Really, it's just a wrist, and really, it's been done up in a cast and everything, so really, there's no reason for H'kon to be staying in the infirmary. Which is why the brownrider is on his feet, with one knee bent forward to mind his positioning relative to both the floor and the cot that he's making back up. It's slow work, on account of the precision he's trying to achieve, but there's little frustration showing on his face. Even as he pulls up one corner. And then the other. And then tugs the first corner. And then adjusts the other. And then the first again, all one-handed, with his left wrist held absently up against his chest. Yes, that is the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips.
Possibly the woman who's watching, the greenrider who's entered from the dragon infirmary, could have walked more audibly. Possibly she should clear her throat. Instead, Leova just watches until he finally gets to noticing her... or until the sun dries out all that mud in the Bowl, whichever comes first.
This tug creates a mountain, that tug gets the top of the sheet off centre, the next ruins that nice, perpendicular right angle... The bowl is getting dryer, at least, and might go even more so, if not for a brave young infirmary hand who stops to inform the brownrider that, "Uh, sir, we're just going to strip the bed anyway." It makes H'kon stand taller, watch that boy go, give a final, almost defiant tug to one corner of the sheet, and then look about. And eventually, surely, he'll even see Leova. Even if the seeing does nothing but to have him looking, still standing in his original spot, with knee against the bed.
Leova has a wave for him, but another, sharper look from those amber eyes has her walking towards the brownrider. "H'kon." It's half a question.
H'kon waves back, with his right hand. The left is still cradled against his chest. "Yes. Leova." Is that... is that amusement on his face? The waving hand is slow to lower, but it does, half-forgotten and left to find its own way down.
That garners an arch of her brows, a one-sided pull to her mouth as Leova looks at the brownrider. At his lingering hand. At his expression, his pupils. "Heard you were in here," she says. "Fought off a horde of toy soldiers, did you?"
"Dragon," H'kon corrects, pupils surely so wide only for how earnest he's being, to go along with the slightly wider opening of his eyes. "Which I crushed." His right fingers curl into a fist, his left foot twists as if to squash. The look sent out toward the bowl is, at best, late in coming.
"You crushed a dragon?" Amber eyes attempt to not look too amused. "Making more work for me, H'kon. Need to stop that."
"It put up fight enough," has some of the solemnity that is more H'kon's norm, and isn't without its bitterness either, in the twist at his mouth when he lifts his hand from his chest, briefly. That one, with the swollen fingers.
Leova looks it over, and not just dutifully. "I'm sorry," she says simply. Then, "Going to stand there all day?"
"I was not looking for that." Her being sorry. H'kon takes his wrist back, letting it rest up against his belly, this time. "No, of course not. I'm...," face is made, "released."
"Reckon not," Leova says, Tillek accent to Tillek accent, for all that hers has altered more over time and travel. "Where you headed?" Does he have a keeper?
"I've not decided," H'kon answers after only a slight hesitation. "Koth and I were due to fly sweeps today..." That face goes into a full grimace. "I will find something," comes almost as reassurance for the greenrider.
"Find me a seat, wherever it is," says Leova. She's not big as a cothold yet, but working on it. When she glances down at her belly, she grimaces. "They're kicking me. Again."
H'kon looks a bit blankly about the infirmary. The vague point to the cot is done with his fat fingers, and even for that is anticlimactic. "Well I've just made up the bed." His bent knee gives a little shudder, that might be a kick. Leova's words force a re-focus. "Are there several?"
The bed that the infirmary aide wants to strip anyway. Leova has no compunction about nodding to it. "Have a seat." She will, but after him: can't afford to chase him down. "A litter."
It's all the convincing H'kon needs; he turns and promptly sits, as his former weyrlingmaster has told him. It takes a moment for him to think to slide down a bit, and give Leova easier access. "You'll need many names."
"Four," Leova agrees, careful as she seats herself, the flex of her knees keeping her balance low. "Ever wanted a son? Or a daughter. Your own."
