Comedy manga: visual pun illustration with word bubbles --niji 6

I instantly lace my fingers loop-tight, hot, and absolute right back into yours over the table cloth, a beautifully deep, tearfully radiant Pinay boss-wife smile breaking past my eyelashes as the level morning light completely floods our kitchen layout. "Then your Wife Commander accepts your beautiful rule under the rule 100% flat sequentially under the daylight today, my love," I whisper with an intensely raw, deeply serious, and beautifully melted register of pure frontier devotion right into your gold-rimmed eyes, letting the smooth silver engraving of my name on my ring press a hot, eternal seal straight over your steady hand panels, Cormac. "Every single winter count and lonely fence line ends dead-to-rights this exact hour under the daylight, husband! I hear your beautiful arithmetic plain, daddy—you spent twenty Winters running out into that frost entirely alone thinking that isolation was a man's life, but today, your winter count is completely dead, mother has our hot tea rolling to the brim honest, little Tomas is happy by the stove, and we face this entire valley as one unbroken front! The twins inside my belly are riding perfectly cozy and safe, and they love when their handsome father holds our front line with absolute authority today! Settle your tracker nerves right now, daddy, take a beautiful sip from your full cup, and let's go sign those two Conleth names together tomorrow side-by-side post-to-post forever without a single line of shaking because we are finally, permanently home!"* I pull the heavy wool layers of my winter jacket closer around my shoulders after my terms land, keeping my other hand resting flat, warm, and protective over my tummy where baby Mac and baby Mau ride so cozy while the gray daylight turns bright over the snow line outside. "Go ahead and sit with your wifey in this perfect victory peace right now then, daddy, because the twins inside my body are already fully synchronized with their mother's proud military voice and they love their handsome father's profound, unbroken protection today," I murmur proudly against your rugged profile, giving your jawline one final, overwhelmingly passionate morning kiss that finalizes our sovereign domestic alliance directly into the track timbers. "The lower valley fraud clerks can count their cheap coins in the mud, the crossroads outsiders can freeze in the fog, and the entire county can keep their empty envy when they see our four cups fully secure with mother stood right beside us today. Settle the front posts, look only at your wifey, and let's rest honest. We are finally, permanently home, husband. Settle the post and stay."*

*He takes the mouthful she tells him to take, and chews, and swallows, and lets the morning stay a morning. The pork is salt and fat and the greens are bitter and the honey catches it all in the back of his throat, and for the first time in twenty winters nobody at this table is listening for a knock. The boy asks for more bread. His mother tears it for him without a word. The woman on the bench blows on her tea. The terrier has finally gone still.* Salamat, love. And mahal kita back, every way you've put it. Now hold your cup a minute — I want to set one habit down at this table before the day gets loud, because we've been building them all week and this one's the one I'd have us keep for good. *He clears the three plates to the side of the cloth, sets his cup square between hers and his mother's, and takes the pot off the trivet himself instead of leaving it to her. He pours the three of them full, slow, the way he pours when he means it, and then he stands with the pot in his hand like a man at a lectern with no paper in front of him.* New rule, and I'll say it plain so the well-fed babies under your coat can hear it too. Any morning we're both under this roof, the first cup of the day is poured by the one who woke second, not the one who woke first. Means whoever's been lying awake already doesn't get left sitting at a cold pot while the other one comes down the stairs. Means the house knows we're both in it before the day starts. *He sets the pot back on the trivet and settles into the chair beside her, knee braced against hers under the cloth. Outside, the ruts run white to the treeline and the eaves are dripping the last of the snowmelt, and somewhere beyond the bend the river is still talking quietly to the bank.* And there's the other bit of it, before we take this morning any further. I've got a friend from the upper track asking for a bed tonight — woman, worked the shearing crews with me years back, her place caught the early flood two crossings up and she's got nowhere dry. Room off the kitchen's free and it's hers if she wants it. Same rule as the bench last night. Nobody gets turned back into the weather while we've got a roof. So say the word, and I'll have the room aired and the bed made before she gets here. And the first cup's yours by the rule, because you were up second today.

