Switcharoo or how our heroine fixes her hero.
Who: Miniyal and G'thon
Where: Their room
When: Evening on day 26, month 9, turn 2 of the 7th Pass
What: Following her interview of J'cor found here Miniyal makes a strategic mistake. Oops. Pesky pipe smoke. Still, in the end all is well. Or as well as it can be.
Note: Mushy stuff found within. It's so cute. Well, to us. :p
11/9/2006 & 11/13/2006
Evening on day 26, month 9, turn 2 of the 7th Pass
And so, we find Miniyal home after a long day of work and such things that seem like work. Rather than come home after finishing up what stuff Roa would have her do she remained out and about. Hoping to catch the weyrleader after dinner and therefore not busy she spent her time in records, looking up items of interest. Refreshing her memory she would say. A note was sent, because she is thoughtful. It told Gans she was going to be working late and would miss dinner with him, but that she would eat before coming home and therefore he should eat without her. She meant to tell him where she would go. Might have thought she did even, but the location of her next interview was not given. An oversight.
The door opens and she steps inside with her writing case in hand. What she doesn't notice, doesn't think to notice, is the scent of pipe smoke that comes in with her as well. It's not something she would linger on. Instead she stands by the door and lets out a quiet sigh, shaking her head and balancing precariously on first one foot and then the other to tug off the soft black boots on her feet. Because of the long day she leaves them where they are instead of picking them up and putting them away. There it is she stands, frowning down at the case in her hands, not quite in focus yet with the room and who else might be in it.
He has eaten. Well, there are dishes, and the remnants of food that's been picked at, stacked tidily under the tea-things on the cart, waiting for one of the kitchens' assistants - a child, to be frank - to come get it all in the morning. Trade it out for breakfast, and more hot water. Done with dinner and still left to his own devices, Gans has found good use of his time; he sits at the writing-desk, hides spread out before and around him, two books among the rest of the scatter. One is a text, and lies open at the far edge of the desk; one is his journal, and lies open to blank pages just beside his elbow. He takes notes onto a sheet spread before him, in outline form.
Gans has been waiting for the sound of the door, for the sound of her soft-booted feet, for the first of her words. Two out of three is more than enough - he looks up immediately, his hand releasing the stylus mid-thought onto the page, his knees uncrossing and legs straightening to push back his chair. "Miniyal," he says, so glad to see her home, and rises. He sidesteps the desk, starts out toward her, stride even and long. And then he stops, the trip only halfway taken, and blinks. His head turns a little, though his focus stays on her. His head turns back. He looks down at the case in her hands, and a smidgin of a smile quirks the right-hand corner of his lips. Still, when he speaks it's thin and strained, as if he's stopped the whole nasty business of breathing. "You've seen the weyrleader."
She has done so much speaking for the day she thought to leave it behind a bit or else she might have said something in greeting when finding him at his desk. Plenty of conversation missteps left her without the desire to even utter a hello. When he does it for her she smiles, letting out a quiet sigh of relief to be home, to hear his voice. She means to put the rest of the world behind her as she usually does when coming home. At least for a bit until he coaxes her day out of her with wine and words, both too sweet for her to resist. It seems that oasis is not available to her tonight, however, and at his words she blinks. Watching him, the smile that had formed fades away, leaving her puzzled and concerned. "I did. I told you. At least, I meant to include it in my note. For my history. I'm afraid it went as poorly as many of the rest." That something is wrong is evident. That she is quite clueless as to what that might be is just as evident.
"I did not think they'd been going poorly," chastises her lover, as gently as he can manage with so little voice to spare. He turns his head aside after that and breathes, which he tries to do without much motion of his chest, then faces her again. Even if she does not catch the suppressed, strained rise and fall of his breath, she is unlikely to be able to miss the strange turning away, and turning back again. But he manages another part of that smile for her, and warmth enough in his eyes. "Can I get you your robe? You can sit, have a little wine, try to unwind." Normally he would get the wine without asking, and let her sit in her own time, pacing first if she needs to. The suggestion of the robe is completely out of the blue, but he imbues it with just enough sweetness that it could be considered an awkward come-on. And he breathes again, without turning his head this time. It is a slow adjustment.
"You could tell me what is wrong." Everything else is ignored, the chastising and the offers and all of it is swept away without her even seeming to have noticed it. "I know something's wrong. Is it. . .did I do something?" Her first though, Miniyal's always first thought. That somehow she has broken something. Stepping back awkwardly her back comes into contact with the door and she stares at him anxiously. "I don't know what it could have been. But I'm sorry." Things have been going so well, relatively speaking. The routine has suffered a few bumps, but overall there's been a distinct lack of full on attack of doubts. Amazing what can happen then so quickly. "Should I go?" It has been a trying day for her. The stress of it all seems to have caught up with her.
"No," he says, gently, that she hasn't done something wrong. Of course it's not enough. He has to step toward her, to reclaim the space she's put between them by stepping back. But he seems unable to come closer, and has to bend his head to get a breath. He shakes his head, denying every effort she makes to bring doubt between them. But his denials are weak, his passion unfueled. He seems a little pale. It's the question, should she go, that gets him. His head jerks up, eyes wide. Desperate. "No!" Another step forward, and another, a hand going out. "Please don't. I just - you - " Gans lifts his chin. The swallow's inaudible, but the bob of his throat is hard to miss; he's just too thin. "It's nothing. Not you. Please stay with me."
