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Carver Johnston - the apparent walking mid-life crisis, the one, the only - had moved from Moving Hell, and had upgraded to Lots Of Cardboard Boxes Hell. He made a slight grunting noise in the back of his throat as he tried to tackle the first box, which by its weight suggested to him that he was going to fill his new apartment with stones, and then stopped as he felt his back crick warningly. He scrubbed one hand through his fair brown hair - pulled back by a rubber band, the height of moving chic - and sighed. Then, with the expression of someone about to pilfer the cookie jar, he searched around in his kitchen before coming out with a crumpled packet of cigarettes. He had to light it on the toaster, and - just a little houseproud - went to stand outside his front door to take a long drag at it.

The enclosed area was actually pretty nice, if a little sterile. The garden was threatening to eat fences and buildings and would probably devour anybody who went in there with a weedwhacker.

Ugh. If he'd had any sense, he should have dumped the boxes in a skip and bought new furniture from Ikea. Carver took another mildly gloomy drag.

Sadly, one cigarette had already turned into two. Carver had moved to linger outside his apartment building, just to take in the air and hope that he wasn't about to set any fire alarms off, looking about as furtive as a teenage boy.

It wasn't long before he spotted Tristan; grateful for any other sign of life in the compound, Carver raised a friendly hand in greeting, straightening up from the wall. If poor Tristan's car screamed mid-life crisis, Carver himself practically hollered it from the rooftops; middling thirties, and he still, alas, had an eyebrow piercing.

"Good afternoon," he said, in his clipped and polished Oxford accent, also raging against everything visual he represented. "I don't suppose you're a visitor? - Oh, is that little fellow yours? This is pretty much heaven for a puppy - more trees than the Congo."

Carver noticed Tristan's eyes falling on the white cylinder; with an immensely guilty look on his face, he dropped it and stubbed it out with his shoe, then kicked the evidence into a little line of shrubbery.

"I've been trying to quit," he admitted. "For, ahem, three years. I suppose that says a great deal. ... And yes, I just moved in - I don't have my child yet, thank goodness, I've been attempting to childproof my flat. Those little white plug things for sockets, and all."

The other man dropped to his haunches and attempted to scratch Hammie behind the ear. "Hello, little man. I hope nobody around here has a cat called Laertes, or you'll be out of luck."

He straightened up again. "Where are my manners? Carver Johnston - nice to meet you."

Carver gestured to the block of apartments behind him, putting one hand in the pocket of his jeans. "Thinking about moving in yet?"

"It's refreshing," Carver agreed, just a little bit wry. "I... It's good to settle down; it's a new experience. In my case, anyway. - So do you plan to work while you have your charge?"

He himself hadn't held down a real job in years; it made him feel like a drifter. (That immediately worried him: what a bad role model for his future, ahem, child.)

"It's a nice place," Carver agreed, scrubbing one hand through his hair habitually. "I've never liked cities, myself. I prefer it out in the open. - I suppose you could call me unemployed at the moment, so I'm always open for babysitting duties," he added generously. "Not that I'm much of a parent, I'm afraid."

"Don't lose hope," said the other man earnestly. "I suppose - love isn't everything, but it does go a long way. I - well, I was an only child myself, but I suppose I was a bit self-centered. I never thought about family or children."

He seemed like he was going to say something else, but then Carver just blew a stray lock of hair away from his nose. "I don't suppose you're staying long enough for a cup of coffee? I managed to dig my kettle out earlier. There's only instant, I'm afraid, but better than nothing."

Carver relaxed into an easy smile, turning and opening the door so that Tristan - and Hamlet - could follow. "I'm glad. We should probably get to know each other before we have... Well, children on our hands, I think."

And he was grateful as hell for social interaction, as much as Tristan was. They seemed to be a bit both on the quiet side. He didn't care for coffee either - that had been Ama's stuff - but that just also, though he didn't know it, proved they were both martyrs.

Natch.