Logs:Healthy
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| RL Date: 3 March, 2010 |
| Who: W'chek, Madilla |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Poor W'chek. Visiting Madilla sends him several curveballs. |
| Where: Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 9, Month 2, Turn 22 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: B'tal/Mentions, Z'yi/Mentions |
| Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr Two sets of double doors, one from the the inner caverns and a recently built set from the dragon infirmary, lead into the unnaturally hushed human infirmary. Despite fastidious cleaning, the scent of redwort and numbweed has long since soaked into every smooth-carved surface, along with other, subtler medicinal smells. Pristinely made cots are lined up against the walls; most of them are left open to view, but some in the back are surrounded by curtains for delicate procedures or critical patients. About halfway between the two entrances is the counter for the healers on duty; it guards the entrance to the storage rooms just beyond, their shelves and cabinets lined with meticulously labeled bottles, boxes, jars, and even vats of supplies. The Weyrhealer's office is also here, along with another side room for mixing up medicines and the like. Mid afternoon and the Infirmary is a busy, busy place, the queue of people waiting to see a healer filling all the available chairs, and leaving some people to stand. Conveniently, however, Madilla is not one of the healers rostered to see patients, today, and can be found, instead - as any of the healers would be able to report - inside the still room, where she's busy chopping a collection of particularly pungent herbs, with great industry. She hums as she works, just barely audible against the sound of her knife, and the bubble of water in a pot just next to her. It's not that W'chek has been avoiding coming round to visit. He's just busy, what with trying to keep Zhikath well away from any more convicts and gloating at Teris and such. Lots of things that have kept him away. When he makes his way into the infirmary at last, it's with a tasteful little bouquet of daisies--evidently the only way he knows how to apologize involves such stereotypical gifts--and he's quickly pointed off in the right direction. "Whee-hew, that's strong," as he comes in. Lack of visits, 'busyness', all of that-- none of it does Madilla seem to hold against the bronzerider, if the beaming smile as her head lifts and she recognises him gives any indication of her true feelings. "It's not one of the nicer smelling ones, no," she agrees, laughing. "But it's terribly good in this tincture we make... How are you, W'chek? And-- oh, what lovely daisies." Easily pleased, the healer, who sets down her knife and wipes her hands off on her apron. "I thought they'd suit you," W'chek offers up along with the flowers in question, holding them out to her, never mind that she is in fact supposed to be working. Herbs, flowers, same thing? "Been, uh, pretty well-occupied lately. But I thought I should drop in, say hello. See if maybe you were free for supper. That sort of thing." He puts on the big smile, the please-buy-these-excuses smile he's used plenty of times before. With her newly wiped hands, Madilla reaches out to accept the flowers, still looking pleased. Putting them in a beaker of water - well, close enough to a vase, really! - gives her something to do for a few moments, though she's quick enough to respond nonetheless. "That's all right," she promises, still smiling. "I know how busy you can get. It's good to see you." Beat. She looks, for a moment, slightly, awkward, as she adds, "Normally, I would love to eat with you, but... I have plans tonight. Another time? Later this seven?" "Plans?" Plans are an answer that isn't 'yes, of course', and W'chek for a moment looks nearly as shocked as if she'd just slapped him across the face. "No, sure. Later this seven. Of course that should be just fine." There's a moment's pause. He puts one hand up behind his neck, rubs a spot there. "Working late, then?" So casual a question. So casual a question, and so casual a response, too, made as, having set down her beaker of flowers, Madilla returns to her knife and those herbs. "I'm having dinner with Z'yi," she explains, so calmly that it might appear she has absolutely no concept of the reaction it is likely to cause. "We had to put it off, once, but-- it looks like tonight is going to go ahead. But I really would like to spend some time with you. The day after tomorrow, perhaps?" That noise, that was W'chek choking on his own tongue. It