She doesn't move from the door, doesn't let the hand reaching for her touch her. Instead Miniyal stands there, clutching her case in front of her now and looking at her feet. "Then tell me," she begs. Just as desperate. Something has come between, clearly. No matter how hard he might be trying to act otherwise. "Gans, please." This said as she looks up, meeting his eyes. "Please tell me what is wrong. I can't fix it if I don't know. If I do. . .I can. I can fix whatever I have to for you, Gans. Just tell me." She is certainly not above begging, pleading for what he will not say. Nothing he says reassures her, but all of her fears and her concern switches from her own self to him and while she remains lingering by the door, not yet touching him, she may as well be for all the intensity of her gaze. Searching his face she tries for some sign.
His hand sinks slowly back to his side, useless. His eyes, when hers find them, are pained but pleading, and a little watery. Don't go. Don't go. "I will tell you," Gans says, softly, defeated. He's quiet for a moment, and then, needing air again, turns half away. But it's the right side that faces her, and there curves up there a little trace of a smile. "It's ridiculous." His hand squirms a self-depricating gesture. "Come in. Please. Let me get you a drink. Sit down. Don't - " His eyes slide over toward her, and as desperate as they are, they can find a little wry light for what he's about to say. "Don't hover by the door, Miniyal. Please."
Warily then she steps from the door, but she's not confident about her entrance anymore. The writing case is set down out of the way by the door. Somewhere it won't be tripped over, but not where it belongs. Unable to resist any longer she moves closer, just a few steps and then she is reaching for his hand, bringing it to her lips to kiss cool skin. Turning it over she kisses his palm and then rests it against her cheek as she shakes her head gently. "If it pains you it is not ridiculous, Gans. If it something I have done, even unknowingly, that has pained you I have to know so I can never do it again." Ever. Her tone is perhaps eerily firm. Whatever it is, whatever she must do to not have this happen again she will do it. He is, alas, unable to get her a drink or move away because she holds his hand to her cheek, not returning it to him as she looks at his face both earnest and desperate to right whatever she inadvertently messed up.
His hand is captured, and by it he is drawn closer to her. He should step that last pace forward and close the space between them; he should use the arm still within his own power to pull her against him, so he can bend his head and breathe of her hair. But these things he does not do, seems unable to do. Still - her words have lent him a little comfort. "Not you," Gans reiterates, gently, and lets his fingers curl just enough that the tips can slide along the curve of her cheek, the palm still trapped beneath her hand. "He smokes." This is, in and of itself, ridiculous-sounding - to him, anyway - and her lover ducks his head and looks away, mouth curved wry, eyes dancing at his own discomfort. "I would have been - I did not - ah." He licks his lips, raises his head, tries again while looking directly at her. "I have developed some unpleasant associations with it."
"Oh." Said so softly and then she steps away, eyes wide with sympathy. "Oh! Oh, no!" Guilt replaces much of everything else in her expression and if there is pain of her own at being reminded of why it would bother him Miniyal hides it. Hides it well and deep and doesn't think on it right now because it's his turn to need comfort and she can just deal with it later alone like she still does with some things. "I am so sorry. I never thought. I didn't even. . .think." Her voice breaks on the last word and she releases his hand, eyes upon his, gazing at him through tears unshed for him. "Forgive me, love. I didn't consider it at all. Shall I run to the baths real quick? It will just take a moment. I don't mind." Eager now, willing to do just about anything, well, fine, anything, to make things better.
"No." Again, almost desperate, and his hand arches beneath hers, turning over, clinging to her fingers. "Just - " He pauses a moment, eyes closing. Fighting for control. For his charm, his wit. For his dignity. Again Gans licks his lips, so uncharacteristic a habit. His eyes open, and indeed when they regard her again his gaze is so much more like his own. "Let me get you wine," he says, voice low now, a murmur almost a purr, well within his control. "Let me undress you. Allow me, if you can, to brush out your hair. Give me a chance." He takes a breath - a deep one, and halfway through he does turn his head; but then he's looking back at her, jaw set, determined. He steps forward. "I would like to do this."
"If you wish it." If you need it, but she's not so sure of herself or him to guess what he might need in this case and so she phrases it differently. He is given a smile, warm and encouraging. He is, in fact, given more than that. "Wine, please. I will get my brush for you." His own demons, the shadows he brought with him are more important than her own. Somewhere Miniyal can realise this and somewhere she can find strength she was unaware of possessing to help him. He'll figure it out later possibly. For now she takes control of his hand again, bringing it to her lips and there placing a kiss upon the tip of each finger and then again another on his palm. Her lips linger there, breath warm against his skin. "Would you like," offered between kisses. "Perhaps for me to recite something else to you while you tend my hair?" If they are moving past with the help of seduction far be it from her to not play her part.
"Wine," he sighs, and there is relief enough in the sigh to pay back some small fraction of her patience and tolerance. The wine itself will have to pay down a little more of that debt. Gans turns his hand beneath her lips, fingertips straying over the shapes of kisses remnant upon her mouth, and his eyes of course follow, so that when she speaks again, he reads the words as well as he hears them. "Ah." His fingers move, attending especially to the curve of her lower lip. "Perhaps." The idea certainly has appeal, appeal that brightens the fix of his eyes. But then he raises his gaze to meet hers and his smile crooks. "I had meant to ask you something, before - " Before the scent of the smoke upon her had his mind scattering. He glances down a split-second, stealing breath with head slightly bowed, then looks up and draws his hand away. "If you wished to recite for me, I could hardly turn you down. Let me get us glasses." This he means to do then, to depart her presence just long enough to select wine and ready her a pour of it.
