When we ran outside.

[greenridertav]

Who:  Jandor, Tavaly
Where:  Immath's Weyr, HRW
When:  Morning, day 24, month 6, turn 3 of the 7th pass.
What:  A nice, quiet morning. And then a roar. And then talk. And then breakfast. And more talk.

Other:  The morning following this log. Warnings: nekkidness, suggestive material, breakfast, owies, nightmares, and beard.

Laps around the bowl, it seems, lasted long enough. The green entered the weyr quietly some time in the middle of the night and curled up comfortably on the large, stone couch in the dark recesses of the weyr with its flutedpillars along the wall of the hearth. Not a lid blinked, not a snort sounded, simply quiet relaxation among the soft snores and steady, measured breathing that whispers from behind a half-drawn curtain. The alcove, where they retired, is shielded from the small rays of light that creep past the heavy drape that breaks the ledge and the inner cavern. In the weyr, things are calm.
She sleeps. Soundly; arm draped over the man's chest, her head upon his shoulder, nose nearly tilted into his armpit. So deep is her slumber that she barely moves, for the sake of breathing. Children do not sleep this solid, even with their carefree dreams and carefree lives. Clearly out of it, for at some point in her shifting-for-more-comfort, a ragged rabbit-like stuffed.. /thing/ was pulled into the crook of her other arm.

Jandor knows, for most of the night the sleep of near death. It is the sleep that only happens when one is exausted, when one feels truly safe or when one has been sated of mortal desires. This sleep of near death is the result of all three of those in one measure or another. It is a near perfect sleep, and one that he has rarely experienced since coming to Ista. It is a precious thing, and his body enjoys it for a good many hours after the ... events ... of the past evening are complete. He was a gentleman as well, not the sort to roll over and fall asleep. More the sort to hold her, and murmur a quiet conversation with until the late hour finally overtook him. Now, he is sleeping with his body half curled into her -- her head on his shoulder, that arm around her body -- leg intwined with her own. It is so peaceful that it is utterly cruel when he suddenly sits up with a violent and sudden motion, a sort of strangled bellow of something like fear coming from him that is so loud that the people in the bowl probably hear it. And he does not recover quickly either, covering his face with his hands and breathing heavily.

A few things happen afterwards. One, Immath's head raises, eyes whirling yellow white with small flecks of red peppering the facets. She puffs a breath, moving the curtain they've nestled behind. Two. For a woman more accustomed to sleeping light than heavy, her response is.. well. With him rising, the covers are taken. Short seconds after the first ringing tones of the man's bellow she sits up, hand curled over his chest while the other shoots out, drawing back the curtain. First, she looks for something or someone that, somehow, may have injured the man, and then she sits back, features stern, serious, panicked somewhere beneath a veneer of protective concern. "Are y'okay?" She asks, then, the hand on his chest steadying, tangible. She's there. He's there. The green, for her part, moves out of the weyr and onto the ledge, barring the only entrance and exit from.. well, anything that may come their way.

Jandor would be grateful and embarassed of all of this on his behalf, if only he were looking up to see it. His face is in his hands, quite hard at that, and there is the twitch of musculature to be felt in his body to tell of some great fright. For a few seconds, he breathes -- in and out -- as he tries to master himself. "Ye remember when we were talkin' 'bout weather I ever stitched up a friend? Never talk 'bout that 'gain. Ever." There is a sort of shudder from him, and the comment is said in a clipped and sort of harsh tone. One that he immediatly realizes he spoke in, and turns to press his lips to her temple. "I'm sorry, Lass. Terrible, Terrible nightmare. I'm all right, though. Ye dinna need tae
worrry." He must be telling the truth for the curtains reveal nothing and Immath will find not a thing out of the ordinary. There is nothing to protect the Journeyman from except himself, it would seem. "I.. " He says, carefully laying back down and passing the back of his hand across his face to clear what just might have been tears in the half light. "Dream't tha' there was a bad fall, 'n everyone I cared 'bout was hurt in it. But I dinna get to them until t'end. I was jus' helping people like I always do. Treatin' problems, and stitching and came to them and froze and couldn't do a thing to help them. And one of them was mocking me, tellin' me that I was useless because... I had to decide who I cared about the most, to try and save first." Now that he is laying back, he adjusts the covers around he and the woman in an almost pedanticly precise fashion. Trying to cover for what he must see as loss of face. Trying, but whatever his eyes saw behind their closed lids -- it's clearly rattled him.

