Logs:H'vier's Personal Nurse
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| RL Date: 13 September, 2013 |
| Who: H'vier, Tayte |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: After Iesaryth's flight, H'vier's released from the infirmary. No one's sure if it's a good idea or not, but Tayte takes him back to her room for a drink. |
| Where: Infirmary and Tayte's Room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Adult language. Getting stabbed breeds some strong feelings, and H'vier's always a charmer. Also some ridiculousness (c'mon, 'smoldering'?). |
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| 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.
Being stabbed is an unpleasant sort of business. There's a reason H'vier prefers to work with his hands. Fists. Whatever. When it's clear that he's not going to die or anything, even if he might feel like he wants to just a little bit, the bronzerider is given a rundown on what not to do with the arm they've slinged up for him, some salve that does things he doesn't remember as soon as it's given to him and stern instructions to let himself heal for Faranth's sake. And stop having reasons to come to the infirmary! They're really getting tired of seeing him here. That's all to be expected, though. What H'vier doesn't expect is Tayte. And his expression when he eyes the face that belongs to the voice is, well, a little zoned out thanks to what he's been given to help with the pain. "Hey," is his simple and singular response. Well, that's substantially better than the welcoming 'what the fuck are you doing here' she got the last time she came to see him. Tayte's lips pull slightly into a gentle, if tentative smile. "I thought--" That's not how she wants to start, so she shakes her head, stepping into full view, dressed in an mid-calf lenth dress of pale blue. As with most of her clothes, it's form-fitting, but not revealing of flesh, the neckline rising to a collar around her neck, a slender belt about her waist. "Would you like some company?" That's what she wanted to say. It's simple, and it gets the rejection over with quickly if the answer's no. Now that he's released from the Healers' care, H'vier doesn't seem entirely sure what to do with himself. Even less so with Tayte's appearance and questions that he doesn't know the answers to. "If you're looking to work off the flight, I'm not really in the mood," is what he decides to say as he starts heading out. His steps are a little more carefully deliberate than usual, both to not jar his arm too much and to not trip over himself because things feel a bit strange. "No, I--" Tayte fumbles a little bit as he steps past her and she turns to follow. "I can't anyway." She hurries on, "I just meant company. The last time you were bloody after a flight--" Well, things went better than they've been going. "We could just sit." She suggests, then realizing the dullness this brings to mind, she adds, "I could massage your shoulders, or something. We could play cards." Apparently, she's up for anything, but she's trying. Right. H'vier keeps forgetting that she shouldn't be putting her bits to use yet. It's not any easier to remember when his brain is foggy. "I don't need company," he says. "And you don't need to be hanging around feeling sorry for me, Tayte. Besides, if I sit for too long, I'll probably fall asleep wherever I am. And I don't like the idea of being completely defenseless if the cunt decides to get off her back and come slit my throat to finish me off." Being drugged does not make him anymore of a charmer, evidently. Slightly paranoid, maybe. "Havi." Tayte's voice is suddenly no-nonsense and there she goes, putting herself into the big man's path, yet again. "I invited you for company because I want your company." She enunciates carefully. "I don't feel sorry for you. If anything, I'm a little pissed at you. You slept with four women in less than a seven after you called me a whore and left." Her arms cross across her chest. At least she's keeping her voice down, relatively. "And now you've called me a cunt who you think is likely to slit your throat." She eyes him. Maybe he didn't mean her. But none of that's very promising. Though perhaps the next is? "You're the one I want to spend my evening with," What's left of it. "Mood or no mood. Faranth only knows why, but I miss you. Okay?" It was hard for her to say. Hard to admit, and she sounds annoyed when she does. "So will you come back to my room with me or not?" H'vier is very confused for a few moments. "Shards, woman. I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about the bitch that fucking stabbed me." He starts to lift his slinged arm a little like he's going to show it to her, clearly she hasn't realized he was stabbed, but then it hurts so he winces and stops. "Anyway, I slept with those women because we were over. Just like I did before we were anything." The bronzerider hesitates about the rest, clearly not sure he does want to go back to Tayte's room. But in the end he says, "Fine. But only if you let me drink." "Fine." Tayte snaps this back at him, arms tightening across her chest. "But if you thin your blood so much that you bleed through your bandages and pass out again," Clearly, she knows he was stabbed and even heard he was brought in unconscious, "I'm not getting the healer for you." That's probably not true. Guilt would get her before death could get him. Even so, she simply turns around, letting her hands fall to her sides and moves resolutely toward her room.