Head tilting, she watches him most carefully. Weighing what she sees and deciding something that makes her smile faintly. "What did-nevermind. It can wait." Far be it from her to not put off him asking her something as it tends to lead to all sorts of trouble for her. Miniyal smiles again as he steps away. "Get the wine then. I'll go change. Just give me a moment. I'll find my brush." Because it's packed away somewhere. As if she doesn't know exactly where it would be even though it doesn't get used. Heading for the other room she pauses after a few steps. "Well, if you're sure. I don't have anything prepared, but surely I could remember something or other that might take your mind off anything else. If I can remember it." No smile at this although she watches him near the doorway, giving him time to make some teasing remark.
He does as suggested, going for the wine, and does not this time demand that she let him see about helping her out of his clothes; there is nothing but a little shake of his head and a wry, conscious half-smile for the back-and-forth on the issue. "Miniyal," he says, refusing to look at her - there's some sign of effort in this, in that he seems to have to be working very hard to go through a handful of bottles of wine with especial care to select just the correct one to open for the evening. Yet Gans smiles, and his eyes sparkle wry. "I assure you, should you choose to recite something to me and pause in the middle, unable to find words, I shall bear the blame for that situation; I would not make such presumption about your powers of recall." He straightens by the shelves, bottle in hand, glasses coming down from the reach of the other with stems twinned between slim fingers. Still he does not look, as if leaving her privacy to disappear into their bedchamber. "I should certainly plan to bear the blame, in any case." Very involved in uncorking the wine, he is.
Into the other room she goes once he's spoken, a quiet laugh remaining behind her for a moment. The changing and the locating and all of it takes hardly any time at all. Still, she doesn't hurry because then she might seem as if she's worried and she is not. A few minutes later he'll either have selected the wine or not, but she reappears. Bare feet pad back into the room, brush dangling from her hands. Hair is being pulled out from between the robe and whatever she has on under it as Miniyal looks to see where he is and if the wine has been selected and uncorked. "Is there any cake left?" Because she didn't get any with her own dinner and there has to be something in here that is sweet because he would save her something. It's how thoughtful he is, after all, that keeps her coming back to him. "Oh, I plan on blaming you entirely," she assures him as she heads for the divan, taking up the conversation where it left off. "You're not going to be distracting are you? Really. It's not fair if you try to distract me." When I am trying to distract you. The wryness in her tone indicates she is aware of this little fact. But she won't bother pointing it out. "So. . .let me think. What shall I make you hear?" Forcing him to listen to her. Because surely he doesn't want to.
A few minutes later he's selected and even poured. The wine is pale but red - pink, really - richer of hue than a blush and so fragrant that the scent will be her first greeting when she emerges in her robe. If there's smoke in the air, the fruity headiness will bear it down, and perhaps that's partly Gans' purpose in his selection. "There is a little lemon torte. The carrots are swimming in sweet and butter; they're practically dessert themselves," he notes while closing up the wine; then he lifts one of the glasses and approaches the divan and the woman there to deliver it. "I think the torte would go best with this, however." His voice rolls low and delighted from the back of his throat. "I shall get it, and feed you bits between lines. That way I can't distract you." Pale brows arch, unable to set still on such a blatant and intentional untruth, and Gans starts back to the table to retrieve dessert.
Feet are tucked up under her and she rearranges herself to be sure he has room between her and the arm of the divan. The wine is nearly missed as her gaze is on the brush and she plucks absently at a hair trapped within it's bristles. Lifting her head she takes the wine with a smile and then tries a small sip. "You're spoiling me." Pointed out with embarrassed delight. "You always do." Miniyal sets the brush in her lap and then takes another sip of her wine as the torte is fetched. "I do not think there is any way you could not distract me. Just being in the room with you can send my brain on tangents that keep me from making sense of what I am saying or thinking." Leaning back she grins faintly. There is no untruth in this statement, but they both know that. He does a fine job distracting, leading, coercing.
A cloth and a cover seal the torte away; these he removes, transfers the little delicacy onto a plate, and brings it over by the divan. "Spoiling and distracting you are two of my greatest and most precious pleasures. Surely you wouldn't deprive me of either." Gans sinks onto the divan beside her, arranging the plate in one hand, stealing the brush slowly from her lap with the other; the act is slowly done, so his fingertips around the brush-handle can accidentally play over the curve of her leg as they withdraw. Then he puts that arm up along the back of the divan: "Here, rest against me so I can brush your hair." With that hand. The other sets the plate onto his knee, slender fingertips plucking off a piece of the torte next, frosting and all getting onto his groomed nails. Once she settles that hand will be ready to reach around to feed her the cake-bite; good enough if she can't see the expression, bright-eyed and devious, on his half-smile face. "Do you want to tell me how it went with the weyrleader?"
"I would not deprive you of anything ever." Once said she might think better of such a blanket statement, try to qualify it. As if any qualifier would make the statement any less true as she said it. Whatever she might have tried to say it stammers away at the fingers on her leg. Some things, alas, will distract her no matter what. A sip of wine and Miniyal leans back against him as suggested, squirming about to get settled and winding up sitting still when she is finally comfortable. "Do you want to hear?" asked before she takes the bite offered to her. Before her time is taken in this simple task, lips and tongue busying themselves with the task that ends his those fingers trapped by the former. Held until she releases them a moment later to pull away from her, sneaking a kiss to fingertips before he gets them all the way back. "Oh, that's delightful." The torte, surely. She cannot mean anything else no matter the teasing and sly tone in her voice. Really, nothing at all.
