Logs:Stupid Love
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| RL Date: 14 November, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Drex |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: With everything else going on, Drex moves out. For totally good (stupid) reasons! |
| Where: Farideh and Roszadyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 13, Month 4, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
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| It's late afternoon, nearing dinner. Drex was up early today -- in fact, he slept restlessly, disappearing from the weyr shortly after dawn. He's back now, looking tired, a handful of his clothes piled onto the bed, while he stuffs them -- one by one, scrunching the clothes up into a ball that would make any laundress anxious to see -- into a knapsack. Not long after the sailor shows up at the weyr -- but long enough that he has time to get at least a few items shoved in that knapsack of his -- it's an equally as fatigued Farideh that strolls inside, shucking her jacket as she walks. She stops to unwind the scarf from around her neck, and only just drops it on the table by the couch before cocking her head and going still. "Hello? Drex?" Her face is pulled into an expression of concern as she, nonetheless, creeps towards the bedroom. "It's me," Drex calls back, glancing down at the knapsack. Not so great at dissembling, is he: the sailor takes a step in front of the bed as if it's going to obscure what he's doing, his face set. He doesn't step over to greet her, but keeps his distance. "Are you done for the day?" The tenseness in Farideh's features, from before, eases as she rounds the corner and stands in the doorway, pulling off her gloves finger by finger. "What are you doing?" she queries, with a bemused smile as she takes him his stance; still oblivious yet. "Aye," Drex's tone is odd; oddly gentle, oddly wary. His gaze flickers over Farideh, taking in her demeanor for a moment, before his shoulders visibly square. "Packing a few things." The way he looks her over and squares his shoulders only earns a mild frown, but Farideh persists in stepping closer, her eyes flitting between the man and the bed, where his bag is. "Why? Did you finally decide to get rid of some of your old clothes?" Towards the end, she actually sounds hopeful. "No," Drex starts, glancing over his shoulder to follow her gaze, exhaling. It is his older clothes; the more well-worn, comfortable, and familiar -- to him, anyway. "Been thinkin'," he replies, as he takes a step back, alongside the bed, his bag, and further from Farideh. "They send me all over the Weyr. Talk to all sorts of people. Just today, someone who came from Fort a few sevens ago." He's frowning. "Aint safe. For you, or..." his gaze flickers towards her swelling stomach. "Gonna find somewhere else to sleep fer a while." The goldrider follows along with him, with what he's saying to her, but appears for a short time after, utterly baffled. "What are you going on about? Else-- where? Because of-- you can't be serious," Farideh says, staring at Drex's face, without an ounce of comprehension for what he's really say; or, denial, as it were. "Aye, I'm serious," the sailor's expression is set, determined. "Fari, think about it. You're important -- to the Weyr, to me." Drex shakes his head, mouth pressed into a thin line. "Couldn't live with the thought that I've put you in danger. Heard there might be people sick, in the Weyr, already. Aint gonna risk you. Or our son." He turns, and resumes stuffing the knapsack, adding, roughly: "You ought to have your meals in here from now on." "Why do you get to decide who is important?" Drawing herself up to her full height -- which is laughable next to his -- Farideh sets her hands on her waist and tries, likely in earnest, to stare him down before: "You're important to me. You're just going to go-- sleep beside who knows who and catch who knows what, and what if you catch the illness? Am I suppose to just--" But she stops and turns her face away. "No. I won't let you. You don't get to be selfless this way." "Fari, don't--" Drex stops, grimacing, not finishing the sentence. Instead: "Aint gonna be stupid. Gonna find somewhere in the tunnels I can bed down." He's not looking at her, deliberately, determination writ in the certainty of his tone. "By rights, I ought to be in Ista, with Itsy and the others. Aint heard if they'd sailed or not. Aint heard anything -- but I can't do shit about that. I can about this." "That's very reassuring," Farideh shoots back, not at all kindly, and then closes her eyes. "You're mad you can't be on that forsaken ship of yours, so you're punishing me now? Now?" When her eyes open again, they're wet with unshed tears. "High Reaches is in crisis. People are dying, and I can't do anything or go anywhere. I'm stuck, here, and you want to leave too?" Yeah, she sounds incredulous. "Aint punishing. Aint trying to," Drex says, frustrating leaking into his voice despite attempts otherwise. "I'm trying to protect you. If there was a way to make you leave, go somewhere safe, with me, don't you think I'd try that? But you--" he makes a noise, pulling the drawstrings of the knapsack shut with more force than needed, "Wouldn't leave. Because of who and what you are. Because you're important. This is the best way." He seems determined, jaw set, like