Wynngate." Came the wry response, the red-head announcing his employer's name with a kind of cheekiness that made everything sound like an inside joke, "But you also pay me to meet your needs."

Rosalie had been sleeping in a bed that was, really, only one step up from a cot. She'd counted it as a blessing that the place was clean, that her door had a lock that worked, and that the window latched from the inside while still being big enough for her to wriggle out through, should she need. It hadn't been comfortable, but it had been warm and safe [for Old Rose at least] and that had been enough.

...it was going to be hard to go back. Corwynn's bed was bliss in comparison, and only a small part of that was due to the man himself -- even if he'd boast otherwise later. Rosalie was small, yet somehow she managed to take up ninety percent of the bed, arms and legs sprawled under the blankets. She didn't curl, didn't spoon, didn't cuddle, though one of her hands was settled comfortably low on Corwynn's spine and her face was pressed almost into his shoulder.

He was a pillow. An accessory. And, when he moved, she grumbled in response, because pillows just weren't supposed to move.

The voice did pry her eyes open, though, turned narrowly on the butler. In the first moments of waking, her voice was a scratchy alto, rumbly, purring. "What's your man want? Send him off..."

"Breakfast."

Wavorly repeated cheerily, burdened with a collection of clothing that spanned more than one day's usage, "I will take that as a yes."

Corwynn only laughed, hoarsely, attempting to roll over and wave the wick away in a well-practiced dismissive gesture. He was met with the light resistance of Rosalie on one side and the immanent proximity of the floor on the other. It required little thought as to which was more favored as an obstacle.

"Tssk," the galdor hissed tauntingly, feigning discomfort as he squirmed his way onto his back, obviously unconcerned with anything resembling propriety, "How can someone so small take up so much room?"

There was a twitch in her expression. A surprising note of good humor as he shifted, rolled. Rosalie's voice was still that rumble, one dark eyebrow raised, and for one quivering moment, she managed to fight it down but....well. She felt good. And he'd set himself up so well. "Oh, honey, you're not that small..."

And it faded into a laugh, blurry and warm, still half asleep as she wriggled out of his way -- wrapping herself up in the blankets and leaving him with almost none. Just her bright eyes and the messy mop of her hair poking out.

It took the blond gunman a span of time to process how he'd led himself into that comment, blinking for a bleary moment before he chuckled lightly, opening his mouth to offer a retort—

"Quick one that is, Mister Wynngate." Wavorly laughed, leaning against the door jam briefly on his way into the hall, trying not to lose his ridiculous burden of laundry in his humor, "Always nice to see one keeping you on your toes for a change ..."

"Shut your head." Corwynn growled without malice at the red-headed wick's retreating form, rolling his blue eyes and reaching his four-fingered left hand over to tug down the blankets gathered at Rosalie's face, sleepy grin blooming, "Now, I'm not going to go swinging the lamp, but I don't remember any complaining. Besides ... it's not the size of the mast, but how well one navigates the storm. Or so I hear."

She was smiling behind it, still, her eyes half-closed again. It wasn't that Rosalie couldn't wake, couldn't be up at the crack of dawn, just that...well, why shouldn't she sprawl in a warm bed for a while, since she could? Before it was off in search of fresh work, long days off somewhere on a ship, working for someone else -- as always.

A non-committal sound in reply to that, and she shrugged one strong shoulder, stretching out in his bed and tipping her head to make sure the butler hadn't made off with her clothing. If he had, well, presumably Corwynn could afford to replace it. "...have you also heard 'any port in a storm?' That's one I live by."

The galdor coughed first, grin broadening into something devious and bemused while his blue eyes almost hid themselves in the weathered age-lines at their edges. He laughed again, from the depths of his chest, "Apparently not any port'll do for you, songbird. By the looks of things from my perspective, I believe you missed a port on your map last night."

Corwynn arched a blond eyebrow as if to emphasize his implication, "You made a choice."

She echoed the gesture, still almost twinkling. Rosalie was more awake now, anyway, aware. Focused. Her voice clearing and the fuzzy, tired comfort sliding out of her limbs. "...from your perspective, maybe."