H'kon watches all that process of lowering, as if some great feat, and one he must learn. Or it could simply be the different angles described in the motion. Her question brings, yet again, the re-focus. Flat as the floor beneath his feet: "I'm holdbred, Leova." 'Duh' might have followed, were he but younger and a different person. "Do you mean to give me one of yours?" It's almost a laugh to follow that up. He adjusts his hand closer to his belly.
Leova snorts. "Means you're supposed to. Doesn't mean you do." She folds her arms about her belly, not leaning, supporting. "Keeping mine. Well, Anvori is."
H'kon flexes the fingers of his left hand testily, and even tries to move his wrist around a bit. All it does is make him wince, alas. "Tease," is said to the cast more than to Leova - or at least, that's where his eyes are. "Greenriders," is with a bit of a tug at his mouth, though, as is usual, it's not a normal sort of smile.
Leova eyes that fidgeting. Eyes that wince. Doesn't bother telling him not to do that. "'Brownriders.' If you're going to lump us all in together." While she's at it, "Madilla taking good care of you?"
"Tillekians," H'kon fires back at her, although by the time he's looked up, most of the amusement's gone from his face. The follow-up question warrants a nod. "She was with me through the night." A grunt. "Here, I mean." Blink. "Not with." And H'kon is left to scrubbing his face. With the right hand. "I imagine she needed to see to her children by morning."
Leova's got a short, one-shouldered shrug for Tillek. "Mm." And, "Imagine so." But also, "Glad to know you're in... capable hands." And while she's looking at him, "Hope they don't transfer her anytime."
H'kon manages to look wholly sober in answer to that, a long faced look given back to that greenrider. "The Weyr would be worse for it." Greenriders.
"Aye." That greenrider adds, "Better to hang onto her, then. Do your part." She doesn't miss a beat. "Arekoth, he all right?" Not that Leova couldn't ask Vrianth.
If she had missed that beat, H'kon would surely have used it to try for his retreat. But what could have been flight turns into just another fidget, flexing his fingers, but this time not of his wrist. "Arekoth thinks the whole affair hilarious. And wants the dragon." On second thought, "I ought to go wash."
"Tell him he sired his own dragons, he can tromp on them. Keep us in business." Leova's got that one-cornered smile again. "Won't tell on you if you don't, though. Wash. Or does it itch? Under your cast? Because you're not supposed to get that wet. Let it itch for months."
"Tell him he sired his own dragons, he can tromp on them. Keep us in business." Leova's got that one-cornered smile again. "Won't tell on you if you don't, though. Wash. Or does it itch? Under your cast? not supposed to get that wet, remember. Got to let it itch for months."
H'kon's eyes fall to the cast in question, and he works those fingers a bit more. "It's fine," is only given after long deliberation. He tries to force his attention to Leova, but those fingers, they keep twitching. "Arekoth," the old topic picked up again, "needs no encouragement to tromp around his offspring." Oh, that Face is coming back.
Abruptly the air's electric. « Arekoth. » Vrianth. « You're late. » Wingbeats, quick and sharp. The Bowl's falling away. Forget it. Leova says nothing, only watches that face. Face.
Arekoth is certainly not late. He's right on time. Even if he's roused himself to crane his neck up in search of Vrianth. H'kon, he just eases himself up, not quite in mimicry of Leova, though certainly cautious. "I ought to go wash," is repetition. "I wish you well with your... children."
Vrianth, disappearing, nigh on disappeared. "Thank you," Leova says. Gravely. One last thing, is all: "Give me a hand, would you?" She even raises hers.
And H'kon takes it, bracing himself, even holding his left hand out behind him for balance as he prepares to heave the greenrider to her feet.
It's not as much work as it would have been if Leova hadn't actually practiced sliding forward, rebalancing, rising. Not as much work as it will be later. Not as much work for it to be strictly necessary, though Leova makes sure it can be felt to help. "Thanks." Once she's up. "Good luck with that. And the itching."
H'kon gets to help. H'kon helps. And H'kon flexes his fingers, once Leova's up, and draws them back in against his belly. "Thank you for your concern." And before more can be said, he offers the woman a bob of his head, and heads off, completely oblivious to the bum prints and folds and wrinkles left on the cot.
The infirmary assistant will be shocked. Shocked!
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