Log: Still Smitten After All These Turns
Who: Gisele, P'draig
When: Afternoon, 8/3/19
Where: Garden and Pool, Ista Weyr
What: Gisele comes to visit Paddy at Ista. Some old flames just never die, even when things are awkward.
Garden and Pool, Ista Weyr(#456RJ)
From bowl to waterfall, the gardens of Ista stretch out across the plateau. Nearest the bowl are the practical plants--the herbs and crops and an orchard of fruit trees--but the closer to the stream one ventures, the more fanciful the foliage becomes. Lush dark leaves, flowers as big as a hand, jungle creepers hanging from old-growth trees--like most of Ista, the plant life grows rampant here, everything outsized and richly green. The streambanks in particular are impressively overgrown, until every rock is moss-covered and pockets of still water in pools on the banks teem with algae.
Only the waterfall itself seems to have escaped the onslaught of flora, cutting a channel through the rock and falling toward the pool below. The craggy cliffs leading downward post a number of places to sit and swing your feet, or to wade in the shallow puddles that collect in dips in rocks and around the edges of the water. For all the cliffs and their outcroppings, however, the best way down is still the steep, slick stairs switchbacking down the rock face.
What does a harper do when looking for someone she'd like to see? Particularly if that someone is a dragonrider? She asks for help of a dragonrider to speak to Jekzith and request his rider's presence whenever convenient. Which is why a summery, white-clad Gisele is waiting in the poolside garden rather than searching the lower caverns or waiting fruitlessly in the bowl. Her shoes are set atop a shed jacket as, with skirts slightly hitched, she perches herself on a stone, any stone, so her feet might dip into the cool waters. Girlish, creamy legs swing back and forth, her toes flicking up arced droplets of water that then splash tinily in their return to the pool, and in doing so, the ruddy-haired harper can't hold back a delightedly soft laugh. Does she been waiting long?
The shadow of a dragon passes by overhead, though Gisele might not recognize Jekzith's motley hide. P'draig appears a moment or two later, sandals dangling from one hand, bare feet padding quietly on the ground. Dressed for Ista, his shirt is nice enough, though short-sleeved, maybe one of his dressier casual ones worn over shorts. The brownrider's gaze finds white-clad Gisele swiftly and gray-blue eyes settle on her, mixed emotions briefly betrayed. Happiness to see her wins out and he moves forward with a smile, comes to lean against that stone she perches on and leans over like he'd kiss her cheek. "It's good to see you again," he says with warmth in his voice.
The shadow of a dragon, Jekzith or no, is just one shadow of many to the non-Istan, and may as well just be the daily traffic overhead of incoming and departing dragons. And for how long she's waited, which may not have been very long at all, his approaching footsteps may be just a dime a dozen, so doesn't warrant the release of her attention from the way the water ripples in the wake of a toe drop. It's when he moves forward, leaning across her shoulder to brush a kiss to her cheek and then speaks that Gisele finally looks up. However composed the harper is overall, her little tells betray her, from the flutter of her hands off the stone they're braced against and then back to steady her perch to the little twich of her features. Her lashes drop, her cheek turns into his lips, and the tiniest breath exhales past his ear. "You're so good to have come." Because he really didn't have to, not with how she ran away the last time. Simply, with a hand lifting to trace his cheek, she replies, "Thank you."
While he's leaning in, with her breath warming his ear, P'draig's eyes close and he inhales, maybe enough to be heard, otherwise there's only the upward and downward movement of his chest to betray him. "You've come all the way to Ista," the brownrider says with a low laugh, leaning his cheek into that hand a little, his smile as engaging as ever as he turns his mouth just enough to press another kiss to her fingertips. "I should be thanking you," the brownrider counters and bends to drop his sandals down to the ground, lets his arm brace loosely behind her to take his weight, making a comfortable lean against the rock. "Have you come to Ista before?" he has to ask and nods towards the pool. "And how do you like it?"
Her feet arch, so her little toes dip below the water's surface with what seems to be permanence while he leans in and only after he's departed do her legs relax and her feet hang a little more loosely. Then there's the kiss to her fingertips that enchants her enough so that those solemn grey eyes follow his descent to them and a sudden, quiet smile blossoms. "As charming as ever," she utters low. "And no. I don't travel at all outside of the Hall and my posting area. It's absolutely beautiful from what I could see, I can see why you'd be happy here. The rider who brought me along on his errand mentioned I might enjoy the gardens and so... here I am." A succession of babbling turns large eyes, luminously grey, upward to the brownrider's face and the hand to his cheek continues to impart the most delicate finger caresses, as if she'd like to, but refrains from, cupping his face in her palm. "I... I... I came to apologize, Paddy."
Abashed perhaps, P'draig's eyes lower and just the faintest hint of roses lift in his cheeks. "You inspire me," the brownrider answer just a little unsteadily and looks back up at her, eyes meeting eyes, his own full of affection. "It's a really lovely garden, not like the one at Fort, but there's much to see if you'd like to walk it with me. She's refraining but his free hand lifts to press her palm where it so far seems to fear to tread. Surprise registers on his face faintly though. "What for, Gigi?" he utters, voice echoing the puzzlement on his features.