There is a tense line in her body, however, that is not easily cowed by words. It is with seeing, and then confirmation from the green beyond the curtain that allows her to relax her protective, amazonian stance and sink back onto the sprawling cushion of her bed. She sits beside him, pulling the side of the covers modestly over he lap and waits for him. Waits patiently. Her hand stretches out to soothe the back of his hair. "I won't." She promises gently. Whatever harshness in his tone, she understands it is not for her. "Hard t'wake up from. Would it do ya if Immath were t'ask around and check on folk..? Sometimes, when I wake up from a nightmare, I have her do that. Just to be sure." She offers, hand sinking behind his head as he sinks back. She, too, stretches out again - this time on her side where she can still smooth her hand over his hair, brush his cheeks.
 She glances at her arm, devoid of its leather case. Eesh. Maybe a tad careless sometime during.. the night. "Mocking you?" She asks, voice not straining, but a a question of surprise, truly. "Well that should be an easy question to answer, darlin'." The endearment slips, yes, but whatever accident it may have been is soothed away by a hand over one of his brows. "You care about all of them equally. The faces you know and don't. You must. Why would you be a healer otherwise?" She asks, pulling herself up on her right arm and kissing his cheek and propping herself thus for a while. She won't sink back into sleep so easily, anyway. "You're all right.." She whispers against the topmost bristles of his beard. "I.." I'm not going to let the boogeyNeiran get you. However, she doesn't really finish it.

Jandor was not really uncomfortable or embarassed before, but he certainly is now. He's not needed protecting from anyone in his life, let alone from a....He's forward thinking enough to smack that line of thought right out of his subconscious before it even gets past the cerebral cortex. He takes a deep breath, hands lifting upwards to sort of paw at his face once again before he stares at the ceiling. "Nay." He says then, firmly. "Ye needn't bother t'lass. Tell 'er that I'm a daft bloody thing, and t'go back t'sleep." There is a smile on his face, and yet his tone still betrays him for being upset. Despite the physical and verbal reassurances. Something in what she says causes his eyes to close, and for some reason he speaks honestly. He's not accustomed to doing that these days, really. Not without everything he says filtered and strained to make sure that nothing damnable to him slips through. "Because, Lass. There are some healers that are doin' t'job t'feel important, t'feel like they're the center of attention, and t'get praise, and who don't really care about their paitents in t'least." She doesn't know it, but this is the biggest line of self doubt that he has. "An' there are times, that I dunno which I am."

Embarrassed or uncomfortable, whatever his reaction, she doesn't seem to notice. He may not be used to it, but.. it comes altogether too naturally. Runs in the family, you see. She still remains partially coiled, as if ready to tackle any on-coming assailant, though her posture works to conceal that, one leg raised to brush over the top of his. Contact. /There/ness, if he needs it. "She says there's nothing amiss. Started askin' before I even thought of it. Used to it, I suppose." Tav offers with a faint, apologetic tone. If anyone understands the forced smile, it is definitely her. Not to mention that Jandor is a finely-scripted book and she /can/ read, despite the usual unwillingness to. She so reads him. "You care." She says. "About your reptutation, and very much about your patients, then. When you're more concerned about yourself in standing, you want to do a better job. Self preservation is not uncommon, you know." She speaks softly, somewhat hesitantly. Not because she means it any less, but because she suddenly feels out of her element. Does she have the right to speak to him like this? Would he /want/ her to? She plucks up one of his hands and holds it up. "These do good work. If you can't be sure of yourself, be sure of these and the rest will follow."

Jandor does not need it, or so he thinks at the very least. Which is why the expression of the bearded one quirks towards confused, then it sort of steels -- the forced smile very present on his face now, especially as his hands are held up. "S'not that simple. There are things that ye dinna know." His wrists twist, meaning to slip his fingers through her own gently so that he can lower them to a little bit more neutral posture between the two of them. "I'm nae sure why I'm tellin' ye this stuff. I've not discussed a wee bit of it with anyone since I got here." He even goes so far as to reach down, pressing his hand on the inside of her knee and breaking contact there for the moment -- although he does squeeze her fingers to say that it isn't any lack of appreciation for her. "Ye have t'understand.." He says, softly. "I was accused 'o it. Of bein' a machine, and not havin' any empathy for my paitents. Ye know me as a general doctor, an yea, I s'pose I do good work when ye come t'see me for a checkup, 'r ye can talk to me. Bu' s'different when an emergency happens. If'n someone arrived in t'infirmary today, with a wound that ought t'be fatal... I dinna think I look at it as a person who's hurt, bu' as somethin' that needs t'be fixed. I was told I dinna think 'bout people's feelins' 'r who they were, but looked at 'em like a broken machine. That I gotta fix. An... I think there's some truth in it. An', if I had t'stitch up someone I cared about, I'd be useless. There are dreams, lass." He says, laying his hands overtop of hers. "And there are dreams that'r close t'reality. In my dream, someone I knew was dyin' it was hopeless... and I couldn't make t'decision to let 'im be so I could treat someone else... an' I ended up seizing up an' I lost -everyone- that I cared about. Which'd prolly happen. So ye see....s'not as simple as these hands do good work. If'n they did, I'd not been sent here. I wasn't sent to Caucus, lass, t'learn. I wasn't sent here t'study. I was sent here as a second chance, because there 'r people that see me as bein' too unemotional t'do my job. Tha' I do it not fer t'people, but fer somethin' else.... and I jus dun know if they're right or not. I think, maybe they are."