"Lemon," he reiterates in a low murmur, about the torte; and when he has his fingers back, tingling, from her lips he lifts them to his own behind her head to claim with mouth the trace of the kiss left there. "I would hear, if you wish to share. This is your project; I won't press you about it if you wish I wouldn't." Gans reaches down to pry off another part of the torte, taking care to get filling in this section. The brush-hand lies idle along the divan behind her and if the pipe-smoke still troubles him, it's telltale only in that he does not bend his head to breathe kisses into her hair, nor stroke back those chestnut locks; but he admires them from breathing distance, and waits on brushing while offering her this second bite of the cake. "I admit myself curious. I have not - spoken to him in some time." Some very particular, finite time.
A smile curves her lips upwards, missed by him, but apparent in her tone as Miniyal answers. "Yes, lemon." Because we're talking about the flavor. An answer is forthcoming, held by a sip of wine and then held further when there is more torte for her to consume. Again she takes her time with this, repeating her process from before. Only when she is done with this more important task does she bother to answer. A little breathless from her own endeavors she must take a sip of wine. "I'm happy to answer any questions you have. I always am. You know I have no secrets from you." Can't have any secrets from him because they always come out eventually. Want them to or not. "He had some to say. He would not tell me exactly what I wanted. Saying it was not his place. He was sort of annoying about it. I mean, how could he not want to answer my questions? It doesn't make sense. As if what I am doing is not important." She's well on her way to getting worked up before she stops, shaking her head very gently. "I feel sorry for him. I sort of probably did a poor job. I've not got the hang of this interview stuff. But I might try again sometime. I mean. . .if he'll let me."
He smiles around a tiny chuckle, half-suppressed. She has no secrets because he can't stand not to know her mind. His fingertip taps her lower lip a single, gentle caress, swift and brief, and then his hand, clean of cake, withdraws to adjust the plate on his knee. "Perhaps he does not want to speak in such a timely fashion," Gans observes after a time; the shifting of the plate is shortly revealed to have the purpose of freeing up the angle of his lean beneath her so he can begin lifting locks of hair in his hands. "When what he says could be construed as an effort to alter the progress of history. Perhaps he'd like to stand back, see it through, have his say in the aftermath, and enjoy a quiet retirement." He takes up the brush and runs it gently through a handful of hair, starting with short strokes at the bottom and growing them in length up to the scalp. "I have to admit I'd seen the appeal in that. Just - not enough."
"It is all well and good to want to stand back, but that does /me/ no good, you know." It is so very important. Because it is her work, you see? No one should be quiet because then Miniyal loses information. Truths are lost. "He answered some of them. He didn't answer one. He didn't. . .I don't know. I don't think he means to. Maybe? He wouldn't say what his plans were. Said he had none. But I don't really think that is entirely the case. Then again, I have no plans for my future really so it should not be so surprising someone else might not have any." A shrug, gentle, so when he starts the brushing she does not dislodge the effort. If it bothers her she conceals it well. It does help that her back is to him so that if her expression is worried or tense there is no way he might know. Turning her hand she manages a brief brush of lips against his hand during one downward stroke of the brush. Then she turns back again for a sip of wine. "What were you working on while I was away?"
"Perhaps he'll answer it later," Gans says first, as though he might not ask. But of course, he's going to ask. He's just going to let a little quiet span the distance from his lips to her ears first, then stroke them anew with his voice, low and bemused. "What question was that?" He might be able to divine - or guess - that what he's doing is hard for her. He pauses with this one hank of hair brushed to gather another, and the gathering is more like how he usually touches her hair, caressing it, cool fingers stroking the back of her neck 'by accident' as they move. "Ah," he says in a moment more. "Notes for my class presentation." A pause, and then this offered, so she has her choice of two questions she might not rather answer: "Would you like to sit in, perhaps?"
She lets the silence on his part go, enjoying it actually. Because she likes silence. It means he's not pushing as if silence is not the same thing. From him. Eyes fluttering closed there is a sigh that escapes her lips at that accidental touch of fingers on her neck. "Hmm?" Distracted. Miniyal must take a moment to marshal her thoughts and when she does leans back just a little more against him. "What he thought people should take away from it all." Clearly she is answering the first question. "I mean, what he thought would be something worth remembering, you know? Any lessons. I'll get an answer from him though. Eventually." She's good at stalking people after all to get what she wants. The second question is not even answered. She'll just pretend that she didn't hear it and take a drink from her wine as she loses herself in the good things like how she feels right now rather than how she will soon enough when he repeats his question or brings it up in another way.
With her relaxed a bit against him, he tends in earnest to brushing her hair, breathing shallowly to take in as little as he can of the smoke he's drawing off of the locks in his hands. "It's just after dinner on the tenth," Gans says, as if going on uninterrupted with the topic she didn't even touch. A pause, to run his fingers up into her hair and caress the scalp beneath, to linger and savor the work he's done. "I think I might have some nerves about it," he remarks, in form of confession, dry and self-conscious. "Funny, isn't it."
"Someday, Gans? You really must learn that when I ignore something you said it means I do not wish to discuss it." Shifting up, the wine is finished and then she leans down to set her glass on the ground. Once she's leaning against him again she lets out a sigh. "Until that day. . .well. This once. For your nerves sake? I will spare you having to convince me. Although I do like your methods of persuasion sometimes." Smiling, unseen, she nods her head once. Pulling away just a bit she turns so she can see him. "Tell you what, Gans. You have one hour to persuade me to go. If, when you are done I can't muster up the energy or desire to say no then I will go. I can at least keep good notes for you." He may or may not try to convince Miniyal, but the look she gives him as she quite rather innocently loosens the tie on her robe and the knowing look she gives him means she's pretty sure what he'll do. If she's going to be talked into something she doesn't want to do she can at least get /something/ out of it, yes?