he's been thinking about it a lot. "You didn't even ask me. You came up with this plan all your own and it involves me," is heated and perhaps a little dramatic. Almost resignedly, Farideh wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and leans against the doorway. "You're so stupid. You're going to get it. And I won't even get to say goodbye," she says, in a miserable little voice. "So stupid." Drex's frustration leeches away, and there's a flickering, wry smile there. "Aye, stupid. Stubborn." He swings the knapsack over his shoulder, gaze settling on her in the doorway, drinking her in. "You can say goodbye now." He pauses. "We can write notes, like when I was on the ship. I'll leave 'em under a rock outside your weyr." "Stubborn. Rude. Annoying." The list would be to make her feel better, but it doesn't even bring a smile while she's too busy sniffling and wiping at her tears still. "I don't want to," she responds sullenly. "I can just as easily catch something from one of the stores assistants or another rider. You're just--" Exhaling, she glances up at him, keeping her chin down. "How long are you planning to do this for? Until every last case of illness has been cured on Pern?" "The stores assistants and another rider aren't sleeping with you. Sharing your bed and your bath and your space. I would hope," Drex amends, with a narrowing of eyes, though the momentarily jealousy passes as swiftly as it arrived. "Maybe. I don't know." He clearly hasn't thought that far ahead. "At least until we know how bad it is, here." Farideh finds enough sass through her emotions to deliver a sarcastic: "I might let them, since you're leaving me." Her arms cross over her chest snuggly, but she has, for now, stopped crying long enough to give him an intense, worried stare. "That could take weeks," she proclaims, "months. What if the baby is here before that?" Even if he knows it's sarcastic, her response earns a dark look from Drex all the same. Readjusting the sack's strap on his shoulder, the sailor lifts and drops a shoulder in one of his typical not-quite-shrugs: "You're stubborn enough to hold him in, I'll bet," he says, with a sudden, genuine smile. "We'll make a pact, eh? We'll each pick a name before I go. If it's a girl, it'll be your name, if it's a boy, it'll be mine." He gestures, as if letting her go first, assuming she agrees. It's obvious from the way Farideh's mouth twitches and works that she's trying hard to hold in a smile, which she manages, though she looks a little crazy doing so. "It would serve you right if I didn't," she says, and sucks in a breath. "I-- I'm-- now? I hadn't even thought of any yet-- I'm--" She blushes. "Did you think of names already? Without telling me?" And, she's frowning again. "A little," Drex confesses, kind of sheepishly. "We can write it, then. I don't know quite how to spell mine, but I like the sound of it. I'll figure it out." He makes to edge past her, but it's too close for his liking, with her in the door, and he gestures, gaze level on her. "Got to get something to write with, eh?" The comment sees her eyes narrowing in response. "You'll not going to get me sick-- without even being sick yourself-- by walking by me," Farideh half-growls, but stomps off towards the antechamber all the same. She'll even go as far as the couch, where she can glower at him from a distance. "Write it." Still, he's stubborn, and Drex waits until she stomps off before he passes through into the antechamber. There's a grimace -- for her glower, or the command? -- but he makes for the desk, carefully pulling out a hide, and settling down to write. He's not fast -- he never is -- and he frowns and scribbles it out several times before he's happy. With a nod, he sets it aside, and then takes some of the hides and writing implements, shoving them into the knapsack. The written note stays on the desk, his fingers brushing it briefly, before he retreats, towards the door to the ledge, to watch. Letters are crossed out many times, but the end result rests in the middle of the hide: Ethran. Underneath, in words that are far more practiced, he's written: I love you. To say Farideh squirms, while waiting, would be an understatement. Patience isn't with her today; not now. He's barely made it away from the desk before she's up and making her way towards the left-behind paper, which she snaps up and reads with alacrity. It's possible she reads it a second time, because it takes an unnecessary amount of time for her to look up and at Drex. "I like it. It's a good name. A strong name," she admits, setting the paper back down. "I love you." This second part comes when she turns to face him, way over there and so far from her, dejected. Drex releases a breath he likely didn't realize he was holding, her response lighting his features. "Good," he breathes, with fingers tightening unnecessarily around the strap of his knapsack. "I love you, too. We'll be fine, I promise." He takes a step back, glances over his shoulder. "Look after yourself, baby," he mutters, turning away. A smile tugs up the edges of Farideh's mouth, but it's a strained expression. "I'll be-- fine. You'll-- be careful, please," she says, and then covers her mouth with her hand. Without the awkward, ill-timed smile, it's easy to see the sadness in her eyes as she watches him turn away. |
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