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People have a way of turning up when you're thinking about them.

He wasn't sure exactly what it was that had put him in mind of Molly--he thought, possibly, that the thought of the laundry he still needed to do (and he held off on doing laundry, not because he dreaded it but to save it up as a personal reward, because the process of folding and sorting afterwards was inevitably soothing, a thing to be done meticulously, a reminder that he owned things now, things that he could take care of and that he could stow away in a room that was his own, a room that was clean and tidy) had reminded him of the outsized sweater hanging in the closet, a sweater he still crawled into when he was especially cold, a sweater he occasionally, if he felt relatively certain that he would not be rousted out of bed at an odd hour, slept in.

Regardless, the thought had been planted, and he'd chased it as much as he was ever comfortable chasing an idle thought, first through a hope that she was OK (a reassuring murmur from Fiona that she'd been on Twitter and that she was, besides, so well-loved that any bad news would travel fast) and onwards to an idle musing of what it was that she might be up to.

And then: of course. He almost stopped short in the second floor hallway, his key already in hand, as he realized that Molly's name should have already been added to the mental list he'd been carefully curating and not acting on. He really should, he thought, call her. He'd send her a text, maybe, after he got back to his room.

People have a way of turning up when you're thinking about them, but he didn't know that yet. There were boxes in the hallway, and he couldn't see their owner--the door was open, or maybe they were on the stairs. Hopefully the latter, he thought, not particularly wanting to spend an afternoon helping some stranger move but finding himself feeling obligated to, nonetheless, call tentatively towards the boxes: "You need any help?"

"Molly Finn," said Taym, with a rare, genuine grin, suffused with quiet pleasure at the idea that anyone, even chronically-cheerfully Molly, might light up like that as a result of his presence. "I see we're sort of neighbors," he added, jingling his key and indicating, with a sweep of his arm, the new coat--now branded, not with scythes, but with upturned crescent moons. He half-jogged to meet her, holding out his arms in silent offer to take the box. "Congratulations. You need any help?"

"They told you what?" he asked, aghast enough to distract him from the fact that he was still feeling exposed and antsy at the unexpected hug although, to his credit, he'd managed to not physically cringe this time. He was learning. "You should," he informed her solemnly, "have a lot of pity for that person, because it must be an enormous trial going through life without functional tastebuds."

"Do you need any help? Or cleaning supplies. I can pay you back for that mop you let me borrow ages ago," he added. And then, Taym did something that he did not do very often, and probably would not have done for very many people besides Molly. He volunteered personal information, and not just that but he did it out of a sense of dim personal pride, a boyishly eager desire to show off for an appreciative audience. "You haven't met my roommates yet, have you? You'd like them. Your type, I think."

"They're at home right now," he said, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. "I'll just run and grab them. This is good timing," he added, "because they ********' love boxes."

On that cryptic note he turned to jog for his room before she'd have a chance to protest, and when he returned a few minutes later it was with a cat in each arm: svelte, pantherine, with glossy black fur and gently-gleaming golden eyes that gazed through slitted, skeptical eyelids in the universally accepted feline expression of "who the ******** are you?" Between them was a furry black rope: a shared tail, with a strange cowlick in the middle where the fur ran one way, only to stop and start running the other. One of them narrowed its eyes still further and exhaled a polite and disinterested purr; the other perked its ears and gazed with sudden alertness at box box box, but neither of them made any move to escape Taym's arms. He was presenting them exactly like a little boy with a new puppy, right down to the slightly-paternal beam.

"Konstantin Bashmet," he informed her, "made the decision that I ought to have a cat, and Russians never do things by half measures except cook, so he brought me two. Or maybe it's one. I actually don't know how it works, still. Anyway: god bless Konstantin Bashmet, but only sometimes and mostly where it pertains to cats."

He recognized that "oh please let me pet them" look, as a cat lover, but before he could offer she was busily setting up a feline amusement park.

"Now you have to let me help you clean up," he said. "This is my fault. Although I'm sure they'll be deeply appreciative," he added, stooping (this movement came easier than it had when she'd first met him, less creaky, less accompanied by the suggestion that he might snap through the middle) to deposit both of them.

They moved in an easy tandem, the linked tail apparently no hardship, and set to a cautious investigation. "Their names are Quint and Jessel, and that is the god's honest truth even if America Jones tries to tell you that their names are Bootsie and Tootsie. They can stay out for a half hour," he said, pulling out his phone to set a conservative alarm, "but we won't be in your hair for that long, I promise. I know you're busy. You should get one of the carriers," he added, "and bring a favored Cannon Cat up here. They get along pretty well with America's treat, I'm sure they wouldn't mind the cannon cats. There could be playdates." Shameless.

Taym would be fine with that.

He fell silent for a second, watching the cats in fond silence before giving himself a shake, abruptly remembering why it was that he'd been thinking about Molly.

"I, uhm." He hesitated. "I guess your schedule's going to be a little more packed as a consequence of your promotion, but I--was actually thinking of sending you a text some time soon, if I didn't run into you. Serendipitous," he observed, twisting the hem of his sleeve in his fingers, restless. "I'm working on a project, and it's still sort of a... preliminary ******** stage, right now, but anyway: if you could spare some time for it I think you're exactly the kind of person whose help would be invaluable." Butter 'em up, even though, to be fair, it was true.

"I can't think of anyone better, but it's a huge favor so please, please," he emphasized, "if it's something you're not comfortable with or don't want to do, don't just suck it up. Just tell me."

He hesitated, and then knelt also, partly to get on the same level and partly to torment one of the cats with a scrap of packing tape while he talked, sticking it onto its paw and watching it perplexedly attempt to shake it off. "I'm working on a project with Camille Ryland, for Edith. Newbie training. Most of it's just a question of getting printed materials out there to fresh depods but people listen harder and retain it better if it's face-to-face," he said, with a skeptical tone as though he did not personally believe this but was repeating something that had been repeatedly told to him. "We're trying to get together a list of people who are good contacts for settling in on the Island. I'd like to put you on that list."

And there was another question, too, but he held it back, waiting to gauge her reaction to the project as a whole, without looking at her at all. Suddenly shy.