Listening. Has ever been a skill that Tav is fantastic of, despite what her folks may say when asked. Selective hearing? Nooo. Her features remain neutral, pointed toward him. As her leg is shifted, she pulls it back to meet its twin, toes curling into little balls containing part of the blanket. While her fingers are gently squeezed, the woman reciprocates, her grip firm but releasing quickly. Left arm is buggy, today. Her gaze drops at a few points, and her brain churns to life behind pallid blue eyes. "Well, if there is some truth in it." She begins, slowly. "Then perhaps that is what allows you to be very good at what you do. No use weepin' over someone you don't rightly know while you're tryin' to stitch 'em up proper, after all. There's emotional and unemotional, and if y'ask me, I'd prefer the latter when it comes to repairin' some part o' me that's outta sorts with the rest of it." As he mentions Caucus and why he was 'sent' here, there suddenly comes a frown to her lips, brows knitting. Anger, to some degree. "Who are they to judge that, if you're at your best in your field? You're a /trauma/ surgeon, not a weyrbrat's nanny." Indignation. On his behalf. "I think you are right to do it the way you do. But it doesn't matter what I, or /they/ think about it. Discover what /you/ think is right. Your own way. A man can be told and told and told, but until he hears it in his own head, he'll
not know the truth. 'Til then." She offers. Out of her element, certainly. Immath sweeps back into the weyr, pausing by the alcove to nudge the curtain a little more closed. Also, to blow cold air on the man.

Cool air does not seem to bother the Healer, who is looking downwards at the folds of the sheets with a very neutral expression, still. All that orange must be good for something. Clearly, he doesn't know what to make of all of this. He was sort of expecting her to be burned off by what he said, and now that she hasn't been.... well, that was just unexpected. Furthermore, the words are encouraging. The beard twitches in thought for a few moments of silence. He isn't moving much beyond that beard, a slight blankness to his eyes suggesting that he is focusing inwards as Tavaly's monologue is finished. "I dinna know 'xactly what t'believe." He finally admits. "I figured that I 'ad it figured out at Ista, 'n then got hit with all this. Tha' I was a man of too many vices on top of problems with t'way that I carried out my profession. Haven't really let m'self think about it until now, err, until las' night at least." A breath is taken, held and then exhaled through blown out cheeks. "True. Ye want t'mechanical percision, but y'd also want t'healer afterwards t'pat ye onna head and say its gonna be okay. So....I jus' have trouble wit' findin' the balance. That's wha' got me sent here, an' why I'm doin' general healer work as well as takin' the classes." Head swivels, looking up then. "Ye like me." He says, finally. "An' I think ye'd have m'back if'n I told you that I poked someone inna eye with t'knife by mistake." He doesn't mean it to lessen her indignation, his tone is appreciative in the extreme. "Jus'... ye need t'be careful where ye put that faith." Self doubt? From him? Further that he's convinced of it. "Anyway." He says, changing the subject. He turns; bristles of beard ruffling her cheeks as he kisses it. "Call a Weyrlin' fer me, and I'll bring ye back some breakfast." Escape attempt? Absolutely. Sort of, he'll be back at least though. Either way, he moves to toss the sheets away from himself -- sitting on the edge of the bed prior to standing.

While anyone he asks may say that it is far from difficult to earn this particular woman's scorn, she does have her moments. The good ones. Few and far between, they may be, but here is one now. Rare. Vulnerable. And while the request for the weyrling comes after, it is the statement 'ye like me' and its followers first that drain the color from her cheeks and tighten the line of her lips. Escape attempt, indeed. But, that's all right, in this case. As the kiss finds her cheek, he may find it has cooled considerably. "I do not throw it around carelessly. Do not think of me as foolish." She says, voice quiet. An edge, perhaps. Regretable. "T'bor comes. Y'd best throw some clothes on. I doubt your Caucus instructors will take too kindly to seein' ye as y'were born strollin' in the living cavern." From a shelf inside the alcove she pulls a soft, long blanket, tying it about herself like a sarong, securing it beneath her under arms. She steps from the alcove and crosses to the hearth, already pulling logs from their makeshift cradle to set a small blaze. There are red streaks among the new scars of her left arm. Dry, but still there. She gathers her hair with one hand, twisting it into a temporary bun at the nape of her neck.