The peculiar shape of this room suggests that it was unintentionally expanded, cement holding the ceiling together towards the peculiarly shaped alcove build into the back corner. It's larger than most personal quarters as a result, and though the uneven walls mean nothing sits flush, there's plenty of room for more than the usual amount of furniture. The larger lobe of the lopsided kidney shape that the room has might be considered a studio room. A large bed is tucked into the roundest part of the alcove, though there's a gap behind where the straight headboard does not meet the wall. It's piled high with furs and pillows. In this curve there's also a wardrobe, a dresser, and nightstands. Hooks extending from the ceiling over the dresser have been rigged with two layered chain-link that holds a number of bottles of alcohol of different varieties. The highest drawer in the dresser which is bizarrely the largest locks with a key. Opposite it, closer to the door, is a hearth that's had a throw rug and loveseat set in front of it, along with a few low tables. A set of shelves and a small desk sit opposite the curve of the smaller end of the room. Around the curve and into the little lobe, one finds a great change. There's color everywhere instead of the muted things in the front half. Scarves and streamers hang from little hooks installed in the ceiling, their lengths varying, and a crib is set up in the middle with two small boxes that have toys poking out of their not-quite-shut lids. There's a tall table stocked with all the tools a mother needs (well, those that are safe to be at toddler height) and a small dresser and wardrobe. The furniture is all hand-me-downs but in decent enough condition to make the occupants comfortable.
He probably doesn't believe the threat, either, honestly. A man like H'vier probably has little reason to kill himself, accidentally or otherwise. Focused as he is on his steps on the way to her room, perhaps trying to be more angry about the night's events that the healers' drugs have dulled, he doesn't speak until they're there and she's questioning him. "I don't really care. So long as it's alcohol. And strong enough to be better than water." Important things. "Fine. Go sit down." Bossy. "Or lie down." Evidently Tayte doesn't care. Or at least is acting like she doesn't care. There's some edge to her tonight, to be sure. Perhaps it's because for the first time she's admitted she's pissed aloud. She moves to the booze bureau and makes a selection from the locked drawer. She gets glasses and relocks the stock before popping the bottle open, pouring the glasses full and bringing him one. No ice tonight. Nothing fancy. Just alcohol in a cup. It's stronger than water, but decidedly not the strongest she has. But that means he can drink it for longer. It's easier to drink while one is sitting so that's what H'vier decides to do. If he realizes that Tayte is being bossy, he doesn't say anything. There's a good chance he's kind of oblivious to these cues right now, however. "Thanks," he says when she brings him the cup, taking a large gulp before letting his head fall back to rest against the back of the loveseat. He's apparently not feeling very talkative. Or just not paying attention to the fact that he's leaving a lot of silence hanging around. When Tayte settles next to him, it's without consideration for personal space. She's not making things uncomfortably cramped (or at least not intentionally), but she's sitting so thighs are touching. At least she's careful that she's not putting pressure on the arm in the sling, or making it difficult for him to use his opposite for drinking. "Sorry you got stabbed." She says after a few more moments of silence. It's not with her usual timbre for sympathy, but still with an annoyed edge, although it seems to be starting to bleed off as she sips at her drink. "Do they think you'll mend up alright?" Less annoyed still, and now with a touch of concern. His response to her sympathy is an annoyed grunt. "I said I didn't want you feeling sorry for me. I'll be fine. And if I'm not, I'll return her the damned favor. At least H'vier doesn't try to put more space between them. If he was thinking better, granted, he probably wouldn't be here at all. "I'll have to make sure Reisoth pays more attention to that one. I don't want to be here when she goes up again. It's the other one that's important, anyhow. The fucking Fortian can keep the cunt. Could probably have him stabbed and blame it on her." Well, now he's just rambling and ranting and likely saying more than he would in another