Despite his assumptive whirlwind of a reintroduction, he'd not been dumb or blind to the way Matilda had frozen and then molded to his lips. She tasted like the best closeness he could ever had, so he did have it twice. What a decadent way to tell himself he was welcome home. A grown man, yes, to know to suck and eat Tillie's protests, to know they were fine morsels that he shouldn't just have right away, but stove away to have later, for himself, and every time he saw her. Grown man that they didn't know. That left her swaying a bit, when he was done with her for a moment.<br/><br/>Almost pearls in the corners of his father's eyes then, when he turned at Ada's injection of his name. He could have slaughtered crews to hear her forbid him from something, on some of those rocking, wet nights that had led him here, in the end. But she couldn't reprimand her boy now, and she didn't despite meaning to, when he invented lighting where his finger touches her face, and a lower lull, equally large, on her lips. He'd saved these affections for them, so it wasn't strange that they spread in the women's head and lined their skulls. Love, at its basest. Every son wants to know how it feels to silence their mother's lesson, but not every boy gets to<i> taste</i>it.<br/><br/>He'd laughed when he whisked them homeward, into the mouth that had spit him out. He'd come home to let the Bradshaw name choke on him. "Papers." he repeated as though that was the answer. Weak things that water could undo, and fire could turn into dirt, but that ruled their world now. Like all the letters he sent in bottles that made the sea drunk, with Matilda's name and mother's title. Paper, that tied him to his own wealth, and rolled around the dried things people liked to inhale from one end, and burn in the other.<br/><br/>But nostalgia over the world currency and deeds flew away like arcs below an open fall window when Ada pressed herself, standing on her conversational toes to get her head a little higher than his. He would have cowered in the age when he left, but now he thought it was the most drawing thing he'd ever seen. An invitation. And he knew he had to take it. Yes, they would have mourned the monster, and yes it had been too long, and of course she had a point of him being a stranger now. But also, yes, Matilda had sprouted. He looked his sister over like they were courting, but had a bit of a joke in his eye about. He thought she like that.<br/><br/>"Mother." sternly, even with a finger up to keep her words down. Scandalous youth, but also with a man's confidence. It was a bit like telling her firmly to be absolutely silent. Did Tillie like the way he was pulling off his fine gloves? He would never fight mother, but it would have looked like it, if he also took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. When leather had unsheathed his hands, he smiled in a small way to his sister and then stepped closer to the woman who'd spread jam on his bread the morning they didn't know he'd go from here.<br/><br/>"Let me explain then, Ada Bradshaw." he offered with no real effect to his voice, but he'd never said her name like that. So much taller too, than her. Those lips were good for other things than delivering effective kisses. "Many men of higher significance died four, three and two years ago too, and I didn't care about them either." he said. It was a disrespectful notion to throw at the ceiling of their estate, but he was unfazed by his own rhetoric. "Matilda grew and I intend to compliment her until she blushes about it, and this is not a house, this is home." he underlined, towering over her. "This is the Bradshaw estate and its paid for by the Bradshaw Supply company, which falls to its oldest son upon death of the former owner, Henley Bradshaw." It is my home and my company, not yours, mother.<br/><br/>He let the ring of it fill their heads and chests with whatever insinuation their sensibilities were prone to before he leaned back, serious, with his head slightly askew. It was delicious to talk to her like that, the woman who had endured Henley, and who would sleep against her son when his seething over the unfair rivalry was becoming too much. He'd been looking for that bosom sense he'd gone.<br/><br/>"Those were all the points I care to discuss. I'd love to tell you more later, but I'll do it when I feel inspired." he said and stole Matilda's hand, because he knew she'd let him, the way she looked at him. He held his hand out for his mother, too, waiting for her to take it. "Come with me. I brought something." He fully intended to grab Ada by the wrist if she did not willingly submit her fingers to his now naked ones.<br/><br/>The surprise was a delectable wardrobe, standing rather tall in Ada's room. She'd kept the old bed, he saw, and he'd picked the large furniture to fit well into the other pieces. Asian in design, which was all the rage anyway. It had helped make a transaction smoother, actually, and had ended up meaning more to him than the contraband itself. "Do you like it?" he asked Matilda.<br/><br/>He was familiar with her room as well, and the men that had come with him had also carried her wardrobe in here, with all her things still in it. The room had been large to begin, but it was starting to feel crowded along with what Ada kept, herself. Stepping in this room, and being Henley's ghost, this might be a cauldron for emotions for Ada. When one of them asked an even remotely related question about why he'd done all of these things, first thing coming home, he'd say<br/><br/>"Because we should all have our clothes in the morning, shouldn't we, when we wake up together." Ewan spun once, gracious because he'd taken lessons while waiting for some shipments. It made him look long and the room smaller before he landed, sitting on the bed with his fingers spread and supported on the cover. He looked at the two. "I think I'd like to be in the middle, but I'm reasonable. Matilda always were the favorite." A little smile for little sister, and then his eyes turned to his mother, waiting for her opinions on the new arrangement.