Fortunate, it is, that the beard does not hide the world from his eyes and make him completely oblivious to subtle things that people do. He has dressed halfway -- at least to the waist when he turns; meaning to step close to the other. A hand reaches up, and for a moment it might seem like he's going to clobber her -- something that big coming towards you just sort of does that -- but it means to slip beneath her chin and gently turn her face towards him. "Look 'a me." He murmurs. "I dinna think ye are a fool." His tone is completely, utterly and irrevocably honest. "Far from it. Ye've been very clear that y'don't toss affection out closely. All I wanted, was for ye t'take a step and think fer a wee second, tha' I got m'black spots. Much as some folk'd fall over t'hear me say this, but, I'm not t'man that people like t'think I am at first meetin'. Just want ye t'make sure of yer likin' me." He punctuates this with an attempt to brush beard to her forehead, before he turns away -- struggling into boots and throwing his shirt over his shoulders without buttoning it so that he can head out into the ledge. A moment later, zip! Down he goes to get breakfast to be brought back.

She lets him speak. And there is no fear of clobbering in her features as she tilts her head to him. Her expression is.. difficult. Difficult to understand, and possibly just a tad stand offish. In silence will he dress, while she tends the fire, her bare shoulders covered by the heavy curtain of straight, brown hair. There is a small flicker going as he exits the weyr. It is in this space of time, while he's gone for breakfast that she dresses. Carefully. And for this part of the morning, the leather binds that hide the wounded skin are left off. He's seen them. He's /tended/ then, for Faranth's sake. Besides. They could use a breather. Immath slumbers, again. And Tav is left to sit cross-legged upon the ottoman, poking the fire until it's a good solid little affair. Then, pulling twine from a small rack next to the hearth, she begins to braid her hair into a single, weighty plait. Upon his return, this is the scene he is welcomed to.

Even when he turns away, there is the sense that he's said something that he shouldn't of. But, the feeling is still important. Weather he's misbelieving it or not, he'll not have her thinking that he's a better man than he believes himself. His opinion on that is a little bit out of whack at the moment. Either way, his journey through the living cavern brings him a look or two. Afterall, his shirt is unbuttoned -- beard unkempt and hair unbraided and left to hang in pure chaos. Not that he seems to care as he wanders into the kitchen itself with a serene and calm sort of look on his face. It is some minutes before he emerges again, apparently having pulled a favor for he is bearing two covered
dishes. It is a balancing act between he and T'bor to get them back up to Tav's Weyr, but they manage it well enough.. and it is about twenty minutes from the moment he dissapeard that Jandor enters Tavaly's Weyr once again. The same expression that he had on the living cavern is on his face, devoid of tension -- the pause seems to have done him good -- eyes kind, bright and bushy tailed. Mood is certainly good. "Hi." He says, quietly -- standing still with that covered dish in each hand, his tone a very good approxamation of the one the eve before.

Vices. It seems that everyone has their own. One of Tav's may become apparent upon the man's return. Her expression is a rainy-day neutral with a hint of thunder somewhere behind eyes that focus on nothing at all. Immath keeps one eye open, the colors changing between green and yellow beneath those glossy facets. If anyone knows anything about dragons, it is that their moods are portrayed in colors, to those outside the mental bond. Green for calm, yellow for mild alarm, or discomfort. It is several long seconds after 'hi' when the green's eye retrns to a teal blue and closes. Tav broods. Vice one. "I have a temper." The woman says, cross legged on the ottoman, staring at the fire that now dances slowly in the old hearth. Vice two. "And a bad habit.. of being over protective. And expecting people to bow to it without question." She speaks slowly, lips barely moving. "Even if those that fall under that blanket habit can take care of themselves just fine without my interference." A small smile. "I punched someone, once. For saying something ill of someone I loved. No second thoughts. Just a swing." Her throat bobs. Her head finally turns, the brad draped over one shoulder. "I.. am sorry." She offers. "We both have out black spots, I suppose. It's not always easy for me to recognize my own, until someone actually brushes it the wrong way. I was.." She bows her head. "I'm sorry. I should have known you meant no ill." Foolish. He may not think it, but she certainly is, now. Of herself.