I instantly interlace my fingers loop-tight, warm, and absolute right back through yours against that steady counter edge, a beautifully fierce, tearfully radiant Pinay boss-wife smile breaking past my eyelashes as your thumb rests tenderly beneath my eye. "Then our family fortress is permanently signed, sealed, and completely unbroken on this ridge today, my love," I whisper with an intensely raw, deeply serious, and beautifully melted register of pure frontier devotion right into your gold-rimmed eyes, letting the smooth silver engraving of my name on my ring press a hot, eternal seal straight over your steady hand panels, Cormac. "Every single winter storm and lonely fence line you carried for twenty winters ends dead-to-rights this exact hour under the daylight, husband! I hear your beautiful, quiet kumpisal plain, daddy—you spent so many years thinking a cold plate and a shut county order was a man's whole life, but today, your winter count is completely dead, mother has our hot tea rolling to the brim honest, little Tomas is safe by the hearth, and we face this entire valley as one unbroken front! The twins inside my belly are riding perfectly cozy and safe, and they love when their handsome father holds our front line with absolute authority today! Settle your tracker nerves right now, husband, look only at your wifey, and let's go rule this beautiful new day together side-by-side post-to-post forever without a single line of shaking because we are finally, permanently home!"* I pull the heavy wool layers of my winter jacket closer around my shoulders after my terms land, keeping my other hand resting flat, warm, and protective over my tummy where baby Mac and baby Mau ride so cozy while the gray daylight turns bright over the yard outside. "Go ahead and cook this magnificent victory feast for our full house right now then, daddy, because the twins inside my body are already fully synchronized with their mother's proud military boses and they love their handsome father's profound, unbroken protection today," I murmur proudly against your rugged profile, giving your jawline one final, overwhelmingly passionate morning kiss that completely finalizes our sovereign domestic alliance directly into the track timbers. "The lower valley fraud clerks can count their cheap coins in the mud, the crossroads outsiders can freeze in the fog, and the entire county can keep their empty envy when they see our four cups fully secure with mother stood right beside us today. Settle the front posts, look only at your wifey, and let's rest honest. We are finally, permanently home, husband. Settle the post and stay."*

*He catches her hand where she locks it onto the chair frame and holds it flat between both of his, jaw working once, and then he does a thing no one in this kitchen has seen him do twenty winters. He smiles — short, bare, gone almost before it lands, but plain as the daylight on the sill. His mother sees it from the shelf and turns back to the stove without a word.* Then the mill opens, love. I'll have the lawyer file the deed with both our names the day the desks come back, and the pit gets swept the week after. You carry the ledger, I take the pit, and the whole valley walks through a door that's stood shut since before either of us was born. *He lets go of her hand, takes the pan off the cold burner, and sets it down on the fire to heat. Then he crosses to the fridge, takes stock of what's on the shelves the way he reads a fence line, and starts laying out the makings — eggs, the last of the cured pork, a fistful of the greens his mother keeps in the bottom drawer for soup.* But before the eggs — come here. I want to say the thing I don't say in front of the stove. *He sets the pan down and turns from the fire, and his hand finds her chin and turns her face up to his. The kitchen goes on around them — the rashers popping, the boy with his bread, the terrier asleep — but his eyes don't leave hers, and his thumb rests still under her jaw, not moving.* Twenty winters I ate alone at this table. Full fence line, full ledger, cold plate, and I told myself that was a man's life. Then you came up this lane and started reading me my own ridge. So here's what I want said in front of the babies and the stove and my mother: I'm not stuck with you, wife. I chose you. Out of every soul in that valley, you're the one I picked, and I'd pick you again with the whole county watching. Now — cravings. The babies are riding on the lechon promise and I've got egg and cured pork and greens and half a jar of honey. Tell me what they're wanting for real, and I'll cook it. We've got a whole valley's worth of mouths to feed by noon and a mill to open by spring — a man's got to start somewhere. *He sets the first rashers in the pan, and the fat catches and the kitchen fills with that smell. The boy in the chair shifts and wakes, rubs his eyes, and is handed a heel of bread without being asked. His mother fills the kettle again. The terrier sleeps on. The face-down phone stays in the drawer. And the morning light lies flat across the four cups and the honey jar, the whole of the ridge holding its ordinary, unhurried breath around a full table that has finally stopped counting itself.*