Some of the gentle harper's nerves seem to dissipate at P'draig's own abashment. The flush of color to his cheeks trembles Gisele's lips a little, but draws her straight posture back and then down, a little more casual. Her hand, taken control of so easily, is warm when pressed to his cheek and that small smile reemerges to bring with it a blush to her face. "For being stupid. For running away. It wasn't you." Emboldened by his hand to hers, her other hand reaches forward to cup his other cheek and using that as a brace, swings her legs around the boulder she sits on to slide off her perch and stand by him. "It was," her lashes drop to his collar and the free hand slips to straighten his clothing a little, pressing it flat against his chest, "A lot to suddenly deal with. But it wasn't you. I'm sorry for running away."
Standing so close, he can't really miss that tremble in her lip and P'draig's eyes settle there, his own mouth opening slightly then closing again as she speaks and he listens. "It's all right," he says simply and as her hands shift, the one straightening his shirt, pressing to his chest, one of his arms comes up around her like he'd draw her that much nearer. "I -- I know. So many turns ..." and he trails off, eyes seeking hers out again. "And me tumbling all my news out all at once," he says with wry self-reproach. "I -- well, shall we start over?"
It's so easy to draw her that much nearer, her lithe body pressing with familiarity into his side and his action evokes quiet laughter that's more face crinkles and shoulder shakes than sound. Her own arm slides about his waist so her fingers play about his hips and companionably, she tips her head against his shoulder. "Let's." Start over. She'll even start with that low-pitched voice of hers, not harper quality in anything but usage training. "Two turns ago, I was posted to High Reaches Weyr." The slow, creeping smile lifts up, somehow radiant in its subduedness. "Your turn. Slowly, so it doesn't scare me away again."
His arm tightens a little and his cheek drops towards the crown of her hair and this time his lips brush her forehead. Then with arms laced around waists together, P'draig starts to lead the way through the garden as she agrees. "All right then, starting over," he says with a little laugh and listens attentively. "Mm. Two turns ago, I transferred to Ista, to move in with T'mic." And his grin turns a little lopsided, eyes searching her face to see if /that/ scares her.
Walking slow, for the laced arms and the coordination it requires, Gisele releases a quiet breath. Her head tips back just a little so the brush might linger that much more and the radiance of her smile turns lazy about the edges. Something about a humid summer day and how it brings languidness to even the most graceful of limbs. Her measured silence is broken by the crunch of her bare feet on the ground and what foliage she tramples, however light-stepped, and it's quite a few paces before she's ready to speak again, this time in a softly teasing, "I thought I said take it slow so we don't scare me off again," and a slight lift of her fingers at his hips so they might angle to poke him lightly. "Tumic is either the world's most masculine female name or...?" Her steps halt so she might look up at him better, and in her gaze there's the faintest, unvoiced apprehension: was she so horrible that she turned such a notable playboy onto men?
P'draig'sown feet, likewise bare are bigger and make more of a mess of some of the grass, sandals left behind by the rock. His arm tightens around her just a little and he laughs a little self-consciously, but bends to press a kiss lightly to her forehead. "Yes, T'mic is a man. Green Aath's," Paddy says lightly and draws back a little to look into her eyes again. "It's -- it's an open sort of weyrmating, Gisele," said softly mostly for reassurance though his fingers drift along her waist, roaming a little higher before they settle in place again. Not horrible at all. And he's still more than allowed to play. Which might be the partial genesis behind the renewed tip of his head, the graze of his hand towards her chin as he aims a kiss for her lips this time.
Her dubiousness is too slow for her to dodge that kiss, and reflexive arms, that haven't forgotten the way to travel up along his waist up his sides to the muscles of his arm, reach up to wrap about his broader shoulders. Muscle memory and instinct, along with an almost-forgotten past are harder to overcome in just the seconds it takes for him to explain and for the explanation to bring with it a reminder of what they once shared. How idyllic it would be to kiss and kiss and kiss some more in such a tropical setting, a scene set for romance. But the dubiousnes of her upbringing and the morals she imparts to her students doesn't rear its ugly head until her lips part for him in the softest, lingering kiss and her slight arms are ready to pull him in, down closer to her supple body. But it does come up. About how all this, in her world, is just wrong, and her arms slip and her gray eyes disappear behind a fan of lashes. And there's that fluttering of feet, would-be steps away that can't quite bring herself to move. "I... I don't understand." A few more miss-starts of her jaw working to come to terms culminates into large eyes looking up, unlidded, and a trembling smile working its way to self-deprecation. "You. Are a bad influence." But she still doesn't move, instead offering another factoid of the last five years. "I requested a posting, far far away, so I might learn how to change my mindset to get promoted."
When her arms come up, his tighten in similar reflex to draw her against him and if she'd lingered he might've gotten lost in that kiss for a little while, as it stands he has to catch his breath and one of his hands lifts to brush back her hair gently, to touch her cheek again. "It's ... a long story," Paddy says quietly. "It's hard to know where to begin." So he rejoins the games of facts and goes back further but only after remarking: "I didn't realize that your mindset needed changing, I always thought your way of thinking to be -- perfectly suited to you." He starts walking again, arm re-settling at her waist, guiding their mutual steps towards a little bridge that crosses the stream that feeds the pool. Farther back then. "After I came back to Fort. After Ista, then, Jekzith won a flight and that's how I became a father for the first time."