Where: Their room
When: Evening on day 26, month 9, turn 2 of the 7th Pass
What: Following her interview of J'cor found here Miniyal makes a strategic mistake. Oops. Pesky pipe smoke. Still, in the end all is well. Or as well as it can be.
Note: Mushy stuff found within. It's so cute. Well, to us. :p
11/9/2006 & 11/13/2006
Evening on day 26, month 9, turn 2 of the 7th Pass
And so, we find Miniyal home after a long day of work and such things that seem like work. Rather than come home after finishing up what stuff Roa would have her do she remained out and about. Hoping to catch the weyrleader after dinner and therefore not busy she spent her time in records, looking up items of interest. Refreshing her memory she would say. A note was sent, because she is thoughtful. It told Gans she was going to be working late and would miss dinner with him, but that she would eat before coming home and therefore he should eat without her. She meant to tell him where she would go. Might have thought she did even, but the location of her next interview was not given. An oversight.
The door opens and she steps inside with her writing case in hand. What she doesn't notice, doesn't think to notice, is the scent of pipe smoke that comes in with her as well. It's not something she would linger on. Instead she stands by the door and lets out a quiet sigh, shaking her head and balancing precariously on first one foot and then the other to tug off the soft black boots on her feet. Because of the long day she leaves them where they are instead of picking them up and putting them away. There it is she stands, frowning down at the case in her hands, not quite in focus yet with the room and who else might be in it.
He has eaten. Well, there are dishes, and the remnants of food that's been picked at, stacked tidily under the tea-things on the cart, waiting for one of the kitchens' assistants - a child, to be frank - to come get it all in the morning. Trade it out for breakfast, and more hot water. Done with dinner and still left to his own devices, Gans has found good use of his time; he sits at the writing-desk, hides spread out before and around him, two books among the rest of the scatter. One is a text, and lies open at the far edge of the desk; one is his journal, and lies open to blank pages just beside his elbow. He takes notes onto a sheet spread before him, in outline form.
Gans has been waiting for the sound of the door, for the sound of her soft-booted feet, for the first of her words. Two out of three is more than enough - he looks up immediately, his hand releasing the stylus mid-thought onto the page, his knees uncrossing and legs straightening to push back his chair. "Miniyal," he says, so glad to see her home, and rises. He sidesteps the desk, starts out toward her, stride even and long. And then he stops, the trip only halfway taken, and blinks. His head turns a little, though his focus stays on her. His head turns back. He looks down at the case in her hands, and a smidgin of a smile quirks the right-hand corner of his lips. Still, when he speaks it's thin and strained, as if he's stopped the whole nasty business of breathing. "You've seen the weyrleader."
She has done so much speaking for the day she thought to leave it behind a bit or else she might have said something in greeting when finding him at his desk. Plenty of conversation missteps left her without the desire to even utter a hello. When he does it for her she smiles, letting out a quiet sigh of relief to be home, to hear his voice. She means to put the rest of the world behind her as she usually does when coming home. At least for a bit until he coaxes her day out of her with wine and words, both too sweet for her to resist. It seems that oasis is not available to her tonight, however, and at his words she blinks. Watching him, the smile that had formed fades away, leaving her puzzled and concerned. "I did. I told you. At least, I meant to include it in my note. For my history. I'm afraid it went as poorly as many of the rest." That something is wrong is evident. That she is quite clueless as to what that might be is just as evident.
"I did not think they'd been going poorly," chastises her lover, as gently as he can manage with so little voice to spare. He turns his head aside after that and breathes, which he tries to do without much motion of his chest, then faces her again. Even if she does not catch the suppressed, strained rise and fall of his breath, she is unlikely to be able to miss the strange turning away, and turning back again. But he manages another part of that smile for her, and warmth enough in his eyes. "Can I get you your robe? You can sit, have a little wine, try to unwind." Normally he would get the wine without asking, and let her sit in her own time, pacing first if she needs to. The suggestion of the robe is completely out of the blue, but he imbues it with just enough sweetness that it could be considered an awkward come-on. And he breathes again, without turning his head this time. It is a slow adjustment.
"You could tell me what is wrong." Everything else is ignored, the chastising and the offers and all of it is swept away without her even seeming to have noticed it. "I know something's wrong. Is it. . .did I do something?" Her first though, Miniyal's always first thought. That somehow she has broken something. Stepping back awkwardly her back comes into contact with the door and she stares at him anxiously. "I don't know what it could have been. But I'm sorry." Things have been going so well, relatively speaking. The routine has suffered a few bumps, but overall there's been a distinct lack of full on attack of doubts. Amazing what can happen then so quickly. "Should I go?" It has been a trying day for her. The stress of it all seems to have caught up with her.
"No," he says, gently, that she hasn't done something wrong. Of course it's not enough. He has to step toward her, to reclaim the space she's put between them by stepping back. But he seems unable to come closer, and has to bend his head to get a breath. He shakes his head, denying every effort she makes to bring doubt between them. But his denials are weak, his passion unfueled. He seems a little pale. It's the question, should she go, that gets him. His head jerks up, eyes wide. Desperate. "No!" Another step forward, and another, a hand going out. "Please don't. I just - you - " Gans lifts his chin. The swallow's inaudible, but the bob of his throat is hard to miss; he's just too thin. "It's nothing. Not you. Please stay with me."
