allthatgoes | they talk too fast and walk too slow

I don't entirely know what this is. Dedicated to Hans and Beth, if not directly for.

It is not every day in one's life that a carriage can go flying by and an arm inside the carrage reach out and attempt to grab one just hard enough that one is encouraged to jump inside so that one does not suffer undue pain.

It was definitely not something that happened every day in Whitlock's life, let alone ever before this time – but being related to the Ardleighs, albeit halfway by marriage (only his sister's children were actually biologically related) had added a good degree of weird to his life, and as the arm reached out and tugged at him, he knew that his life was either over or about to get even more interesting than it already was.

He also knew he was going to be late for work, and hoped Julian would stall the customers with stories. One could usually count on a friend, especially when one's story about why one was late involved abduction.

Breathlessly, Whitlock straightened himself and collapsed into a seat. He was not at all surprised by the figure sitting across from him, the owner of the encouraging arm. It was mostly androgynous, with a flat, masculine chest and female hands and a face hidden under a dark hat. Its cloak (black) covered most of the rest of its body, and then it looked up from the hat and smiled at him just as he spoke.

"Bastard child of a goblin-brained marsupial," Whitlock muttered. "And yes, I know I just insulted my sister again, or your father, either one, you don't have to tell me – what the hell, Lírít?"

The figure shrugged, smile widening. "I missed you."

"You – so you grabbed me and nearly gave me a heart attack –"

"How else was I supposed to get your attention? Yell? Do you think I want anyone to know that I'm here?" She – because the figure was his niece Lírít Ardleigh, and was actually female despite the confusing appearance – said. She worked hard on the confusing appearance, after all.

Whitlock hadn't thought about that. He'd heard of the recent death of a successful businessman whose success had been partially based on exploitation of countles people, and had made the assumption that the work of his vigilante niece might be connected. He did not, however, have any proof of it, and hadn't known what her most recent operations had involved, so he hadn't asked or really even thought about it.

This just about confirmed it, though.

"No," he said, and scrubbed his hand in his hair. "I'm sorry."

"You're always sorry," she said, somewhat harshly, not with the cheer she'd had only seconds ago. "Don't say I'm sorry to me. Don't ever say that again. Everything's fine until you say that, Whit."

Whit, and not Leo.

She was unhappy with him.

He knew why. He'd made that face. Held himself in that way. Reminded her. She didn't need that, and Lírít had come into herself again after the trauma she'd previously experienced, the trauma that was all his fault even if she refused to let him think it anymore – except when she was angry enough with him she'd remind him. Maybe today was one of those days. Even if this time he'd reminded her.

"Well," he said, unevenly, nervous all of a sudden because she was just that hard to deal with sometimes, "I apologize for saying I'm sorry as well as almost outing you – what's going on?"

At his 'I apologize,' she actually laughed, and when she laughed it was pretty easy to see, when she let her control slip, that she was female. Female and a little bit more than human, because the sparks in her eyes were almost real sparks more than just a trick of the light.

"What's going on is I missed you, Leo! I just wanted to say hi."

"I still hope you don't call me that at work."

(His real name was Leopold Andrew Whitlock. Nobody knew anything but Whitlock, and he usually went by Whit; some people probably really thought his name was Whit Whitlock. Considering he spent most of his time with Julian J. Jones, the idea that he might have been named Whit Whitlock wasn't completely ridiculous.)

"Nobody would believe it's really your name. It's just the name I gave you. Also I'm not allowed in, remember?"

Lírít had a tendency toward giving people whatever name she wanted, and if they didn't get used to it, she would either begrudgingly return to the original name they gave her or simply not refer to the person at all. Some of the nicknames made more sense than others – most of them eventually ended up being only a single step of logic away from a source that made some sense, and on good days, she'd be willing to describe them.

She was also definitely not allowed in a gentleman's club, but –

"That doesn't really stop you."

"Yeah, but not many people know I'm there! Just the waitstaff and Doubler and you." Doubler was Ju – 'Triple J,' she said, was too obvious, and 'Double J' didn't flow quite as right. "And I think he knows your name's Leo."

"No, actually."

"You're a terrible friend."

"You're a terrible friend, I mean, what is this? I'm going to be late."

"Don't worry about it," she said, and hopped out of her seat to snuggle up next to him, Whit throwing his arm around her shoulders gently, and then it only took a couple of seconds before they started to get rustled around.

"Hey!" Lírít yelled. "What's going –"

"Who's driving this thing?" Whit asked, suddenly realizing she'd obtained a driver.

"Pallagin's driver. You remember Pallagin, the choreographer, he decided to help me."

"Are we being chased?"

"Oh, probably. He's very good, don't you think?"

"At escaping whatever's following us? I don't know, I'm afraid to look behind me."

"Good," said Lírít softly, "don't. I don't actually want to know. Anyway, what's going on is this – they are, as they say, 'on to me,' and so I'm out for a bit. Took another hiatus from the company, and I told everyone who needs to know."

"Law enforcement, or alchemists, or –"

"Both."

"Liri," he said again, about to hate himself for it. "I'm sorry. You have to let me say this at least once more. I'm sorry, I apologize, I never wanted anyone to hurt you."

"I know, Leo." A smile.

"I'm glad."

"Can I have something to drink before I've got to leave?" She didn't, really, want to go. Not entirely. Not yet.

He grinned at her. "Sure thing."