Logs:Keeping Gifts
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| RL Date: 11 October, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, T'mic |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: T'mic brings Faryn a gift. They're predictably awkward. |
| Where: Kitchens, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 12, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Backdated. |
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| The morning dawned a blizzard of ominous proportions, the winds howling through the cavern openings and snow several inches deep on the ground, to add to the permanent white blanket of winter that drapes the weyr this time of turn. Faryn's in the kitchens ahead of most of the bedraggled and wet crowd in the half-hour leading up to the breakfast rush, complaining without passion as a bowl is added to the tray in front of her, "Why does the weather always turn to shit when I have a rest day?" She's settled in one of the nooks, a black ledger open on the table and a pencil in hand, balancing the columns as the kitchen staff bustles around her, trying to place the last touches on breakfast. Jorrth saw her. Even in a blizzard. He saw her at the last minute, though, which is why she was able to even just skirt the bowl unmolested. But he still saw her. And that's probably why T'mic, all with snow turning into water and dribbling down off those big shoulders of his, is suddenly there, in the kitchen, with both arms wrapped around his his misshapen belly. "Because it's winter time," comes his answer, because he's there, right at one of those nooks, while people have to move around his bulk to carry on with setup. "You don't say?" is perfunctory, Faryn not even looking up from her ledger to deliver the sarcasm to whomever until she's finished carefully inscribing a number. When she does, it's a moment of surprise betrayed in her dark eyes. "Oi!" That's one of the kitchen staff, voicing his objection to having to navigate around yet another obstacle with his burden. Faryn watches, deliberating, then possibly for the sake of an on time breakfast, she lifts her chin to gesture across her table at the empty seat there. "They'll kick you out, you stay in the way." T'mic tries to get out of the way, so really, he's halfway into the seat across from Faryn before she's even nodded. But that nod is permission to sit down, and is acknowledged with that big grin that's so easy to him. "Yup," is contented agreement. Once sitting, he doesn't have to support his belly-package, and gets to removing his outerwear. Good job, too; he's been inside long enough that he's overheating, and that face of is his getting all red. "Glad Jorrth found you," comes as he's contorting to get his arm out of its sleeve. It opens the undone jacket more. The package falls toward his lap, and gets stopped by the edge of the table. It's still wrapped and mysterious, though. Faryn notes another figure in the margin as T'mic settles, reaching out with her free hand and arm to push the half-filled tray closer to the wall so there is space between them. That done, she finally tucks the pen in the spine of the book, closes it, and lifts her eyes to T'mic. The package is noted, as are his struggles with it, but short of a sympathetic little wrinkle of the nose as he juggles it, she says nothing about it. Instead, "Of course he saw me. He's made it his life's goal to assault me, every chance he gets. I wish you'd stop him." For a guy who's now trying to get his other arm free, and seems to be stuck by the limited flexibility of his shoulder, T'mic's, "It's just 'cause he likes you," is really rather smooth. "He headbutts me all the time. Doesn't lick me, but you know. You're special, that way, I guess." Ahah! A pivot at the hips seems to have helped. At long last, the empty jacket is pushed over the back of his chair. That package is recovered, and placed, proudly, on the table. He tries not to let it overlap onto her book or anything, really he does. Faryn watches the ultimate struggle in progress across from her, the corner of her mouth quirking in an unbidden smile at the awkwardness of it all. Fond, but also brief. When he untangles himself, she quickly schools back into her special brand of neutral, everlasting smirk included. "I think he does it because I smell and taste amazing, all that time spent in here. So much spice. One day, you'll find him crunching my bones and regret it." Her eyes drop to the deposited package, and she tugs the book free. She also notes his pride, and ever difficult, avoids the logical leap in favor of, "Who shall I deliver this to? I'll extend a favor, this once, as long as you don't make it a habit. I'm Farideh's assistant, not the weyrlingmasters'." T'mic misses it, that smile. Maybe he doesn't need it. "You do smell and taste pretty good," is the sort of thing that should've been delivered dryly, but that he can't quite. There's no sad puppy look to go with