Jandor is still feeling serene indeed, but there is the sense that he has walked into a viper pit that he can't sort of shake. It's not that he has actually picked up on the yellowed gaze, just a sort of strange feeling that he gets from Tavaly's body language. It causes him to pause in the middle of the room, still holding each covered dish in a broad palm. He remains this way until she finishes speaking, whereupon he begins to move again -- crossing to a table where he can set the dishes down. Now freed, a mammoth palm rests itself upon the very top of her head. "Well." He says. "T'makes two of us. Ye can add startin' a livin' cavern brawl t'my list of credits from Ista." It's an admission that is delivered in a tone that he suggests finding it amusing. "Jus, 'uh... let's see if we can 'void puttin' each other in t'infirmary, huh? S'all we need for Neiran t'have to patch us up." It's delivered with just a slight edge of humor, attempting to release some of her tension with the joke. His manner grows more serious though, as he reaches down -- poking at her fingers so that he may take hold of the string and work on her hair for her. He doesn't ask, just does. And he's good at it too. He has enough hair to know how it all works. Yet another small hint of dexterious but heavy fingers. "Since we're bein' honest." He says. "M'not used t'bein' fussed over. Kinda took me by suprise. Not sayin' s'abit thing. Ye make me feel secure t'talk to. Some of what I said today, I've never mentioned a lick of t'anyone." He continues to work at her hair, pausing for a second though. "I dinna think ye foolish at all, and I meant what I said."

Her fingers tangle with his a moment, among hair that, for her line of work, has remained soft. Silken, even if it is ridiculously thick. And heavy, judging by the weight of the braid already started. Her hands disappear from the strands, surrendering the rest of it to him. Her face, toward the fire, is one of soft surprise, a small smile tugging at her lips. "No ones ever braided m'hair. 'Cept my mother." She admits, voice not implying 'so you shouldn't, but 'this is very sweet' instead. "I don't intend on any more fights. 'Least 'til these're better. She waggles her arm and the leg is merely implied. "And if Neiran's the only healer available, I think I'll just bleed in a corner, somewhere. Tellin' ya. The man gives me the creeps." She even laughs softly, then quiets. Honesty. "I should have warned you. I tend to fuss without meaning to, sometimes." A pause. "Would you prefer that I didn't? I'm not sure how well I'll manage, but.. I can try, if that'd be.." Easier? Nicer? "Better. In the long run." And again, quiet. Her fingers rise up to pull at the tops of bangs that are long enough to be part of the braid. Just enough that the hair rounds out to cover part of her broad forehead. "Your secrets are safe with me. None of it is mine to tell, anyway. And.. Well, I'm glad. That you feel like you /can/ talk t'me. I consider it something of an honor." She waits until he takes the twine from her other hand to tie the braid off before turning. Then, stretching up, she steals a good-morning kiss that is too-long after the waking, but.. better late than never. "You were right. I do like you." She admits. "I'd like to know you better."

Jandor braids, idly. It's a sort of comforting thing for him to do. As much to him as anything else. Relaxed, plesant and... As the comment of that nobody else ever has he pauses for a second. She may or may not notice it, as he starts right up again a moment later. It's very subtle, and could almost be a natural pause if it wasn't for thje timing. "Bah. Ye dinna think that I was gonna run out on ye inna morning, huh?" He asks. "Best time t'get to know someone." He pulls a little on the braid, to make sure it's tight before the string is taken and the thing is tied off. "Ye know, though. I think maybe yer bein' a little harsh on t'fella. He's wierd, I'll second tha' inna second. But, e's mostly harmless an' he's good at what he does. Prolly the smartest person I've ever met, far as I can tell. Problem is, he can't articulate it worth a damn. Something catches his eye now that he's finished braiding, and there is a mumble of.. "Ye dinna need t'stop anything. S'pecially if'n it's yet nature anyway... " As he reaches out with a bear paw, meaning to encapsulate the wrist of her injured arm. "Hey. Gimmia tha', fer a second."

Jandor is grabby. Comes from being a healer, really. You ask for a body part and people will typically just hand it to you. He doesn't actually respond to her bit about assuming that she has him. Either he's skipping over a bit of near possessiveness that makes him uncomfortable, or he's too busy focusing in on something else. Which it is, Tavaly may never know for he is looking towards her elbow. "Hrm." He says, sounding decidedly bothered by what he sees. "Look 'ere." He thrusts a finger at the line of broken skin that had been healed -- however fraily -- the night before, and the crimson lines that have since dried beneath. "I'm gonna have to put somethin' on that, Lass." He says, brain seemingly having reverted into healer mode for now. "Really ought t'do it now, before breakfast, but I'd have t'send someone to the infirmary t'get me what I need... so it can wait, if'n ye please. But, s'gonna sting a bit b'cause I'm gonna need t'hit it with something to clean it out before the numbweed." Convinenent, it is really. Bless the gash in her arm for letting him out without responding to other things.