When he takes her half-rejection in stride, relief marks Gisele's smile, though this restart of their path doesn't include laced arms behind their backs. Hers cross around her abdomen, so one hand's fingers might caress his knuckles about her waist. "I'd like to be a master someday," is her quiet attempt at explanation without delving into the nitty gritty of Hall politics. The lack of self-confidence in her words is mired beneath layers and layers of continued self-deprecation and a subtly mocking tease of herself, only to be caught by the most trained, perceptive ears. "But, I fear I'm a little too naive of how the world works." Her heartbeat's pause leads to a wry, "Clearly." Clearly, given her reactions to just a kiss from her weyrmated once lover. "Congratulations. Son? Daughter? How old? Does she have- your smile or your eyes?" With a hook to play into, she doesn't offer a third fact of her life.
"I'm sure you will be," is P'draig's heartfelt confidence in her. His ears sadly, are not the most trained or the most perceptive, but he's always believed in her since pretty much they day they met, if only because of how she handled him, how she healed him. "The world -- heh, you know, for all I've been a weyrlingmaster for turns, I still think the whole world is hard to grasp. There's just too much." He considers for a moment then looks back down at her, smiles. "My daughter Palia is five and she has my eyes. First of three children, all flight or er - flight-loss born." And there's his third with a whisper of could have been in the air maybe, given how they met.
Perhaps this is her next shared fact of herself: "Your eyes are your best feature. In five years, I haven't forgotten how your eyes look in the morning." If Palia had his smile, then of course that would be his best feature, she's flexible like that with her lightly teasing flattery. The fingers that play over his knuckles come to a stop, placed gently over his hand in repose, and Gisele considers the implications of what he says and the immediate correction. A smile secrets itself, faintly melancholy about the edges, as her gaze casts down to their feet and where they might tread next. "I was always careful." Her craft and all. There's a sliver of apology in that harper-trained voice of elocution. "And your weyrmate?" It's careful ground to tread. "Does he not mind because they're flight-based?"
What she says, even if meant as light flattery and he hasn't missed the teasing, brings P'draig's eyes up to her face again and there's a pang in his. "Neither have I," is said without thinking and his fingers lift a little, seeking to thread through hers. "I know," for her care. "So was I." Because he cared about her then and wouldn't endanger her craft. That much he did understand. Her question though can't help but draw out a laugh. "Ah Gisele ... my weyrmate ... well you'd either find him absolutely charmingly funny, or he'd curl the ends of your hair with his ways," the brownrider confesses, eyes warm though on her face. "T'mic has seven children all by different mothers and none flight-born. He ... defies description. And I know it might be confusing to understand ... why him ... why a man. I'd need hours to tell you the whole tale and I don't know if you have them to spend, or if you want to hear it all in one go even." There's a little pause followed by, more softly still: "Or at all ..."
At the very least, Gisele means to understand. She's trying to, what with the halt in her steps, the swallow, and the rolling shoulders that sink down as if that might help the information to sink in as well. It's apparent in her intonation, when she says, quite softly, "I see," and the game smile she turns up at P'draig. But in her ever-gray eyes, hesitant and uncertain, there's the evidence of what she has to say. "Not now? Not yet?" Those thin lips shape into a quirked smile, rueful for her own shortcomings and in the graceful hand that climbs a trembling path along his cheek to touch into the ends of his dark hair. "Maybe next time." There will be a next time. "Are you happy here, Paddy?" It's a quiet question posed beneath the shade of a tropical tree with its huge, bright orange flowers touched with gold in the center. It's a quiet question that lifts her delicate face with its grave lines and sober grey eyes to search again for the Paddy she once knew in the lines of his face.
Again he's looking into her face, his own open, vulnerable almost, maybe fearing that she'll retreat, that even this will be too much and he so badly doesn't want to drive her away. It's easily enough read in his face and in even more in the renewed tilt of his head into her hand, his own sneaking up again to cover hers. "I am," he says softly. "It's taken a long time ... but I am." And there's the smile she saw more than once, and his eyes are warm with it, touched with tenderness directed at her. There's faint lines in the corners of his eyes now, not yet crow's feet though they will be in a few turns' time. But he's there, that younger Paddy, in the nature of that smile, even if there's the echo of much sadness and regret still to be found. That sadness was raw still, when she knew him before, it's tempered now, but she might be able to read the tale of a somewhat tumultuous span of turns in the lines of his face and the way he looks at her.
"Then, I am truly happy for you," says genuine, gentle Gisele, her own version of a smile of yesteryear floating to her lips with her words. Though she doesn't resume walking, favoring her back to the trunk of that shading tree instead, the exchange of information hasn't quite stopped. "After-," her knee lifts, bare foot gliding in the air a breadth above the trunk itself to plant there whimsically. "After." Which should suffice. "I started dating a fellow harper. It worked out about as well as you could probably imagine seeing as we're no longer together." That quirked smile appears once more to cast down to the folds of her white dress hitched up by that knee. "We're 'friends.'" Where the air quotes are all but tangible.