it, though. No Jorrth look, either, though he does look right at her. It's just T'mic. Likewise, when he extends one of those big fingers to point. "It's already delivered. It's for you." Which then, of course, prompts, "The big one at home, it's done now. And I did this other one, but then it got wet or something. I had to redo it. This one." The finger tap-taps on the table near that package. Point T'mic: a faint blush rises on Faryn's cheeks and she averts her gaze to the box, drumming her fingertips like his own tapping is an invitation for harmony. When she stops, it's to touch the edges of the parcel, apparently hers, eyebrows knitting. She shakes her head and gently pushes it over the centerline of the table. "It's very nice of you, but I really don't deserve a gift. You...it seems a lot of work you put into someone who...." Fill in the blanks. Those big brown eyes blink at her. And then he's smiling. Of course he is. "Gifts aren't about deserving them, Faryn." Didactic. It's a tone that would be familiar, even, if she'd known his grandmother at all. T'mic extends an index finger, and undoes the change in that box's position with a little, gentle push. "It's your job to just take something, when someone's giving it to you." More his own voice, is, "Oh, and this one, you gotta keep." A few quick nods. "Don't you just sound like you've been practicing talking to weyrlings in a mirror." The foolishness of them playing pong with a package is too much, so Faryn accepts it at his insistence, folding her arms over top of it like an addition to the tabletop. Like a child, she can't entirely resist thumbing the edge of the paper, but seems disinclined to open it now, here, with most of a full breakfast tray that can't be hers. "Do I?" she challenges archly, one brow lifting. "I don't need a mirror for that," says T'mic, honest as ever. There's satisfaction, in the way he crosses his arms over each other on his side of the table. His boxless side of the table. "Yeah," is too solemn and serious an answer to that challenge. "You do. For this one." No sooner are those arms settled, it seems, that one's lifting, its hand rubbing at his mouth and chin. Faryn snorts her amusement for the first, shaking her head. "This one. Are you saying there's more? Because, if so, T'mic, you should stop while you're ahead." There's warning in her tone, but it's gentle as far as warnings go. "What?" says T'mic first, brow furrowing a little. But then he understands, eyes widening a bit, and shakes his head. "There's not more. I mean, not now. It's just important, that's all." A nod, as if that could settle it all. His chair bump-scrapes a little as he adjusts his feet under it, and his weight on it. Faryn's mollified enough that she says with a brisk nod, "Alright then. If it's so important." To you, she doesn't say. She studies him again, lips parted like she's got something to say, then shakes her head and settles on, "Thanks," even though she hasn't even opened it yet. She's saved from more by the passing kitchen staff, who drops a plate at her elbow. She scoops it on to the tray she pushed aside, then draws the entire thing up onto the box in preparation to leave. "Stay dry, yeah? Soon enough you'll have all those baby dragons to worry about; not the time for a flu." T'mic's eyebrows draw a bit closer in toward each other. He looks concerned at her, when she starts moving. Enough that he stands, and has a hand almost at her elbow when he comes up with, "Faryn?" Wordsmith. "Yeah?" Faryn's scooting to the edge of her seat so she can slide the parcel into her arms in one smooth movement. But at least she pauses. Even looks at him, more directly than she has been most of the conversation. "Um," says T'mic, when she actually looks at him. Forgotten. Then, it's too awkward to be any sort of plan, 'cause he has to lean all awkward and brace a hand on the table and almost get clocked by a pot full of porridge. But either way, that big bluerider makes to put a kiss on her cheek. Would she recoil if she could, unhampered by packages and breakfast and the small space she's confined in by the table and her seat? It's possible. Hard to tell, really, but his kiss lands, and she betrays her surprise with a stiffening of her spine and the widening of her eyes. "Um," she echoes his sentiment, then rises quickly to her feet. "I have to go." Because of course she does. When she skirts past him to join the flow of the kitchen foot traffic, it's quick, with little room to be called back. Of course, that means her last is meant as goodbye. T'mic doesn't try to block her. Even, awkwardly manoeuvers out of her way. There's more - whatever it was that had gotten displaced by that impulse - but he doesn't bother trying with it. Just sort of turns as she goes, and backs up until he can sit on the table (warning creak), and watch her leave. His last will just have to stand as that, too. |
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