state of mind. Tayte listens to him ramble. But the thing is, he's talking. And H'vier talking sometimes doesn't do good things for the bartender. "Fine then. I don't feel sorry for you. I was trying to be polite." She shifts, getting back onto her feet to move away from him and over to the hearth, drink still in hand where she picks up the poker from its stand and nudges the embers about before placing it back to snag up a log and place it carefully from a balanced crouch. When she's back on her feet, she turns to look at him again and then turns back to the hearth, something undecided in her manner. H'vier watches Tayte get up and then busy herself messing with the hearth, as near as he can tell. He takes another drink from his cup and then sighs out a sound that's probably more dramatic than he'd really intended it to be. "Why am I here, Tayte? This isn't gonna work out. We don't even want the same things. You want... fuck if I know. I want to be Weyrleader. And I can't even be Yvalia's father!" Like this is somehow an important detail. While it is to some extent, it's probably more that his brain to mouth filter is turned off at the moment. "Because I wanted it to." Tayte's answer comes quietly, but loud enough to carry even though she's still looking at the fire. "Because I thought we could work it out." Now she turns, setting her glass up on the mantle. "Somehow, I thought we'd be able to actually talk about things instead of not. Instead of you just leaving and deciding things were over because I wanted something you didn't. You don't know what I want out of life, you don't actually know that it's incompatible with what you want. You nor I nor anyone else on Pern can know if you fathered Yvalia. Shards, you don't even remember the night she might've been conceived. You sharding well can't be her father when you've been in my life again for all of four months and at the first sign of trouble you tell me you fell for me, call me a whore, and leave and go on a spree of spreading your seed around." It's Tayte's turn to be angry and the feeling is rising in her as she goes on, voice getting harder. "You don't want to make an effort? Fine. You don't want to talk about things? Fine. You want to be over?" The 'fine' doesn't come, even when it probably should, instead she bites her jaw shut, nostrils flared and breathing a little hard. At least H'vier does a bang up job of listening while Tayte goes off. He's definitely listening, too, not just starting to zone out or doze off. "I don't even understand what you're so upset about, gorgeous. You wanted to fuck other people but it's wrong when I actually do it? And I didn't know remembering the fucking was a preqre-- prerereq--... was a thing you had to do to be a father!" By now, H'vier is standing up as well, maybe a little less steady. But being hurt doesn't keep him from being tall. He throws back the rest of his drink and drops the cup on the loveseat, which is probably better than throwing that, too. Surprisingly, he's not storming out yet. He may be tall, but Tayte's got a way when she's furious. She marches straight over to him and dares even to poke him in the chest (not the arm, not near the arm, not taking advantage of current weaknesses). "I wanted to be with you most of all or I wouldn't've bothered to bring it up. Except you can't wrap your head around the fact that I can love you-" Poke. "-and be yours-" Poke. "-and still have a want in my loins for someone with a vagina." She huffs. "You don't have to remember it to be a father, but there were others, because back then, I was worthy of being called a slut," If not a whore. But this argument seems to be the less important because what she ends with has her eyes smoldering with feeling and her expression fierce as it settles into a scowl, "I can't believe you can make me so angry and I can still love you in the same moment." It's not fair, is the unvoiced complaint. And H'vier will just stand there dumbly while she pokes and yells at him because she's using one of those words that has such a way of turning a man into a deer in headlights right before it gets splattered by a semi. He even opens his mouth to try saying something intelligent. But he's a little far gone for that right now so instead he just ends up staring at Tayte with a desperately confused look on his face. Ugh. That look. Tayte sighs, hand dropping away from his chest. "Don't be so dramatic." She tells him. Oh, pot. How black you are. Apparently, she's guessed easily enough the reason for the silence. "It's not like you didn't say something like that, without the