Even her position hearkens back to another walk through a garden, and P'draig leans his shoulder to the trunk, rests there, alongside her, not too intimately close, but nearby, near enough to see how the sun changes the color of his eyes when it slants down through the leaves above, shifting between silver and blue. "I'm ... glad there was someone, even if it didn't work out," P'draig says as sincerely an he reaches down for one of her hands, fingers starting to trace the shape of it. "I -- drifted," he confesses, swallows hard. "Again." Another pause. "After."
As if they were teenagers in love. That's how they're standing: her with her back to the tree, him leaning sideways alongside her, close but not too close. It's in the way he reaches for one of her hands to trace the shape of them and how she flinches a little, but doesn't move away. Even the way Gisele turns her chin and face up to spy him out beyond her lashes is every bit a coming-of-age novel cover or what might happen on farmholds all across Pern. "It's ok." It's always been ok. It's always been part and parcel of her wholehearted acceptance of him and his needs. Fondness traces her small smile, much as her finger lifts to smudge some nonexistent something away at the corner of his lips. "Tell me something happy about yourself." Unvoiced: things still left unshared and avoidant of topics that might make her skittish. "Tell me..." That smile climbs a little more. "If you've continued your baking now that the Pass is truly over?"
P'draig's hand pauses at that flinch and earnest eyes search hers for the source of the trouble. His fingers cease their tracery and close around hers instead, gentle. Her touch against his mouth sees his head tilting again towards the touch and lips move almost automatically to start to press a kiss in place, likely to miss. "I have," P'draig confirms, answering that question and there's boyish enthusiasm on his face. "I've always kept it up, but with all Thread gone, I take a turn down at the bar here, making nice things for people. I'm enjoying it a lot." Impulsively: "Come one night and I'll cook for you? I ... never did cook for you." Briefly, abashed again. He'd always meant to make her a nice meal.
There's a laugh released in memory yesteryear as well, a floating, lighthearted sound that suffuses her cheeks in color and makes her smile toothy. "Right. You did say that, if I ever visited Fort Weyr, you would make me dinner." Gisele, too, turns onto her side, so she might look up at him full on rather than sidelong. "I'd love that." Except there's an /except/. "Someday." Being even the slightest bit discomforted with the situation sits ill on the harper's lissome frame, nor does it rest easy in her delicately grave features. Fleetingly, a look up through her lashes betrays just how much she'd like to forget that he's, well, another man's man, despite the openness of that relationship. How much she'd rather kiss him, without another thought, what with her finger trailing across his lips once more, perhaps lingering so the decision to kiss their tips is up to him and not her. In the end, she says, "I should probably go look for my ride," with a gentle stroke of the back of her hand to his cheek. "You've forgiven me? For running off on you?"
"Yes," P'draig confirms simply, for that offer of dinner and for her answer, there's a sincere: "You know where to find me when ... if ... you're ready." Gentle-voiced still as his lips do press to her fingers, more than once. She turns and his hand lifts towards her shoulder, slides down the outside of her arm and his breath catches again at her touch. "I never held it against you," is the answer as his hand moves upward again, looking to cradle her cheek this time. There's a lot unsaid still and it's in his eyes as he bends to kiss her once more, intending it for gentle and affectionate rather than the quicksilver fire she's lighting in him all over again. "Come back soon," he murmurs fervently when he releases her.
Oh, she can't help it when he kisses her. Not like that. Not here in this idyllic setting. What starts gentle and affectionate, that's interrupted by his fervent words and physical release, becomes a little longer and certainly more smoky as her hands cup about his face, and one shoulder does this forward uplift as she presses her body up into his, so he might feel and remember every toned curve. Old habits are so hard to forget. It's this kiss that leaves her breathless as she parts and takes a few steps back, though the flush on her cheeks isn't simply from the kiss, but also from the growing embrassment mingling with the mixed emotions of discomfort with the situation. She's not running away this time, but she is saying, "Goodbye," with two more backward steps to put space between them. She might say more, but self-control reasserts itself before she lets slip anything more embarrassing. "Thank you." For the kiss? For the forgiveness? Does it matter? Two more backward steps and then, her fluttering white dress swirls as she turns to walk with extremely deliberate slowness up to the pool. See, she's not running away this time. Just, walking away.
Longer and smokier is met in turn with a slow burn from P'draig and his fingers drift towards her hair, curl there for the space of how many seconds she allows. A half step towards her presses his hip lightly to hers even if not for long. Parting, Paddy is left again breathless with his hand pressed against a tree trunk, eyes going all hazy with silver light with what she does to him, has always done to him. "See you soon," is what the brownrider says instead, though he makes himself stay put, fingers curling not far from where her head just rested as she walks away, gaze fixed on the lithe grace of her movements and the enchantment of her white hem where it grazes against her legs.
She walks slow and sedate up the path to the pool, the white hem grazing against and between her legs for her steady movements. And then she's gone to retrieve her jacket and shoes and to go find her ride home. Needless to say, Paddy isn't privy to the mottled flush on her cheek and neck or the uneven breathing she struggles to not betray her to the bluerider she finds eventually.
