"So," Hattie mumbled, now comfortably swaddled in layers of a thick fur coat that made her appear almost five times her normal, heavily pregnant size. "Who are you, exactly?"

The figure slurped thoughtfully on the heated beverage he cradled between his glowing palms, looking up, and fixing her with an unnervingly knowing stare, before lowering his gaze, to stare, rather intently, at the set of keys he had deposited at the very edge of the table.

There was a pregnant pause. 

One that seemed even more pregnant than she was. 

Perhaps an untimely sneeze away from giving birth.

"My name is Patsy."

Blinking in surprise, Hattie choked, picking up her cup and gulping down a large mouthful of far too hot tea, in an undignified manner.

Then, she choked some more, tongue cringing in anticipation of the burning that was bound to follow.

Nothing.

 Hattie would have gasped, had she not been a properly bred young woman, though she was unable to resist a small smile, when she realised that being dead, did in fact have its advantages.

The tea hadn't burnt her. 

It also tasted as though she was drinking air, but, one mustn't nitpick, she supposed.

Shaking her head briefly, she glanced again at Patsy, feeling slightly giddy, and wholly embarrassed. He didn't seem to have noticed though.

Shrugging, Hattie opened her mouth to repeat the name, in a breathy tone that was sure to leave him gaping with awe, but stopped, the syllables catching in her throat like treacle. She wasn't sure what it was, but that name didn't feel right.

"You look like a Margret to me."

Nodding, the figure hummed rather melodically in agreement, absently twirling a glowing finger through the steam that twisted above the cup, before plunging it deep inside the liquid.

Hattie stiffened, resisting the urge to screech, instead, crossing her legs at the ankles, trying to ignore how the coat rode up her neck, in a way that she was certain made her look like a disgruntled pigeon.

Growling, she recrossed her ankles, batting away the rising cloth,  unable to banish the caricature like image of herself that she had conjured, of a young woman looking like an overweight pufferfish, bouncing through an endless expanse of meaningless pit.

Patsy lowered another finger into the drink, smiling rather pleasantly did so, as though he were completely ignorant to the felony he had committed.

One never dunked their fingers in drinks, it was unladylike by all accounts, and utterly undignified. Although, she mused, perhaps etiquette worked differently for dead people.

Maybe dunking fingers in heated beverages was a sign of great respect, a greeting made by commoners, to respect the presence of royalty. 

Tossing her hair to the side, Hattie floundered in her chair for a brief moment, forcing herself to slide further up, so her back was braced against the straight, wooden chair. Twisting her head marginally to the left, and tilting her chin upwards slightly, she attempted a regal smile.

"Yes, everyone says that, I have no idea why," Patsy replied, seeming not to notice her adjusted stance. 

She decided that he must have been blinded by the light he emitted. Surely if he had seen her in her poised glory, he would have cowered a little, or bowed, or maybe offered to polish her shoes.

Hattie wriggled her toes, glaring at her bare feet, before quickly returning her focus to Patsy, in case he noticed her apparent anger towards her legs.

He could polish her necklace then, since Chase had neglected his duties as the man who'd knocked her up. 

Surely it was common knowledge that as the father of her unborn child, he would be expected to lovingly massage her feet after her death, and cry in utter devastation over her body, before slipping her into her favourite stilettos.

If she ever met him again, she'd give him a lesson or two on properly mourning the death of the woman whose jello he stole while she was giving birth to his slug-child.

Stirring the drink with his fingers, Patsy took a long, contented sip.

Hattie grappled with her thoughts for a second, before reeling them into submission, and nodded empathetically at Patsy, all the while attempting to pull the thick material of the coat, down, over the bulge of her stomach and failing horrifically.

Pregnancy was terribly inconvenient, almost as inconvenient as being dead.

Patsy let go of his cup, the porcelain hovering in front of him for a moment, before twisting into a beam of light and disappearing. Then, with a well practiced flick of his wrist, he was holding a glowing notebook, and a pen in the most ludicrous shade of orange, topped with an obnoxiously grinning carrot.

"Now," he murmered, "Let's begin."

Blinking, Hattie peered at him curiously, from under the large hood of her coat, keeping a firm grip on her own cup, for fear that it might disappear too.

Despite its obvious lack of flavour, she was reluctant to relinquish the tea. It could, after all, be the last drink she would ever have the pleasure of sniffing.

"Begin what, exactly?" she questioned, recrossing her ankles once more, in an attempt to get comfortable. Then, snarling a quiet huff of disapproval, Hattie gave up altogether on sitting primly, instead, allowing herself to sit comfortably, with her legs splayed apart, arguing that she was pregnant, and so, should be allowed to sit how she pleased. 

She was also dead. 

Surely that counted for something.

Heaving a sigh of relief, she once again turned her gaze to Patsy, attempting to regain her politely puzzled expression, fluttering her eyelashes for added effect.

Hattie was rather proud of her eyelashes, in her opinion they far outshined her muddy brown eyes, and could fell a hundred men with a single, well considered bat.

"The application, of course," he chortled, seemingly unfazed, and surprisingly not 'felled'. 

Clapping two glowing palms together in delight, he released a series of high pitched yips, managing to look and sound exactly like a dolphin she'd once seen, in a family visit to SeaWorld, albeit a glowing one.

Hattie had never been fond of the word 'application'. From her knowledge, it was generally used when talking about work, and she was not one for labour of any sort. 

So, pushing away from the makeshift table Patsy had constructed from several broken beams of wood, she drifted towards the centre of the seemingly endless chasm she'd lovingly named 'Jill', ferociously swinging her arms in an ungraceful rendition of the breastroke, waving goodbye as she went.

"I'll be keeping the coat, Patsy," she called, stroking the layers of fur, "It suits me."

"Miss," Patsy protested, rather aggressively thumping the grinning carrot that topped his pen against the table. " I must advise you not to - "

Hattie hit the wall with a dull thud.

The carrot broke off, hovering for a moment, an inch from the table, before winking out of existence.

Patsy winced.

A muffled 'I'm okay', sounded from Hattie's general area, and Patsy smiled, rubbing his hands together, while releasing another series of dolphin noises.

"Wonderful, let's start on that application then, shall we?"

Hattie collided with the wall again, this time, the action seeming planned, and decidedly well executed.

"Not okay."