A yawn, a stretch, an absent little shrug to shake the idea away. Rosalie didn't really want to think about it, worry about it, or discuss it. Corwynn was treating her to breakfast, after all, wasn't he? She started to pull away, blanket hugged against her as she scanned the room for her corset. "He going to bring food here? Breakfast in bed?"

"That depends on if we're still in bed when it's ready." He offered, playfully, mischievous and intentional innuendo undeniable in his expression, perhaps noticing his comment hadn't gone over so well. He let both hands converge towards the blankets and their feminine contents, adding cheekily, "I suppose there's enough room."

Corwynn smiled with a bit of warmth, "I think my dining room has furniture ... maybe."

"Ushered me in here so fast, I never even saw..." Not that she objected, not exactly. The bed had, after all, been their goal. She shifted, cracked an eye on him -- and rolled into his arms easily enough. There was no need to get up yet, really there wasn't.

"If he will, he can bring it in here." It had been more than ten years since Rosalie last interacted with real servants, since she'd ordered them about comfortably enough, but she still remembered. She shifted in Corwynn's grasp, tilting her head and sighing out a comfortable noise. "But there's definitely not enough room for three, here."

The blond galdor laughed a little quieter, settling into his hold on Rosalie without bothering to conceal his contentment, fingers purposefully brushing where he knew the passive's tattoo was under the covers, wordlessly taunting her orders for breakfast in bed. There had been a time in his life he might have exhibited a bit more disdainful selection in his choice of partners, but he'd since come to the conclusion that he'd wasted enough nights with only his own race in his bed. There were plenty of attractive choices outside of his own cultural domain.

Though he certainly wasn't about to say it out loud, he was quite grateful that the much younger woman in his arms was so far not the explosive kind of passive—as far as he could tell anyway.

"Oooh," Corwynn breathed, closing his eyes again, "Wavorly won't care ... if that's what my guest wants, that's what she'll get."

He chose not to speak about the rather cavernous lack of contents to his ridiculous home; he'd loved the beach and the uninterrupted view of the sea, not the vaulting ceilings or clocking complicated chandeliers or tasteful wallpaper or polished floors. He'd had plenty of that in Vienda. He still did, back at his family estate, should he want it.

Letting her last comment hang for a moment, the gunman made a chiding sound against his teeth, "There's plenty of room for three, should you know what you're doing, of course." Corwynn grinned, eyes still closed, nestled in as he was. His tone of voice turned wistful, distant, "Trust me."

"What you're talking about is much more fun in theory than in exercise." His wistful moment was broken by the teasing humor in her voice, and by the sudden jab of an elbow back into his stomach to knock the wind out of him. Leave him spluttering and breathless for once, while she stretched and lounged.

"Given the option, I'd rather have the food. Can your man cook alright?" One look shot back toward him, to see if she'd succeeded in shutting his mouth for a solid ten seconds. Somehow she doubted it.

Corwynn grunted, squirming in discomfort before tightening his warm hold on the passive with a winded wheeze, "Are you saying this from experience?" The older galdor taunted, speaking through his teeth, gently pressed as they were against Rosalie's neck, "Because, I am ... and I beg to differ."

He exhaled, left hand moving slowly from its place to appear out of the covers, discolored scar where a finger had been evidence of natural, not magical, healing.

"It's better to have Wavorly in the kitchen than me." He added, tilting his head away from the woman's skin with a sly smile, "I'm more useful ... elsewhere."

"Oh, is that so?" Both her eyebrows raised but -- well, the brush of breath had its intended effect, even if it only showed itself in the way her fingers curled into the blankets, slow and thoughtless, and her chin hiked up in something like offering. If he said anything about it, though, one smug word out of his mouth, and he'd likely find that he couldn't follow up on the teasing...

"I like to think I'm useful everywhere." Even leaning back into him like that, she could sound proud, teasing, almost smug.