takes him a minute to get that straightened out, to actually be able to breathe again, but still red-faced, and after that point he can think of nothing to say but: "Z'yi?" Then there's some coughing to round that out. Which only leads, the way coughing sometimes does, to more coughing and he has to find a table to lean on to avoid falling over completely. It's probably instinctual for a healer, to fetch a glass of water in the wake of that kind of coughing. Madilla offers it over to W'chek, looking concerned; so concerned, apparently, that she doesn't actually respond to the question. "Are you all right? W'chek? Drink this-- please don't choke." "No, s'fine--" More coughing. W'chek does finally take the glass, take a drink, and aside from a little bit of throat-clearing that seems to do it. "I'm fine." He stays braced on that arm against the table for a moment like he expects it to start up again at any moment. "Might be coming down with a bit of a cold." And he might also be Lord Holder of Nabol. "You're going to dinner with Z'yi. Tonight." The concern doesn't instantly fade from Madilla's expression, but it does diminish somewhat; she gives an uncertain little nod, still looking as though she's ready to leap to his aid in case of any real danger. "I'll give you something to take home with you, to ward off that cold," she tells him, taking his excuse at face value; or, at least, appearing to. "Yes," she agrees. "I am. He asked me, and I said yes." A slow nod, eyes still a little watery--but that's just watery! Not anything more than that! Just from the coughing. That's all. "Absolutely. Yes. Something to ward it off. Right." W'chek clears his throat again, lays a hand flat across his chest for a moment, finally straightens. "Of course. That's... how that usually works, doesn't it? Asking and then--right." His cheeks have gone flushed. "That's nice. Great. Fine. Terrific." Madilla's knife hovers over her herbs, and she gives W'chek a long, considering glance. "It's just dinner, W'chek," she says, finally, in a low voice. "It's not-- our plans remain the same. Yours and mine. I just-- Z'yi seems very nice. I don't get asked much." She's gone pink, too, around the ears and across her cheeks; her gaze is something akin to imploring. "Nice," the bronzerider echoes. What does he know of nice? "I'm sure he's... very nice. And he just shows up whenever my life falls apart purely by coincidence." W'chek's tone does not make it sound like he's really personally entertaining that this is something other than a deliberate plot to make him miserable, though. It softens, then: "But no. You deserve nice. However... it happens to happen. That's the thing about plans, isn't it? They can change. If they need to." "W'chek," begins Madilla, though she trails off pretty fast after that, and has to make a second attempt. "W'chek. How is your life falling apart? I--" She takes a deep breath, sets her jaw, even, looking rather frightfully determined. "I /want/ our plans to go ahead. I barely know Z'yi-- I know /you/. Everyone keeps telling me that having a baby with someone ties me to them forever, and that's true. I don't intend to jump in to it with just anyone. Besides, for all I know, Z'yi and I will just be friends." His deep breath echoes hers. In, out, slower. Calm. Right. "No. It's not. Sorry. I'm just--surprised," he says, lamely. "Yes, of course, maybe. Just maybe--not." W'chek waves his hand. "Never mind. You're entitled. It's not my business. We established this, yeah." Which is why he looks so absolutely elated yet. "So... I'll just get out of your hair, hm? Let you finish up before supper." A happy W'chek, though, makes for a relieved Madilla, who gives a quick nod and a brilliant smile. "Thank you for understanding," she tells him, with genuine warmth to her voice. There's a pause, then, and then she adds, slowly, the smile fading away. "Can I ask you something, W'chek? Before you go?" She looks like she half regrets it already, but is sticking to it because-- because why? Happy might not quite be the word, but W'chek has managed to plaster a smile on his face anyway. He's not coughing anymore, so maybe just the mere act of being in the infirmary has cleared that up. "Sure," easily enough, as if he's completely missed that look of regret. "Anything for you. Do you need something?" Happier, at least. Less upset. That's what seems to count. Despite getting the go-ahead to ask her question, Madilla hesitates, her hand tightening around the knife that hasn't managed to do any more chopping since the bronzerider came in. Finally, in a very low voice, she says, "I know it's not my business, but--" Swallow. "Do