L-word, right before you called me a whore and left." She turns, intent on moving back toward the mantle where she left her drink. "Neither of us even know what the fuck love is," is what H'vier finally manages to say, trying to sound cross for some reason but failing for the most part anyway. Which isn't entirely true. Tayte has her daughter, after all. And H'vier has his dragon. But the love adults feel for each other is drastically different from that, isn't it? Is it? H'vier wouldn't really know. "Maybe we just got carried away." "Fine. Let's take it back then." Tayte doesn't sound convinced that this is possible. She picks up her drink, downs the rest and turns back to him. "Let's say that we each care for the other to some degree more than we're used to feeling about anyone. Does that sound more comfortable?" Comfortable might sound a little sarcastic when she says it. And then bitter, "Maybe this whole thing was a mistake. We don't seem to make each other very happy." At least night right now. The past, however... well, there was a lot of happy, really. Maybe not happy that was particularly romantic, but happy. Even in his somewhat intoxicated state of mind, H'vier seems to realize that answering anything too quickly might not be his best idea ever. Unfortunately this realization doesn't really keep him from saying stupid things. "It's easier when you don't give a fuck about anyone." Not that he can just turn it off and on, even if he appears to do so rather easily at times. "I think you should wait till you can go at it again, then fuck whoever you want. Then maybe you'll figure out what you actually want." "I want you, dimglow." Tayte half-growls at the bronzerider. "Hasn't that been the whole point? And like it or not, you want or wanted me. So here's your chance. If you want me, then be with me. If you don't want me anymore, then--" She stops, frowning. There's really only one logical continuation of that. "Then don't." The glass is set back on the mantle, her hands curling into fists at her sides. It's a tense moment on her part while she waits for him to respond. H'vier looks like he wants to argue some point there. But he's had kind of a long day and he's sore and tired and high and stabbed. "Can't we talk about this some other time? Now doesn't seem like a very good time. Of course I want you, Tayte. But there's just... things." Things that he would have a really hard time articulating even if he was stone cold sober and at his best. "Are you going to want to talk about it some other time?" Tayte's hard edge is disarmed in her surprise over the response from the bronzerider. Her fingers stretch, and she blinks at him, rapidly, and then slower. A moment later she's moving back toward him, though now her stride isn't aggressive, and she's reaching for his empty hand with both of hers. "If it's something you want to talk about, we'll talk about it." He instinctively tries to move an arm around Tayte but it's the arm that's in a sling and it doesn't work at all. It does manage to make him a little dizzy, though. "Right now I just-- can I lay down? For a few." Maybe awhile. Probably awhile. Once he passes out, he'll be down for the count until the pain comes back strong enough to wake him up, no doubt. Tayte doesn't look altogether convinced that there will be follow through on this promise to talk, but she doesn't press the point, instead slipping under his uninjured arm. (How many times have they ended up walking like this after a goldflight? Two for two.) She moves slowly and carefully toward the bed. He might already be passed out by the time that she carefully removes the sling and checks the bandages aren't bled through H'vier's pockets are searched for the ointment the healers gave him and it's placed on the nightstand along with a glass of water should he wake with thirst. He's too big and heavy to strip, so she does what she can to make him comfortable, at least helping off his boots and socks and loosening his belt. Even after she's played nurse and fluffed his pillow, she's restless, and heads back to the loveseat, tidying glasses and-- well, there's not much else to tidy left. She eyes his boots. Maybe they need a good cleaning. Something to put her hands to work while her thoughts rattle with questions in want of answers that aren't coming. Not tonight, anyway. |
Comments
K'del (K'del (talk)) left a comment on Tue, 17 Sep 2013 07:11:10 GMT.
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So much fuckedupedness, dude. But they're kind of adorable anyway. Fun!
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