She doesn't move from the door, doesn't let the hand reaching for her touch her. Instead Miniyal stands there, clutching her case in front of her now and looking at her feet. "Then tell me," she begs. Just as desperate. Something has come between, clearly. No matter how hard he might be trying to act otherwise. "Gans, please." This said as she looks up, meeting his eyes. "Please tell me what is wrong. I can't fix it if I don't know. If I do. . .I can. I can fix whatever I have to for you, Gans. Just tell me." She is certainly not above begging, pleading for what he will not say. Nothing he says reassures her, but all of her fears and her concern switches from her own self to him and while she remains lingering by the door, not yet touching him, she may as well be for all the intensity of her gaze. Searching his face she tries for some sign.
His hand sinks slowly back to his side, useless. His eyes, when hers find them, are pained but pleading, and a little watery. Don't go. Don't go. "I will tell you," Gans says, softly, defeated. He's quiet for a moment, and then, needing air again, turns half away. But it's the right side that faces her, and there curves up there a little trace of a smile. "It's ridiculous." His hand squirms a self-depricating gesture. "Come in. Please. Let me get you a drink. Sit down. Don't - " His eyes slide over toward her, and as desperate as they are, they can find a little wry light for what he's about to say. "Don't hover by the door, Miniyal. Please."
Warily then she steps from the door, but she's not confident about her entrance anymore. The writing case is set down out of the way by the door. Somewhere it won't be tripped over, but not where it belongs. Unable to resist any longer she moves closer, just a few steps and then she is reaching for his hand, bringing it to her lips to kiss cool skin. Turning it over she kisses his palm and then rests it against her cheek as she shakes her head gently. "If it pains you it is not ridiculous, Gans. If it something I have done, even unknowingly, that has pained you I have to know so I can never do it again." Ever. Her tone is perhaps eerily firm. Whatever it is, whatever she must do to not have this happen again she will do it. He is, alas, unable to get her a drink or move away because she holds his hand to her cheek, not returning it to him as she looks at his face both earnest and desperate to right whatever she inadvertently messed up.
His hand is captured, and by it he is drawn closer to her. He should step that last pace forward and close the space between them; he should use the arm still within his own power to pull her against him, so he can bend his head and breathe of her hair. But these things he does not do, seems unable to do. Still - her words have lent him a little comfort. "Not you," Gans reiterates, gently, and lets his fingers curl just enough that the tips can slide along the curve of her cheek, the palm still trapped beneath her hand. "He smokes." This is, in and of itself, ridiculous-sounding - to him, anyway - and her lover ducks his head and looks away, mouth curved wry, eyes dancing at his own discomfort. "I would have been - I did not - ah." He licks his lips, raises his head, tries again while looking directly at her. "I have developed some unpleasant associations with it."
"Oh." Said so softly and then she steps away, eyes wide with sympathy. "Oh! Oh, no!" Guilt replaces much of everything else in her expression and if there is pain of her own at being reminded of why it would bother him Miniyal hides it. Hides it well and deep and doesn't think on it right now because it's his turn to need comfort and she can just deal with it later alone like she still does with some things. "I am so sorry. I never thought. I didn't even. . .think." Her voice breaks on the last word and she releases his hand, eyes upon his, gazing at him through tears unshed for him. "Forgive me, love. I didn't consider it at all. Shall I run to the baths real quick? It will just take a moment. I don't mind." Eager now, willing to do just about anything, well, fine, anything, to make things better.
"No." Again, almost desperate, and his hand arches beneath hers, turning over, clinging to her fingers. "Just - " He pauses a moment, eyes closing. Fighting for control. For his charm, his wit. For his dignity. Again Gans licks his lips, so uncharacteristic a habit. His eyes open, and indeed when they regard her again his gaze is so much more like his own. "Let me get you wine," he says, voice low now, a murmur almost a purr, well within his control. "Let me undress you. Allow me, if you can, to brush out your hair. Give me a chance." He takes a breath - a deep one, and halfway through he does turn his head; but then he's looking back at her, jaw set, determined. He steps forward. "I would like to do this."
"If you wish it." If you need it, but she's not so sure of herself or him to guess what he might need in this case and so she phrases it differently. He is given a smile, warm and encouraging. He is, in fact, given more than that. "Wine, please. I will get my brush for you." His own demons, the shadows he brought with him are more important than her own. Somewhere Miniyal can realise this and somewhere she can find strength she was unaware of possessing to help him. He'll figure it out later possibly. For now she takes control of his hand again, bringing it to her lips and there placing a kiss upon the tip of each finger and then again another on his palm. Her lips linger there, breath warm against his skin. "Would you like," offered between kisses. "Perhaps for me to recite something else to you while you tend my hair?" If they are moving past with the help of seduction far be it from her to not play her part.
"Wine," he sighs, and there is relief enough in the sigh to pay back some small fraction of her patience and tolerance. The wine itself will have to pay down a little more of that debt. Gans turns his hand beneath her lips, fingertips straying over the shapes of kisses remnant upon her mouth, and his eyes of course follow, so that when she speaks again, he reads the words as well as he hears them. "Ah." His fingers move, attending especially to the curve of her lower lip. "Perhaps." The idea certainly has appeal, appeal that brightens the fix of his eyes. But then he raises his gaze to meet hers and his smile crooks. "I had meant to ask you something, before - " Before the scent of the smoke upon her had his mind scattering. He glances down a split-second, stealing breath with head slightly bowed, then looks up and draws his hand away. "If you wished to recite for me, I could hardly turn you down. Let me get us glasses." This he means to do then, to depart her presence just long enough to select wine and ready her a pour of it.