When: Afternoon, 8/3/19
Where: Garden and Pool, Ista Weyr
What: Gisele comes to visit Paddy at Ista. Some old flames just never die, even when things are awkward.
Garden and Pool, Ista Weyr(#456RJ)
From bowl to waterfall, the gardens of Ista stretch out across the plateau. Nearest the bowl are the practical plants--the herbs and crops and an orchard of fruit trees--but the closer to the stream one ventures, the more fanciful the foliage becomes. Lush dark leaves, flowers as big as a hand, jungle creepers hanging from old-growth trees--like most of Ista, the plant life grows rampant here, everything outsized and richly green. The streambanks in particular are impressively overgrown, until every rock is moss-covered and pockets of still water in pools on the banks teem with algae.
Only the waterfall itself seems to have escaped the onslaught of flora, cutting a channel through the rock and falling toward the pool below. The craggy cliffs leading downward post a number of places to sit and swing your feet, or to wade in the shallow puddles that collect in dips in rocks and around the edges of the water. For all the cliffs and their outcroppings, however, the best way down is still the steep, slick stairs switchbacking down the rock face.
What does a harper do when looking for someone she'd like to see? Particularly if that someone is a dragonrider? She asks for help of a dragonrider to speak to Jekzith and request his rider's presence whenever convenient. Which is why a summery, white-clad Gisele is waiting in the poolside garden rather than searching the lower caverns or waiting fruitlessly in the bowl. Her shoes are set atop a shed jacket as, with skirts slightly hitched, she perches herself on a stone, any stone, so her feet might dip into the cool waters. Girlish, creamy legs swing back and forth, her toes flicking up arced droplets of water that then splash tinily in their return to the pool, and in doing so, the ruddy-haired harper can't hold back a delightedly soft laugh. Does she been waiting long?
The shadow of a dragon passes by overhead, though Gisele might not recognize Jekzith's motley hide. P'draig appears a moment or two later, sandals dangling from one hand, bare feet padding quietly on the ground. Dressed for Ista, his shirt is nice enough, though short-sleeved, maybe one of his dressier casual ones worn over shorts. The brownrider's gaze finds white-clad Gisele swiftly and gray-blue eyes settle on her, mixed emotions briefly betrayed. Happiness to see her wins out and he moves forward with a smile, comes to lean against that stone she perches on and leans over like he'd kiss her cheek. "It's good to see you again," he says with warmth in his voice.
The shadow of a dragon, Jekzith or no, is just one shadow of many to the non-Istan, and may as well just be the daily traffic overhead of incoming and departing dragons. And for how long she's waited, which may not have been very long at all, his approaching footsteps may be just a dime a dozen, so doesn't warrant the release of her attention from the way the water ripples in the wake of a toe drop. It's when he moves forward, leaning across her shoulder to brush a kiss to her cheek and then speaks that Gisele finally looks up. However composed the harper is overall, her little tells betray her, from the flutter of her hands off the stone they're braced against and then back to steady her perch to the little twich of her features. Her lashes drop, her cheek turns into his lips, and the tiniest breath exhales past his ear. "You're so good to have come." Because he really didn't have to, not with how she ran away the last time. Simply, with a hand lifting to trace his cheek, she replies, "Thank you."
While he's leaning in, with her breath warming his ear, P'draig's eyes close and he inhales, maybe enough to be heard, otherwise there's only the upward and downward movement of his chest to betray him. "You've come all the way to Ista," the brownrider says with a low laugh, leaning his cheek into that hand a little, his smile as engaging as ever as he turns his mouth just enough to press another kiss to her fingertips. "I should be thanking you," the brownrider counters and bends to drop his sandals down to the ground, lets his arm brace loosely behind her to take his weight, making a comfortable lean against the rock. "Have you come to Ista before?" he has to ask and nods towards the pool. "And how do you like it?"
Her feet arch, so her little toes dip below the water's surface with what seems to be permanence while he leans in and only after he's departed do her legs relax and her feet hang a little more loosely. Then there's the kiss to her fingertips that enchants her enough so that those solemn grey eyes follow his descent to them and a sudden, quiet smile blossoms. "As charming as ever," she utters low. "And no. I don't travel at all outside of the Hall and my posting area. It's absolutely beautiful from what I could see, I can see why you'd be happy here. The rider who brought me along on his errand mentioned I might enjoy the gardens and so... here I am." A succession of babbling turns large eyes, luminously grey, upward to the brownrider's face and the hand to his cheek continues to impart the most delicate finger caresses, as if she'd like to, but refrains from, cupping his face in her palm. "I... I... I came to apologize, Paddy."
Abashed perhaps, P'draig's eyes lower and just the faintest hint of roses lift in his cheeks. "You inspire me," the brownrider answer just a little unsteadily and looks back up at her, eyes meeting eyes, his own full of affection. "It's a really lovely garden, not like the one at Fort, but there's much to see if you'd like to walk it with me. She's refraining but his free hand lifts to press her palm where it so far seems to fear to tread. Surprise registers on his face faintly though. "What for, Gigi?" he utters, voice echoing the puzzlement on his features.