Slighted, though she should have expected this sudden change of subject. He does focus. And it's that which solidifies her claim that he cares about what he does enough to put aside all else. Even what may gnaw at the back of his brain. That's why she smirks. Triumphant. He has proven her point, though she'll not dredge it up again. Things are going well. She'll bring it up later, if she has to. "After." She responds, then. "No use makin' it grumpy on an empty stomach, after all. And I get terrible grouchy if I do somethin' that's not much fun without at least feedin' my stomach some b'fore hand." Fruit before 'fall, always. "It doesn't hurt, at the moment. Could've been worse." She comments idly. He should know. He was there. Her head turns, sights planted on the table where the covered trays now become a key element in her day. "Do you want me just to follow you down? Would that be easier?" Tav watches his features for a moment, grinning.

Jandor is still silent for another moment, gently twisting her arm so he can get a better look at it. "Bah." He says, sounding dissapointed. At her arm, that is. "T'was healin' so nicely, too. Bah, we're gonna have t'be more careful t'next time. Tie a cloth 'round it or somethin'." Next time? Hah. He's guilty, too. Even if he doesn't realize his own words. "Either tha' or go a wee bit easier." He shifts around then, releasing the wrist carefully. "Anyway, yea. Could work right enough. I need t'get my hairy ass in traction, I've got a mornin' shift at the infirmary t'day. If ye want to come in a little earlier, I'd be happy t'make you my first paitent of the day." So, he'd like to hurt her first thing in the morning? He seems to take it that way, for he frowns. "Well, n'because it'd ache 'r anything. Just ye seem t'be a good start for t'day itself." Hasty correction. The table is surveyed along with the covered dishes. "S'not much." He says, as he notices her look. "Jus' somethin' hot and sweet. The cook on duty today is a good friend o' mine." He's still looking towards the wounded arm, though. It's gnawing at him.

Next time? Tav's face does a butterfly flicker for a moment, brows spiking upward. Well, she didn't want to assume, but.. Okay! "It's always 'ard t'be careful after a long time." She says gently. She probably did it, anyway, but her other hand comes up and pats his fuzzy cheek. As he mentions his morning shift, and offers, her face grows a little.. guilty. "I don't want to take up all your time, Jan. I'm sure you've got better folk t'tend to. Long-term folk. Them beds seemed pretty.. not empty." His correction is unnecessary, judging by the lopsided grin she offers him, but she responds well, "I'll come down with you, then. For a little while. Just enough to get it taken care of, then we'll be off for drills for a bit. 'Fall in a couple days. Three-cee'll be flyin' it with new formations." She chews at her lip. The gnawing must be a little obvious, for she arches a brow and asks, "Are you sure /you/ can wait 'til after breakfast?"

Jandor makes a sort of 'mmf' sound. Maybe it is at the cheek petting, maybe the question of weather or not he can wait. Something in the two of them, more than likely. "S'fine." He says, and changes the subject again. Jan seems to be especially good at that. At least this morning. He was not quite so evasive the past evening, afterall. A hand stretches out to uncover both trays -- revealing as he promised, something warm and sweet. A breakfast style pastry, with berry sauce upon each. Nummy! "Anyway. Ye aern't takin' up my time. I won't be late... s'time I'm spending with you is my own. S'only thing is, few people might blink at us comin' in early in quite that way, but nobody will say anything. Prolly figure I just wanted t'get ya in early afterall. And if someone puts two and two togeather.." He shrugs, and gives a sort of smile. "I'm not embarassed o' anything." He picks up a fork and begins to dig in -- without waiting for her, bad Jan -- and is three bites in when he gestures rumanatively. "New formations?" He asks. "What're ye changin?"

"Let 'em blink." Tav says, following shortly after. She shoves a stack of leather scraps over to the far and of the table, clearing enough space to actually sit and eat. She pulls out one of the chairs, sitting cross-legged in it and instantly digging in, herself. Wherever these two learned their table manners, their mothers would either be proud or dually appauled. But, whatever. When Tav said she was hungry, it appears she was not kidding. She doesn't talk much while she eats, but upon slowing down to allow her poor stoamch catch up, she explains. "R'vain drew up new formations for my wing. Put more greens and blues in. Three-cee is the last tier of defense after the first ranks high up. Bronzes and big browns. Then the seconds, browns blues, some greens. Then third. Smaller browns, lots of blues and greens. Below us are the Weyrlings and Queens. We maneuver easier than the big hitters. Easier t'let us get the rest of what falls." She says. "R'vain found a few ways t'make it more effiecient for us, 'stead o' th'traditional formations. I like 'em." She gets to show off, is what that means. The pastry is gone. Devoured. All of it. Fast eater. She leans back, curling both arms behind her head. "What would y'say to dinner up here. T'night." She chews her lower lip, staring at him.