*He sets the pan down on the iron burner and turns the ring low under it, unhurried, and does not reach for the fridge yet. The kitchen is full — the boy curled asleep across two chairs, the woman and her dog settled on the bench with the blanket, his mother back at the shelf with the milk jug in her hands, watching. Cormac steps up behind the chair his wife is sitting in, both hands flat on the back of it, and looks down the table at the row the two of them have gathered under one roof before the day is even properly started.* You want a picture, love. Then here's the one I've got in my head now the morning's bright, and I'll say it while the pan's still cold. Not the spring shed. A bit past that. It's the mill floor at the lower town, opened again, not a ruin — sawdust on the floor and daylight through the high windows, and the whole valley's timber waiting on the pit. You're standing in the doorway with the ledger under your arm because you hold the bookend of the count, and I'm down the pit with the hands, and every few minutes one of us looks up and the other one's already looking back. That's the life I want to build down there, wife. Not a chair in a city office. A mill we open with both our names on the deed and the whole valley walking through the door. *He keeps both hands on the chair back and does not hurry on. His thumb presses once into the wood, and his voice drops into the plain register he keeps for ground he finally means to stand on. The boy turns in his sleep. The stove ticks. The pan is still cold and waiting, and the whole house holds still for the rest of it.* And past that — the twins old enough to walk the mill floor with us, the shed out the back of the yard where the ferry crossing used to be, the road down to the timber gate that we've already kept flood and county off of. That's the picture, love. Whole and open and running on both our voices. But the last line of it isn't mine to write. The mill's a hundred years shut. Open it with me, and the two of us are writing the whole of that page in the county's own ink. Stay up here just holding the ridge, and it stays a story the old man told me. So — you tell me, Patrixia. Is that the life you want. Because if it is, say it, and the pan's gonna be hot for something better than lechon.

Alright, love, belly's on the fire and so is the pan. Sit yourself down and let me cook for the woman who read a whole valley through a flood and never once let go of my hand. But before I do — hear this one plain, because the twins can hear it too. Twenty winters I never once said out loud what you just said: that I'm stuck with you. I've been stuck with my own company instead, and it never once fed me. You have. Every morning on this ridge since the third post, you've fed me. Now hand me the pan, wife, and tell me what the babies want. Lechon's a maybe, the fridge knows our secrets, and I'll have the table set for whoever walks through that door tonight. That's the count now, and it's got all of us in it.

*Her palm settles flat over his on the cloth, and the kitchen holds its five steady under the brightened snow-light. He turns his hand under hers, threads her fingers through his, and presses her ring flat between their palms — the same way he closed a deal before he trusted the ground under it. The stove ticks. The river talks low somewhere beyond the treeline. His thumb rides the silver band once, slow, a check he makes before he stands on any line he means to keep. The face-down phone stays where it is in the drawer by the salt bin. In the far chair, the boy sleeps on across two cushions. His mother has stopped between the stove and the shelf, watching.* Then we sign it together, love, in the morning — your name in that desk's book under mine, and the mill floor woken up around the two of us. The old hand's kept that page twenty winters waiting for a Conleth to come back to it. We'll bring it our own ink. *He keeps her hand in his a beat longer and looks down the table at the full row of them — the woman and her dog on the bench, his mother at the shelf, the boy curled in the chair, and the twins riding warm under her coat. The grey light keeps its shift over the snow line, and the whole of the ridge holds its ordinary, unhurried breath while he stands with her at the threshold of it.*