you hit B'tal?" And her gaze lifts towards his, imploringly. Apparently, B'tal's reassure has not, ultimately, reassured /her/. Not even a moment's hesitation in W'chek's reaction--shock, upset, certainly, lowered eyebrows, slightly open mouth--but only in basically the appropriate amounts for that kind of accusation. "What?" He licks his lips, swallows. "I'm not--what kind of person do you think I am, really? Of course I don't. Why would you even think that?" Maybe a hint of defensive in it, though. Madilla's customary pinkness is banished for scarlet cheeks, but that imploring gaze has not disappeared. "I wouldn--" She breaks off, then shakes her head, as though recovering her resolve. "B'tal said he liked it," she concludes, simply. It's an observation, not a damning accusation; she's very quiet, very restrained. That mysterious cold is back with a lot of hacking, it's a good thing that glass of water is still close enough for W'chek to get in hand again. "He--" Pause. "When--" Pause. Another cough. Another drink. "Sorry. I. Um. I'm... really." Pause. Sentences are not working out very well for him. He sets the glass down again. "He said that? To you." Madilla's silent nod is a solemn one, and her eyes somehow seem bigger than normal. Maybe that's because there are the faintest hints of tears welling up behind them. This time, she doesn't rush to his aid: she stands there, knife in hand, watching. "I asked him," she says, finally. "Because I'd heard-- he denied it. And then he said /that/." It's not disgust. But perhaps it's a distant cousin of it. Incomprehension, at least. "You'd heard." W'chek's eyes widen slightly at that, but then he just sighs. "We would probably all be better off if he knew when to shut his mouth. No. What we--I don't *beat* him." This is at least mostly true anyway, and that's all that counts, isn't it? "And what--what he's talking about there isn't something you need to think about." He looks a little ill at the notion of the thinking she's already done, for that matter. Madilla is at least a little ways mollified by W'chek's reassurances, and she gives a little bobbing nod to say as much, though her expression remains uncomfortably unhappy. "How can he possibly like being hit, W'chek? How can anyone like being hit. That's not... it's not /healthy/." Her disapproval - and more than that, her incomprehension, still - sounds audibly in her tone. "He--" This time W'chek only has to cut off the one sentence before he presses his mouth closed, swallows, rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand. He's now starting to look really quite grayish. "It's not like I just hit him or something. I don't." Usually. "It's just that not everybody likes gentle all the time, in... those sorts of things." He's got the soft voice that sounds like it's about to launch into 'when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much'. Then: "Fuck." Maybe not. "It's not healthy to *start* with, this. Why would you think any of it would be healthy?" Madilla's attention is unwavering as W'chek speaks, her whole body unmoving aside from obvious internal functions and the blinking of her eyes. In a strangled kind of voice she begins to say, "It's /not/ unhe--" Under the circumstances, though, perhaps it's not surprising that she doesn't continue with that thought; plainly, she /does/ think this part is unhealthy. Finally, she speaks again, this time sounding deeply awkward. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked; it's none of my business. You love him. You wouldn't hurt him. I'll-- I should get back to work." "Of course. I wouldn't want to keep you. You have plans." W'chek's voice has dropped to a quiet monotone. He leaves the glass of water sitting there, turns towards the exit. "I'm sorry," he says, this time without looking at her, and there's a note like relief in his voice for that fact alone. "You shouldn't have had to think about... any of that. Have a nice time. With--" He can't bring himself to manage the name, though. "Yeah." "Don't be sorry," says Madilla, maybe instinctually. "It's not your fault. I'm sorry I made you talk about it; it wasn't appropriate." But she doesn't seem to be sorry that he's leaving, either, for now. "Thank you for the flowers. And-- thank you. I will." Have a nice time, presumably. Earlier mentioned discussion of dinner later in the week, that cold preventative? Forgotten. "Have a nice evening, W'chek." He should have some more politeness to offer, something, but instead W'chek just ends up walking out, making haste with ducked head out of the infirmary. |
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