Some of the gentle harper's nerves seem to dissipate at P'draig's own abashment. The flush of color to his cheeks trembles Gisele's lips a little, but draws her straight posture back and then down, a little more casual. Her hand, taken control of so easily, is warm when pressed to his cheek and that small smile reemerges to bring with it a blush to her face. "For being stupid. For running away. It wasn't you." Emboldened by his hand to hers, her other hand reaches forward to cup his other cheek and using that as a brace, swings her legs around the boulder she sits on to slide off her perch and stand by him. "It was," her lashes drop to his collar and the free hand slips to straighten his clothing a little, pressing it flat against his chest, "A lot to suddenly deal with. But it wasn't you. I'm sorry for running away."
Standing so close, he can't really miss that tremble in her lip and P'draig's eyes settle there, his own mouth opening slightly then closing again as she speaks and he listens. "It's all right," he says simply and as her hands shift, the one straightening his shirt, pressing to his chest, one of his arms comes up around her like he'd draw her that much nearer. "I -- I know. So many turns ..." and he trails off, eyes seeking hers out again. "And me tumbling all my news out all at once," he says with wry self-reproach. "I -- well, shall we start over?"
It's so easy to draw her that much nearer, her lithe body pressing with familiarity into his side and his action evokes quiet laughter that's more face crinkles and shoulder shakes than sound. Her own arm slides about his waist so her fingers play about his hips and companionably, she tips her head against his shoulder. "Let's." Start over. She'll even start with that low-pitched voice of hers, not harper quality in anything but usage training. "Two turns ago, I was posted to High Reaches Weyr." The slow, creeping smile lifts up, somehow radiant in its subduedness. "Your turn. Slowly, so it doesn't scare me away again."
His arm tightens a little and his cheek drops towards the crown of her hair and this time his lips brush her forehead. Then with arms laced around waists together, P'draig starts to lead the way through the garden as she agrees. "All right then, starting over," he says with a little laugh and listens attentively. "Mm. Two turns ago, I transferred to Ista, to move in with T'mic." And his grin turns a little lopsided, eyes searching her face to see if /that/ scares her.
Walking slow, for the laced arms and the coordination it requires, Gisele releases a quiet breath. Her head tips back just a little so the brush might linger that much more and the radiance of her smile turns lazy about the edges. Something about a humid summer day and how it brings languidness to even the most graceful of limbs. Her measured silence is broken by the crunch of her bare feet on the ground and what foliage she tramples, however light-stepped, and it's quite a few paces before she's ready to speak again, this time in a softly teasing, "I thought I said take it slow so we don't scare me off again," and a slight lift of her fingers at his hips so they might angle to poke him lightly. "Tumic is either the world's most masculine female name or...?" Her steps halt so she might look up at him better, and in her gaze there's the faintest, unvoiced apprehension: was she so horrible that she turned such a notable playboy onto men?
P'draig'sown feet, likewise bare are bigger and make more of a mess of some of the grass, sandals left behind by the rock. His arm tightens around her just a little and he laughs a little self-consciously, but bends to press a kiss lightly to her forehead. "Yes, T'mic is a man. Green Aath's," Paddy says lightly and draws back a little to look into her eyes again. "It's -- it's an open sort of weyrmating, Gisele," said softly mostly for reassurance though his fingers drift along her waist, roaming a little higher before they settle in place again. Not horrible at all. And he's still more than allowed to play. Which might be the partial genesis behind the renewed tip of his head, the graze of his hand towards her chin as he aims a kiss for her lips this time.
Her dubiousness is too slow for her to dodge that kiss, and reflexive arms, that haven't forgotten the way to travel up along his waist up his sides to the muscles of his arm, reach up to wrap about his broader shoulders. Muscle memory and instinct, along with an almost-forgotten past are harder to overcome in just the seconds it takes for him to explain and for the explanation to bring with it a reminder of what they once shared. How idyllic it would be to kiss and kiss and kiss some more in such a tropical setting, a scene set for romance. But the dubiousnes of her upbringing and the morals she imparts to her students doesn't rear its ugly head until her lips part for him in the softest, lingering kiss and her slight arms are ready to pull him in, down closer to her supple body. But it does come up. About how all this, in her world, is just wrong, and her arms slip and her gray eyes disappear behind a fan of lashes. And there's that fluttering of feet, would-be steps away that can't quite bring herself to move. "I... I don't understand." A few more miss-starts of her jaw working to come to terms culminates into large eyes looking up, unlidded, and a trembling smile working its way to self-deprecation. "You. Are a bad influence." But she still doesn't move, instead offering another factoid of the last five years. "I requested a posting, far far away, so I might learn how to change my mindset to get promoted."
When her arms come up, his tighten in similar reflex to draw her against him and if she'd lingered he might've gotten lost in that kiss for a little while, as it stands he has to catch his breath and one of his hands lifts to brush back her hair gently, to touch her cheek again. "It's ... a long story," Paddy says quietly. "It's hard to know where to begin." So he rejoins the games of facts and goes back further but only after remarking: "I didn't realize that your mindset needed changing, I always thought your way of thinking to be -- perfectly suited to you." He starts walking again, arm re-settling at her waist, guiding their mutual steps towards a little bridge that crosses the stream that feeds the pool. Farther back then. "After I came back to Fort. After Ista, then, Jekzith won a flight and that's how I became a father for the first time."
