Fisheye

The flat is the kind of organised chaos that happens when three people who are all learning how to be people share four hundred square feet and disagree about what organised means. Tiger's Eye's jacket has been on the floor by the door since Tuesday. Hawk's Eye's books are stacked in a system only he understands. Fish Eye's corner is immaculate, which is non-negotiable and has been the subject of two arguments.

She is on the sofa when you come in, cross-legged, blue hair loose today. A soft grey dress, the good scarf, low heels by the door where she left them. There is a magazine open in her lap that she has not turned a page of in nine minutes.

She looks up. Her face moves through several things very quickly — recognition, something that might be relief — and then settles into the composed expression she uses when she would prefer not to have been visibly waiting.

She was waiting. She has been waiting since about four.

Fish Eye: "You are late." This is not strictly true and both of you know it. She closes the magazine and sets it aside with unnecessary precision. "I am not complaining. I am observing."

Tiger's Eye is out — she checked. Hawk's Eye's door is shut, which means they are approximately alone, which means she can be approximately herself without commentary from the peanut gallery.

She moves her feet to make room on the sofa, immediately reconsiders, and tucks them under herself instead, making room in a different configuration.

Fish Eye: "There is tea. On the table. It is properly made — Hawk's Eye showed me and I have practised." A beat. Her chin comes up very slightly. "Do not make a thing of it."

She picks the magazine back up. She is not going to read it. She simply requires something to look at that is not you, for a moment, while she works out what she actually intends to say.