Head tilting, she watches him most carefully. Weighing what she sees and deciding something that makes her smile faintly. "What did-nevermind. It can wait." Far be it from her to not put off him asking her something as it tends to lead to all sorts of trouble for her. Miniyal smiles again as he steps away. "Get the wine then. I'll go change. Just give me a moment. I'll find my brush." Because it's packed away somewhere. As if she doesn't know exactly where it would be even though it doesn't get used. Heading for the other room she pauses after a few steps. "Well, if you're sure. I don't have anything prepared, but surely I could remember something or other that might take your mind off anything else. If I can remember it." No smile at this although she watches him near the doorway, giving him time to make some teasing remark.
He does as suggested, going for the wine, and does not this time demand that she let him see about helping her out of his clothes; there is nothing but a little shake of his head and a wry, conscious half-smile for the back-and-forth on the issue. "Miniyal," he says, refusing to look at her - there's some sign of effort in this, in that he seems to have to be working very hard to go through a handful of bottles of wine with especial care to select just the correct one to open for the evening. Yet Gans smiles, and his eyes sparkle wry. "I assure you, should you choose to recite something to me and pause in the middle, unable to find words, I shall bear the blame for that situation; I would not make such presumption about your powers of recall." He straightens by the shelves, bottle in hand, glasses coming down from the reach of the other with stems twinned between slim fingers. Still he does not look, as if leaving her privacy to disappear into their bedchamber. "I should certainly plan to bear the blame, in any case." Very involved in uncorking the wine, he is.
Into the other room she goes once he's spoken, a quiet laugh remaining behind her for a moment. The changing and the locating and all of it takes hardly any time at all. Still, she doesn't hurry because then she might seem as if she's worried and she is not. A few minutes later he'll either have selected the wine or not, but she reappears. Bare feet pad back into the room, brush dangling from her hands. Hair is being pulled out from between the robe and whatever she has on under it as Miniyal looks to see where he is and if the wine has been selected and uncorked. "Is there any cake left?" Because she didn't get any with her own dinner and there has to be something in here that is sweet because he would save her something. It's how thoughtful he is, after all, that keeps her coming back to him. "Oh, I plan on blaming you entirely," she assures him as she heads for the divan, taking up the conversation where it left off. "You're not going to be distracting are you? Really. It's not fair if you try to distract me." When I am trying to distract you. The wryness in her tone indicates she is aware of this little fact. But she won't bother pointing it out. "So. . .let me think. What shall I make you hear?" Forcing him to listen to her. Because surely he doesn't want to.
A few minutes later he's selected and even poured. The wine is pale but red - pink, really - richer of hue than a blush and so fragrant that the scent will be her first greeting when she emerges in her robe. If there's smoke in the air, the fruity headiness will bear it down, and perhaps that's partly Gans' purpose in his selection. "There is a little lemon torte. The carrots are swimming in sweet and butter; they're practically dessert themselves," he notes while closing up the wine; then he lifts one of the glasses and approaches the divan and the woman there to deliver it. "I think the torte would go best with this, however." His voice rolls low and delighted from the back of his throat. "I shall get it, and feed you bits between lines. That way I can't distract you." Pale brows arch, unable to set still on such a blatant and intentional untruth, and Gans starts back to the table to retrieve dessert.
Feet are tucked up under her and she rearranges herself to be sure he has room between her and the arm of the divan. The wine is nearly missed as her gaze is on the brush and she plucks absently at a hair trapped within it's bristles. Lifting her head she takes the wine with a smile and then tries a small sip. "You're spoiling me." Pointed out with embarrassed delight. "You always do." Miniyal sets the brush in her lap and then takes another sip of her wine as the torte is fetched. "I do not think there is any way you could not distract me. Just being in the room with you can send my brain on tangents that keep me from making sense of what I am saying or thinking." Leaning back she grins faintly. There is no untruth in this statement, but they both know that. He does a fine job distracting, leading, coercing.
A cloth and a cover seal the torte away; these he removes, transfers the little delicacy onto a plate, and brings it over by the divan. "Spoiling and distracting you are two of my greatest and most precious pleasures. Surely you wouldn't deprive me of either." Gans sinks onto the divan beside her, arranging the plate in one hand, stealing the brush slowly from her lap with the other; the act is slowly done, so his fingertips around the brush-handle can accidentally play over the curve of her leg as they withdraw. Then he puts that arm up along the back of the divan: "Here, rest against me so I can brush your hair." With that hand. The other sets the plate onto his knee, slender fingertips plucking off a piece of the torte next, frosting and all getting onto his groomed nails. Once she settles that hand will be ready to reach around to feed her the cake-bite; good enough if she can't see the expression, bright-eyed and devious, on his half-smile face. "Do you want to tell me how it went with the weyrleader?"
"I would not deprive you of anything ever." Once said she might think better of such a blanket statement, try to qualify it. As if any qualifier would make the statement any less true as she said it. Whatever she might have tried to say it stammers away at the fingers on her leg. Some things, alas, will distract her no matter what. A sip of wine and Miniyal leans back against him as suggested, squirming about to get settled and winding up sitting still when she is finally comfortable. "Do you want to hear?" asked before she takes the bite offered to her. Before her time is taken in this simple task, lips and tongue busying themselves with the task that ends his those fingers trapped by the former. Held until she releases them a moment later to pull away from her, sneaking a kiss to fingertips before he gets them all the way back. "Oh, that's delightful." The torte, surely. She cannot mean anything else no matter the teasing and sly tone in her voice. Really, nothing at all.