"Ah, well," Corwynn mumbled absently, encouraged by Rosalie's subtle hints of approval to his changing the subject away from conversation. His hands were moving purposefully over her skin beneath the sheets, body shifting, lips tracing from her neck to her ear as she tilted her chin, "I won't argue with—"

"Waffles!"

Announced a now-familiar voice from the hall. There was a thump and the jittering of glasses, touching as Wavorly strode purposefully back into the bedroom, pushing a hand-cart without a worry in the world. The red-headed wick was deadpan, unfazed by the scene that seemed to be unfolding in the bed before him, "I'm glad to see that you're up,"

He let his word hover for emphasis with obvious cheek, still without a change in his blank expression, stopping the cart at the foot of the bed, "Because breakfast is served."

She'd halfway turned, knee dragging up under the blankets and head tipped in toward his, considering just forgetting breakfast altogether, scant seconds away from a kiss and -- well, that probably would have been that. But the food...she could smell it before Wavorly opened the door, announcing his path down the hall, waffles and...and did she smell bacon?

Well. Corwynn just couldn't compare. She twisted back around immediately, that rumble of pleasure turning to a hungry rumble, her stomach making it clear that food was a priority, right now. The rest of her body could suck it up.

"Waffles?" Once again, she was wrapping herself in the sheets, hauling across the bed to investigate the cart. Corwynn would have to clutch after trailing cloth to keep his...modesty.

"Ah ... well." He sighed, Rosalie eagerly slipping away towards Wavorly's culinary works, heaped as it was with aesthetic flair on the cart. It was perhaps better the wick butler arrived sooner than later anyway.

The blond galdor had, most likely, left modesty far behind at Brunnhold, if he'd ever had it at all, and his formal education ended over twenty years ago. The momentary shock of Wavorly's (un)timely interruption caused Corwynn to pause, hints of disappointment tugging at the edges of his expression, but he simply sat up and allowed himself to lose the battle for covers in favor of addressing the more immediate issue of food.

"Right, then." The red-head produced a tray from under the cart, apparently enjoying his job all of the sudden, "Enjoy yourselves. Don't make too much of a mess."

He snorted a sea-worthy laugh and winked before saluting playfully and sauntering away.

The smell almost left her dizzy. Real food, fresh, warm, and presumably she wouldn't be left wondering just what kind of meat it was in the pie. Rosalie might have been a woman, but she wasn't precisely a lady; she didn't need him to serve her, nor to offer, nor did she wait her turn. If there was bacon, she'd snatch it up greedily with her fingers and fork be damned.

Chewing, she shot a look up at him -- wrapped up in the sheets with her hair a mess and an eyebrow raised, green eye bright and definitely awake, now. "...where's yours?"

Corwynn watched with an expression of almost generous amusement, content to let Rosalie practically attack the fresh, warm, totally non-questionable food that had been cheekily brought to them. It wasn't quite charity, and yet the blond galdor couldn't entirely fight down a faint sense of distant, cultured ... something that hummed in the back of his mind. The difference was there; he'd just spent too much of his time no longer caring. Living in the Harbor had definitely numbed all of that sort of thing over time, like the receding tide.

With a broad smile, making a point to reach over, around, and occasionally at the passive, the gunman took his time assembling his own tray of breakfast.

"Don't tell me your parents raised you to eat that way, songbird." Corwynn quipped tauntingly, making a point of stealing Rosalie's bacon, not wasting time to eat it.

She teased, but she didn't stop him when the time came; he could take what he liked, and even the pluck of bacon right from her fingers didn't get protest. There was more, after all, and she was small, and her eyes were likely much bigger than her stomach...

...but the words maybe stung a little. Flustered her, finally, enough that color crept its way onto her cheeks and her ears. The sheet served to cover her but only the important parts. It didn't hide the way the color inched down her throat, just a light rouge across her collar bone as she cleared her throat.

A point to Corwynn, then.

But she recovered eventually. Reaching for a fork, yes, to play at civilized, and maybe her voice wasn't quite so light as before, but she always found some reply it seemed. "Yes, well, they didn't teach me to follow strange men home, either."