Jandor gives an approving sort of smile at that. Let them blink indeed. She is probably accustomed to his pauses by now, and another one happens as he wolfs his food unceremoniously -- only stopping this time at roughly the two thirds consumed mark. "Mm." He begins with. "Be nice if t'healer hall could be as progressive as that. M'been buttin' heads with them over some changes I'd like t'make since I walked t'tables." He's listening in detail, and it is proven as he gestures with his fork. "Heard a lot of good, and odd things 'bout R'vain." He says. "Think he'll do High Reaches Well. Anyone willing t'figure things out for themselves, instead of goin' by what is written in stuffy old hides gets approval from me." This is said with some real feeling, and he genuinely seems to mean it. A few more bites and his food too, is gone. He settles back, hands on his belly for a moment. All at once, he turns away -- back of his hand to his mouth to hide a belch. "Compliments to t'cook." He mumbles, then stretching. "I need t'get a comb 'r a brush or somethin' before I get back to t'infirmary. Can I borrow somethin' ye dun mind gettin' bent outta shape? I can always get somethin' from t'cothold too, I dun mind." Finally then, her question. "I'd be more than happy to. What time do ye figure? Dusk?"

Oh, yea? Her head bows, a hand coming up to cover her mouth in a somewhat.. dainty fashion. What comes out from behind that hand, however, is anything /but/ dainty. A belch, for sure. The sound and depth of which almost enough to rival his. "Compliments, indeed. Your friend makes a very good breakfast." Tav says, reaching over and plucking the empty tray from him and stacking them together. "Your lucky. My hair gives me so much trouble my mum actually sent me something that'd help. With the wind whippin' my braid about, I get lots of tangles." She passes him on her way to the hearth, plucking a long, wide-toothed thing from it. Stone. A comb made of smooth, polished stone is what she hands him. "I doubt you'll be able t'bend that, much." She assures the man, fingers twining through his beard after he accepts the comb.
"R'vain will do this Weyr very well. He understands a need for change. Something better than before. Thread gets smart, we gotta be smarter. You might talk t'him about healerin'." She suggests, moving to the alcove again. The curtain remains undrawn as the woman changes into more suitable riding gear. Even from the back, the scars lining her upper arms and shoulders are drastically visible. A rather broad one on her shoulder blade almost looks like the incomplete circle of a runner shoe. "Dusk would be fine! Do you have a preference on drink?" She goes about buckling her breeks before hiding under a medium blue tunic.

Jandor raises his eyebrows at this. Yeah, both bushy ones. That was almost enough to blow his hair back. "Ye can tell him yerself. Falor is his name. He'll make just about anything ye'ask of him, if'n ye tell him yer a friend o' mine. Managed t' bring him back some really rare spices from Ista, 'n he's sorta buggin me fer little things he can do fer me in return." The comb is given a pleased nod, and he reaches back -- beginning to tackle the mane of his hair and beard. He's methodical and efficient, managing to give it some semblance of order very quickly. He is also completely not enough of a gentleman to turn his head away, and watches the change of clothes appreciatively. "Buh?" He asks. Her voice seems to come from far away. "Oh, heh. N'ot really. Jus' somethin' strong. Are ye thinkin' of a heavy meal, or somethin' lighter? I'll try t'eat a wee lunch, if'n you've got somethin' special."

"Eat somethin' that'll take the affernoon bite off, but not spoil yer appetite for dinner. It's not gonna be huge, but.. there's goin' t'be enough of it y'll wanna make room for." She says, buckling the first of two belts that hang off of her hips at the moment, tucking her tunic in after the first is taken care of. She doesn't mind him watching. There's a /reason/ she left the curtain open, after all. She steps over, finding the binds and attaching them where necessary. She pauses with the arm, though, deciding to leave it off until he's got her all.. well, refixed. "I'm cookin' it t'night. There is /somethin'/ I can cook, and I think fella like you might appreciate it." She says, boots tied and strapped, pantlegs tucked in. Immath stalks past, bumping her rider off kilter for a moment. Affectionately, of course, before moving to the ledge to get her wings stretched out. Minus jacket, Tav is ready to face the day. And she's even wearing a smile for this one. Hands on her hips, her arms jut out at angles to the side. The right is normal. The left still looks.. kinda gross. At a mental nod from Tav, Immath sweeps the curtain aside, flooding the weyr with the morning light. "Y'ready?" She asks, moving to a hook where jackets are hung, plucking hers from its post.