When he takes her half-rejection in stride, relief marks Gisele's smile, though this restart of their path doesn't include laced arms behind their backs. Hers cross around her abdomen, so one hand's fingers might caress his knuckles about her waist. "I'd like to be a master someday," is her quiet attempt at explanation without delving into the nitty gritty of Hall politics. The lack of self-confidence in her words is mired beneath layers and layers of continued self-deprecation and a subtly mocking tease of herself, only to be caught by the most trained, perceptive ears. "But, I fear I'm a little too naive of how the world works." Her heartbeat's pause leads to a wry, "Clearly." Clearly, given her reactions to just a kiss from her weyrmated once lover. "Congratulations. Son? Daughter? How old? Does she have- your smile or your eyes?" With a hook to play into, she doesn't offer a third fact of her life.
"I'm sure you will be," is P'draig's heartfelt confidence in her. His ears sadly, are not the most trained or the most perceptive, but he's always believed in her since pretty much they day they met, if only because of how she handled him, how she healed him. "The world -- heh, you know, for all I've been a weyrlingmaster for turns, I still think the whole world is hard to grasp. There's just too much." He considers for a moment then looks back down at her, smiles. "My daughter Palia is five and she has my eyes. First of three children, all flight or er - flight-loss born." And there's his third with a whisper of could have been in the air maybe, given how they met.
Perhaps this is her next shared fact of herself: "Your eyes are your best feature. In five years, I haven't forgotten how your eyes look in the morning." If Palia had his smile, then of course that would be his best feature, she's flexible like that with her lightly teasing flattery. The fingers that play over his knuckles come to a stop, placed gently over his hand in repose, and Gisele considers the implications of what he says and the immediate correction. A smile secrets itself, faintly melancholy about the edges, as her gaze casts down to their feet and where they might tread next. "I was always careful." Her craft and all. There's a sliver of apology in that harper-trained voice of elocution. "And your weyrmate?" It's careful ground to tread. "Does he not mind because they're flight-based?"
What she says, even if meant as light flattery and he hasn't missed the teasing, brings P'draig's eyes up to her face again and there's a pang in his. "Neither have I," is said without thinking and his fingers lift a little, seeking to thread through hers. "I know," for her care. "So was I." Because he cared about her then and wouldn't endanger her craft. That much he did understand. Her question though can't help but draw out a laugh. "Ah Gisele ... my weyrmate ... well you'd either find him absolutely charmingly funny, or he'd curl the ends of your hair with his ways," the brownrider confesses, eyes warm though on her face. "T'mic has seven children all by different mothers and none flight-born. He ... defies description. And I know it might be confusing to understand ... why him ... why a man. I'd need hours to tell you the whole tale and I don't know if you have them to spend, or if you want to hear it all in one go even." There's a little pause followed by, more softly still: "Or at all ..."
At the very least, Gisele means to understand. She's trying to, what with the halt in her steps, the swallow, and the rolling shoulders that sink down as if that might help the information to sink in as well. It's apparent in her intonation, when she says, quite softly, "I see," and the game smile she turns up at P'draig. But in her ever-gray eyes, hesitant and uncertain, there's the evidence of what she has to say. "Not now? Not yet?" Those thin lips shape into a quirked smile, rueful for her own shortcomings and in the graceful hand that climbs a trembling path along his cheek to touch into the ends of his dark hair. "Maybe next time." There will be a next time. "Are you happy here, Paddy?" It's a quiet question posed beneath the shade of a tropical tree with its huge, bright orange flowers touched with gold in the center. It's a quiet question that lifts her delicate face with its grave lines and sober grey eyes to search again for the Paddy she once knew in the lines of his face.
Again he's looking into her face, his own open, vulnerable almost, maybe fearing that she'll retreat, that even this will be too much and he so badly doesn't want to drive her away. It's easily enough read in his face and in even more in the renewed tilt of his head into her hand, his own sneaking up again to cover hers. "I am," he says softly. "It's taken a long time ... but I am." And there's the smile she saw more than once, and his eyes are warm with it, touched with tenderness directed at her. There's faint lines in the corners of his eyes now, not yet crow's feet though they will be in a few turns' time. But he's there, that younger Paddy, in the nature of that smile, even if there's the echo of much sadness and regret still to be found. That sadness was raw still, when she knew him before, it's tempered now, but she might be able to read the tale of a somewhat tumultuous span of turns in the lines of his face and the way he looks at her.
"Then, I am truly happy for you," says genuine, gentle Gisele, her own version of a smile of yesteryear floating to her lips with her words. Though she doesn't resume walking, favoring her back to the trunk of that shading tree instead, the exchange of information hasn't quite stopped. "After-," her knee lifts, bare foot gliding in the air a breadth above the trunk itself to plant there whimsically. "After." Which should suffice. "I started dating a fellow harper. It worked out about as well as you could probably imagine seeing as we're no longer together." That quirked smile appears once more to cast down to the folds of her white dress hitched up by that knee. "We're 'friends.'" Where the air quotes are all but tangible.