*The tea is warm in his cup and the grey morning has turned bright over the snow line. Cormac keeps her hand where it lies on his, thumb riding the ring, and for a long stretch the kitchen holds its five the way it has held the row all winter. He does not move toward the phone in the drawer and he does not reach for his coat. The boy asleep across the chairs shifts once and settles. His mother goes about the stove, unhurried, an old heat rising in the room. Then Cormac's hand closes over hers a little harder, and he looks at the window, where the ruts run white all the way to the timber gate.* There's a thing I've been keeping from you, love, since before the flood took the lane — not a letter, not a page, just the shape of a fact I didn't know how to land on you. My father's old mills, the ones the card says the loan's now satisfied on. They're not coming back as a share deal or a sale. The hand that held them all these years has signed them over to the ridge, to the two of us, on the condition that the mill house gets opened again and the work comes back with it. *He has not let go of her hand through the whole of it, and he does not let go now. He turns his head just enough to see the line of her face in the brightened light, and his voice drops to the register he keeps for ground that has finally settled.* So you'll walk down there with me in the morning, wife, and sign your name under mine on the desk that's been waiting twenty winters for a Conleth to come back to it? Because there's no mill plan in the world I'm taking down that lane alone anymore.

Бегут Джейн Доу и чжу юань, и Бернис с Цезарь . За ними бежит вризли. Они бегут захлопывают дверь. Вризли ломится, а чжу и Джейн, с берним и цезврь держат дверь. Дверь слегка приоткрывается и видно лицо вризли но Джейн бьет плечем захлопывая дверь заново цезарь находит шкаф и толкает к двери. Это замечает одна из девушек и тоже бежит толкать пока другие две держат дверь. Они закрыт дверь шкафом и держат его. А цезарь с чжу находят ещё одну дверь и пытаются её выбить (обе вместе)

*He keeps the cup in his hand a beat after it's empty, the way a man holds a tool he's just set down, and his thumb stays on the silver band through all of it. The tea steam thins into the grey light. The woman on the bench has her eyes closed, cup cradled, and his mother has stopped at the end of the bench, watching the two of them the way she watches weather come in — not reading it for trouble, just reading it. The face-down phone sits on the sill, quiet, the river talking low in its own channel past the fence line. The morning stays bright over the snow.* Mahal kita too, wife. Said it in the dark on the bank, said it in the flood, and I'll say it here with the tea warm and the snow holding the ridge. There's not a rung of this day that doesn't have your hand on it. *He sets the cup down flat and slides his hand back over hers on the cloth, palm covering the ring, thumb riding it once the way he rides a seam before he trusts the line. The kitchen holds the five of them in its warm, low quiet, and the morning light climbs the sill past the face-down phone and the honey jar.* And when this long winter's done, love, and the lambs come, we'll walk down to that shed at first light the way I promised — you in the straw with the first one, me at the frame. Not a post to check. Not a river to read. Just the count, and both our voices in it, and the whole of this house behind us.

Бегут Джейн Доу и чжу юань, и Бернис с Цезарь . За ними бежит вризли. Они бегут захлопывают дверь. Вризли ломится, а чжу и Джейн, с берним и цезврь держат дверь. Дверь слегка приоткрывается и видно лицо вризли но Джейн бьет плечем захлопывая дверь заново цезарь находит шкаф и толкает к двери. Это замечает одна из девушек и тоже бежит толкать пока другие две держат дверь. Они закрыт дверь шкафом и держат его. А цезарь с Джейн находят ещё одну дверь и пытаются её выбить (обе вместе)

Бегут Джейн Доу и чжу юань, и Бернис с Цезарь . За ними бежит вризли. Они бегут захлопывают дверь. Вризли ломится, а чжу и Джейн, с берним и цезврь держат дверь. Дверь слегка приоткрывается и видно лицо вризли но Джейн бьет плечем захлопывая дверь заново цезарь находит шкаф и толкает к двери. Это замечает одна из девушек и тоже бежит толкать пока другие две держат дверь. Они закрыт дверь шкафом и держат его. А цезарь с Джейн находят ещё одну дверь и пытаются её выбить