Nor had they taught her how to find work, how to rent an apartment, how to get into or out of a bar brawl; not how to hoist a sail or command the attention of men twice her size. She shook her head as she stabbed the corner of a waffle. "Count your blessings."

"Mmm, I think I will. Or I have. Or whichever." The gunman laughed through a bite of waffle, but it was softer, less taunting and almost sympathetic. Illegality ran in his family—just a bit, thanks to that gun business—but he certainly had no concept of life as a passive. Part of him was curious if she'd escaped from service or something equally dangerous, but Corwynn usually didn't ask too many questions. Everyone had their secrets, and in his line of work, everyone was entitled to keep them most of the time.

"My father may've taught me to run one business behind another and shoot a pistol, but I don't think he necessarily intended for me to end up here." Wherever here was or meant to imply, anyway, "I'm no shining example of my roots, either."

The blond galdor grinned at this, perhaps a little proud at escaping the system, only to rather willingly have fallen into another.

There was a breathless pause, indecisive. In Old Rose, yes, it was probably wisest not to speak of could-have-beens, or should-have beens. It also seemed to be an unwritten passive rule: what happened happened, and dwelling on it would only lead to a dull ache.

But Rosalie was practical. Practical and, usually, rational. As such, there was only the one tense pause, hesitating and considering, and then she relaxed. So be it. "If things hadn't happened as they did, I'd probably be hunting you down and stringing you up as we speak."

A look shot up toward him, a delicate arch of eyebrow, considering. "Well, maybe not you, but your like. In less...chaotic cities."

She offered him a smile, as well; not her harmless light smile, but something sharper. Thoroughly self-certain. No, best not to dwell, but that didn't mean she'd listened to the advice. Rosalie had thought about this quite a bit. "I'd be working on a third snap, anyway."

Corwynn waved his fork, wry understanding in the tanned creases of his features, "Another blessing counted, then. If I'd had wanted to play it straight, I'd be the one presenting you those snaps by now, but I don't think I ever would've really made it." The gunman teased, self-depreciatingly about both his age and his tolerance for the regimented lifestyle of a Seventen.

"I still have a business face in our less chaotic capitol, as it were, but I don't dust it off much anymore." He smirked, disdain for too much of anything official obvious in his tone of voice. He still made sheet metal, on the Arova, in the Soot District, and he still made guns. His family legacy was without an heir, but he'd mostly managed to pass on the day-to-day responsibilities to other gollies, only a handful of which really knew where he spent most of his time.

It was a delicate balance, but one that he'd somehow decided was more rewarding in the end, "As little as possible, if I can help it."

"More than me, I imagine." The lightness was gone from her voice, alas. Her moment of openness, those first few minutes of day with her guard down, had faded. It left her herself again, a little cooler, spine a little straighter, dissecting her breakfast with a more proper care. It made her seem older, somehow, with her eyebrows raised. Still young, of course, but worn...

"I haven't been since I was, ah. Nine?" There, that smile again, flat and with too many teeth, before she shoved more waffles into her mouth. Her appetite stuck around, anyway. "Ship's stopped there, of course, but I'm not daft enough to get out and court legal troubles. I'd rather cower in the below-decks and hope no one feels me there, carrying enough coin to grease it over if they do."

Corwynn caught the passive's subtle shift from behind his fork, watching her as he had been in his usual, appreciative curiosity. He set his tray down with his plate and leaned forward in a sort of languid slow motion, hands tracing over the blankets towards Rosalie underneath, prompted perhaps by the mere mention of the word feel.

He smirked, a little more serious than amused. The Harbor's air and the open sea had weathered his aristocratic features over time, but the cultural expectations of Anaxas had hardened more than just his exterior. He exhaled, "You haven't missed anything, really."

"Vienda's port is far from welcoming as it is," The gunman rolled his eyes, "We just hide in plain sight differently—that's all."

It wasn't entirely all and Corwynn knew it, but, still. He'd largely given up on legitimate things and in his own, galdori way, the blond felt like that put them at least steering toward a similar horizon.