Difference between revisions of "Logs:She'd Hit Him If She Could"

They've settled into a relatively predictable routine as far as H'vier visiting Tayte is concerned. He's been as helpful as he can while also not being too involved in the things he's not supposed to care about anymore. Like who else visits, when they visit, and whether they happen to be there or arrive while he's there. It's very mature of him. The fact that things have been a little chilly probably doesn't even register as unusual to him. It's just a defensive measure against his irresistibleness, obviously. So it's basically business as usual when he arrives now.

Well, until the glass smashes against the wall next to him. Even pregnant and stuck in bed, Tayte's got quite the arm. Although, she's almost certainly not supposed to be looking practically pink with pissitude. "Seventeen?" She's reaching on the nightstand, looking for something anything else to throw at him.

The bronzerider throws up a defensive gesture reflexively when there's glass smashing into the wall nearby. In the next moment, he's glaring in the direction it came from. "The fuck, woman! What are you talking about!" He's probably not even trying to be deliberately obtuse. It's more likely that H'vier has no idea what she's referring to because he has no frame of reference for the number. It's not like he asks how old anyone is before taking them back to his place.

"The girl-" No, no, "The child you slept with," she surely exaggerates if the girl in question is seventeen, "the last night we slept together is seventeen." Tayte enunciates as though explaining something to someone very simple-minded indeed. Maybe H'vier qualifies. For lack of anything hard and damaging to throw at him, she begins a barage of thrown throw pillows at him.

Before Tayte can finish her thought, H'vier starts to say, "Which one?" But surely there was only one at that point. There just might have been others at other times. Others that immediately come to mind for him. "What does that matter?"

His words arrest her mid-throw. Then Tayte yells in a way neither her healer nor Reisoth would likely approve of (that is to say, livid and at the top of her lungs), "Get out, you revolting son of a bitch! And don't come back!" Maybe ever, it sounds like.

Livid yelling isn't, perhaps surprisingly, something H'vier hears from Tayte all that often. It confuses him and makes him stare at her longer than she'd probably like him to look at her right now. Does he really not know what he's done wrong? It's a possibility. "Tayte," he begins, no doubt hoping something awesome will come to mind to make everything okay again. All that comes, though, is, "Calm down. The baby."

Another pillow is launched at him and now she is searching with more determination for something more damaging. H'vier probably should have just left. "My baby," Tayte hisses even though he hadn't, in that moment, laid claim to it. "The baby you have done nothing to try to keep," Nevermind he only found out it was his a seven ago. "If you think for one sharding moment that I'm going to let you near me or my baby after the kind of trash you've been taking to bed--!" She lets the threat hang in the air. And a ball of green yarn is the best she can come up with to pelt him with.

H'vier probably has no right to look either stunned or hurt right now. But there's some mixture of both in his expression before he schools his face into a more neutral mask. "Okay," he says peaceably, holding up a hand in surrender. "Okay. I'll go." It's clear that he wants to say more, to make it better somehow. But now is not the time to try, evidently. He glances at the shattered glass as he turns to let himself out. Someone else will have to take care of that.