Even her position hearkens back to another walk through a garden, and P'draig leans his shoulder to the trunk, rests there, alongside her, not too intimately close, but nearby, near enough to see how the sun changes the color of his eyes when it slants down through the leaves above, shifting between silver and blue. "I'm ... glad there was someone, even if it didn't work out," P'draig says as sincerely an he reaches down for one of her hands, fingers starting to trace the shape of it. "I -- drifted," he confesses, swallows hard. "Again." Another pause. "After."
As if they were teenagers in love. That's how they're standing: her with her back to the tree, him leaning sideways alongside her, close but not too close. It's in the way he reaches for one of her hands to trace the shape of them and how she flinches a little, but doesn't move away. Even the way Gisele turns her chin and face up to spy him out beyond her lashes is every bit a coming-of-age novel cover or what might happen on farmholds all across Pern. "It's ok." It's always been ok. It's always been part and parcel of her wholehearted acceptance of him and his needs. Fondness traces her small smile, much as her finger lifts to smudge some nonexistent something away at the corner of his lips. "Tell me something happy about yourself." Unvoiced: things still left unshared and avoidant of topics that might make her skittish. "Tell me..." That smile climbs a little more. "If you've continued your baking now that the Pass is truly over?"
P'draig's hand pauses at that flinch and earnest eyes search hers for the source of the trouble. His fingers cease their tracery and close around hers instead, gentle. Her touch against his mouth sees his head tilting again towards the touch and lips move almost automatically to start to press a kiss in place, likely to miss. "I have," P'draig confirms, answering that question and there's boyish enthusiasm on his face. "I've always kept it up, but with all Thread gone, I take a turn down at the bar here, making nice things for people. I'm enjoying it a lot." Impulsively: "Come one night and I'll cook for you? I ... never did cook for you." Briefly, abashed again. He'd always meant to make her a nice meal.
There's a laugh released in memory yesteryear as well, a floating, lighthearted sound that suffuses her cheeks in color and makes her smile toothy. "Right. You did say that, if I ever visited Fort Weyr, you would make me dinner." Gisele, too, turns onto her side, so she might look up at him full on rather than sidelong. "I'd love that." Except there's an /except/. "Someday." Being even the slightest bit discomforted with the situation sits ill on the harper's lissome frame, nor does it rest easy in her delicately grave features. Fleetingly, a look up through her lashes betrays just how much she'd like to forget that he's, well, another man's man, despite the openness of that relationship. How much she'd rather kiss him, without another thought, what with her finger trailing across his lips once more, perhaps lingering so the decision to kiss their tips is up to him and not her. In the end, she says, "I should probably go look for my ride," with a gentle stroke of the back of her hand to his cheek. "You've forgiven me? For running off on you?"
"Yes," P'draig confirms simply, for that offer of dinner and for her answer, there's a sincere: "You know where to find me when ... if ... you're ready." Gentle-voiced still as his lips do press to her fingers, more than once. She turns and his hand lifts towards her shoulder, slides down the outside of her arm and his breath catches again at her touch. "I never held it against you," is the answer as his hand moves upward again, looking to cradle her cheek this time. There's a lot unsaid still and it's in his eyes as he bends to kiss her once more, intending it for gentle and affectionate rather than the quicksilver fire she's lighting in him all over again. "Come back soon," he murmurs fervently when he releases her.
Oh, she can't help it when he kisses her. Not like that. Not here in this idyllic setting. What starts gentle and affectionate, that's interrupted by his fervent words and physical release, becomes a little longer and certainly more smoky as her hands cup about his face, and one shoulder does this forward uplift as she presses her body up into his, so he might feel and remember every toned curve. Old habits are so hard to forget. It's this kiss that leaves her breathless as she parts and takes a few steps back, though the flush on her cheeks isn't simply from the kiss, but also from the growing embrassment mingling with the mixed emotions of discomfort with the situation. She's not running away this time, but she is saying, "Goodbye," with two more backward steps to put space between them. She might say more, but self-control reasserts itself before she lets slip anything more embarrassing. "Thank you." For the kiss? For the forgiveness? Does it matter? Two more backward steps and then, her fluttering white dress swirls as she turns to walk with extremely deliberate slowness up to the pool. See, she's not running away this time. Just, walking away.
Longer and smokier is met in turn with a slow burn from P'draig and his fingers drift towards her hair, curl there for the space of how many seconds she allows. A half step towards her presses his hip lightly to hers even if not for long. Parting, Paddy is left again breathless with his hand pressed against a tree trunk, eyes going all hazy with silver light with what she does to him, has always done to him. "See you soon," is what the brownrider says instead, though he makes himself stay put, fingers curling not far from where her head just rested as she walks away, gaze fixed on the lithe grace of her movements and the enchantment of her white hem where it grazes against her legs.
She walks slow and sedate up the path to the pool, the white hem grazing against and between her legs for her steady movements. And then she's gone to retrieve her jacket and shoes and to go find her ride home. Needless to say, Paddy isn't privy to the mottled flush on her cheek and neck or the uneven breathing she struggles to not betray her to the bluerider she finds eventually.