"Lemon," he reiterates in a low murmur, about the torte; and when he has his fingers back, tingling, from her lips he lifts them to his own behind her head to claim with mouth the trace of the kiss left there. "I would hear, if you wish to share. This is your project; I won't press you about it if you wish I wouldn't." Gans reaches down to pry off another part of the torte, taking care to get filling in this section. The brush-hand lies idle along the divan behind her and if the pipe-smoke still troubles him, it's telltale only in that he does not bend his head to breathe kisses into her hair, nor stroke back those chestnut locks; but he admires them from breathing distance, and waits on brushing while offering her this second bite of the cake. "I admit myself curious. I have not - spoken to him in some time." Some very particular, finite time.
A smile curves her lips upwards, missed by him, but apparent in her tone as Miniyal answers. "Yes, lemon." Because we're talking about the flavor. An answer is forthcoming, held by a sip of wine and then held further when there is more torte for her to consume. Again she takes her time with this, repeating her process from before. Only when she is done with this more important task does she bother to answer. A little breathless from her own endeavors she must take a sip of wine. "I'm happy to answer any questions you have. I always am. You know I have no secrets from you." Can't have any secrets from him because they always come out eventually. Want them to or not. "He had some to say. He would not tell me exactly what I wanted. Saying it was not his place. He was sort of annoying about it. I mean, how could he not want to answer my questions? It doesn't make sense. As if what I am doing is not important." She's well on her way to getting worked up before she stops, shaking her head very gently. "I feel sorry for him. I sort of probably did a poor job. I've not got the hang of this interview stuff. But I might try again sometime. I mean. . .if he'll let me."
He smiles around a tiny chuckle, half-suppressed. She has no secrets because he can't stand not to know her mind. His fingertip taps her lower lip a single, gentle caress, swift and brief, and then his hand, clean of cake, withdraws to adjust the plate on his knee. "Perhaps he does not want to speak in such a timely fashion," Gans observes after a time; the shifting of the plate is shortly revealed to have the purpose of freeing up the angle of his lean beneath her so he can begin lifting locks of hair in his hands. "When what he says could be construed as an effort to alter the progress of history. Perhaps he'd like to stand back, see it through, have his say in the aftermath, and enjoy a quiet retirement." He takes up the brush and runs it gently through a handful of hair, starting with short strokes at the bottom and growing them in length up to the scalp. "I have to admit I'd seen the appeal in that. Just - not enough."
"It is all well and good to want to stand back, but that does /me/ no good, you know." It is so very important. Because it is her work, you see? No one should be quiet because then Miniyal loses information. Truths are lost. "He answered some of them. He didn't answer one. He didn't. . .I don't know. I don't think he means to. Maybe? He wouldn't say what his plans were. Said he had none. But I don't really think that is entirely the case. Then again, I have no plans for my future really so it should not be so surprising someone else might not have any." A shrug, gentle, so when he starts the brushing she does not dislodge the effort. If it bothers her she conceals it well. It does help that her back is to him so that if her expression is worried or tense there is no way he might know. Turning her hand she manages a brief brush of lips against his hand during one downward stroke of the brush. Then she turns back again for a sip of wine. "What were you working on while I was away?"
"Perhaps he'll answer it later," Gans says first, as though he might not ask. But of course, he's going to ask. He's just going to let a little quiet span the distance from his lips to her ears first, then stroke them anew with his voice, low and bemused. "What question was that?" He might be able to divine - or guess - that what he's doing is hard for her. He pauses with this one hank of hair brushed to gather another, and the gathering is more like how he usually touches her hair, caressing it, cool fingers stroking the back of her neck 'by accident' as they move. "Ah," he says in a moment more. "Notes for my class presentation." A pause, and then this offered, so she has her choice of two questions she might not rather answer: "Would you like to sit in, perhaps?"
She lets the silence on his part go, enjoying it actually. Because she likes silence. It means he's not pushing as if silence is not the same thing. From him. Eyes fluttering closed there is a sigh that escapes her lips at that accidental touch of fingers on her neck. "Hmm?" Distracted. Miniyal must take a moment to marshal her thoughts and when she does leans back just a little more against him. "What he thought people should take away from it all." Clearly she is answering the first question. "I mean, what he thought would be something worth remembering, you know? Any lessons. I'll get an answer from him though. Eventually." She's good at stalking people after all to get what she wants. The second question is not even answered. She'll just pretend that she didn't hear it and take a drink from her wine as she loses herself in the good things like how she feels right now rather than how she will soon enough when he repeats his question or brings it up in another way.
With her relaxed a bit against him, he tends in earnest to brushing her hair, breathing shallowly to take in as little as he can of the smoke he's drawing off of the locks in his hands. "It's just after dinner on the tenth," Gans says, as if going on uninterrupted with the topic she didn't even touch. A pause, to run his fingers up into her hair and caress the scalp beneath, to linger and savor the work he's done. "I think I might have some nerves about it," he remarks, in form of confession, dry and self-conscious. "Funny, isn't it."
"Someday, Gans? You really must learn that when I ignore something you said it means I do not wish to discuss it." Shifting up, the wine is finished and then she leans down to set her glass on the ground. Once she's leaning against him again she lets out a sigh. "Until that day. . .well. This once. For your nerves sake? I will spare you having to convince me. Although I do like your methods of persuasion sometimes." Smiling, unseen, she nods her head once. Pulling away just a bit she turns so she can see him. "Tell you what, Gans. You have one hour to persuade me to go. If, when you are done I can't muster up the energy or desire to say no then I will go. I can at least keep good notes for you." He may or may not try to convince Miniyal, but the look she gives him as she quite rather innocently loosens the tie on her robe and the knowing look she gives him means she's pretty sure what he'll do. If she's going to be talked into something she doesn't want to do she can at least get /something/ out of it, yes?