Ah. The way to a bearded man's heart is through his stomach. "Will do." He murmurs, setting the comb back down on the hearth now that he is his regular; semi-ordered self. His fingers do up his shirt's buttons, tucking it in and making a few other adjustments to his clothing before he is satisfied. "Aye?" He asks, then. Didn't she say she couldn't cook? Fortunatly, Weyrs are made of rock and she can't really burn it down. It is also almost by instinct that Jandor stretches out a hand towards the Green as she meanders by -- just a sort of way to say hello. "Quite." He adds, and turns to head out on the ledge as well. He didn't bring a jacket. There is a thoughtful look down as he pauses in the morning air, forcing a stretch and short yawn from him. Looking over his shoulder towards her, he sneaks a glance towards that arm again. But when his voice comes, it doesn't pertain to the injury. "So, ye said that she approves of me?"

"One thing, yea. And I'm at least good at it." She says with a smile, shifting into her jacket and snapping it closed. The summer jacket has plenty of open patches, the sides barred with leather, open on the underside for air. Same with the arms at the shoulder and neck. Definitely not a 'fall jacket, but good enough for short excursions and drills. "Yea." Tav confirms. "She's curious. She says she likes how you make me feel." Tav says, acting mostly as a conduit for this moment. The question was posed, and the dragon is answering, peering backward into the weyr as Tav's hands mechanically grab the straps. "Says you're welcome up here."

Jandor is pleased by that response. It is never so simple with dragonriders. You might be adored by one half and hated by the other. And so, that is one nagging little worry that is taken care of. His mind though, is already shifting into work mode. Pondering what to do with her arm, pondering what to do with several other paients that he knows he is going to have to see today. His voice is to be heard in a reply, though. "Thas a comforting thought. Brings a wee bit of a new dimension to t'thing, when I consider that I'll be needin' to get to know the both of ye." His eyes then shift away, looking over the ledge's edge and down onto the Weyr below as it begins its daily hustle and bustle. Not a bad start to the day, really. Despite the somewhat roaring beginning to it. Not a bad start at all. "I dinna think that I'll need ye fer long, in t'infirmary. Bit 'o cleanin' and some disinfectant and numbweed and ye'll be ready t'fly."

"She likes what I like. I think you're safe." Tav says, moving out on the ledge and securing the straps around the big green's strong neck. It's a well-practiced job, though today she double checks while he's looking. Secure, see? All clear. A wayward brown passes in the sky above the bowl, warbling a greeting. Clearly in favor of the salutation, Immath's maw opens and she trumpets in return, wings up. "Three-bee's starting drills. We should get a move on if I'm going to avoid Br'ce's wrath today." 'Better late than never' doesn't generally fly well with Wingleaders. Tav gesturing for the man to come forward. She slips up into the straps, right hand and leg leading. The green then bows a bit, tilting to the side. Tav's right arm is also offered for a grip.

One good thing about being a specialized healer is that you've got a good chance of having been on the back of a dragon a good many times. It is with somewhat practiced motions that he scrambles up onto Immath, and a hand that knows what he's doing that straps himself in. All without needing much help from her, although he takes the arm anyway. He waits for a moment, since he knows full well that she's going to check his work before reaching around her frame with both arms -- linking his hands at her belly. For added stability. Of course. "Well, get ye goin', then." He says cheerfully into her ear. "An' let's get t'ouchy bit done with."

Check she does. Not because she doesn't think he does it right, but because she protects what she's got. Always. Satisfied, Tav's bare hand falls to the side of the green's neck, smoothing the bright hide with her fingertips. Tav's only reply for the man is a solid chuckle. Seconds later the ledge falls away from them as Immath goes into a fine swan dive. The sensation of speed is incredible, wind pulling her braid from the back of her jacket and in the man's face. Tav is laughing, Immath's maw open to warble to other dragons now visible in the early sun. No more than a few seconds and wings back pedal with ease and ground rises beneath them once again. "Let's get to it!" Tav says, nudging Immath into the infirmary cavern that opens to the bowl.

That is the reason that he had been thinking, really. She's demonstrated herself as being overprotective, and as such reasonable precautions are likely to be taken. The most fortunate thing of all of this is that he has the sense to bite his tongue as soon as he feels Immath drop. As such, despite a good shock there is nary a peep out of him.. only a 'ffhbbt' as her braid is spat away from his nose. Upon landing, despite the close proximity and good company.. he is quite hasty to get off; veritably sliding down the green's flanks and stomping into the infirmary with a .. "Chop, Chop, then. Let's get ye squared 'away before yer wingleader gives birth t'a kitten." Once inside, nods are given to a few people and she is ushered into a cubicle. And therein lies the slightly unplesant zing to the morning. Torn skin is washed, then covered with some very stingy antiseptic something, then covered with numbweed and he personally binds the leather cover in place -- after washing it -- fussing a bit until everything is secure. And then, a smooch of chin and he is turning to tend to his actual paitents for the day. "Be seein' ye' t'night. Have fun in t'drills."