What does she want?
Who: Miniyal and G'thon
Where: Archives at Harper
When: Afternoon of day 2, month 1, turn 3 of the 7th pass.
What: While doing nothng more than reading up on law (no indecency I swear) the couple is interrupted with a message about High Reaches' new weyrleaders. It changes the mood of the day and provokes conversation.
1/5/2007 & 1/8/2007
It is afternoon on day 2, month 1, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
The holiday has started off swimmingly. How could it not? Miniyal has been brought to the one place in the world she loves more than anything. Except for the man who brought her here, of course. It's hard to tell, of course, for an outsider. That she gets overly excited about coming here. She maintains her neutral politeness in public that speaks more to her shyness than anything else. Still, he knows. She hurries them a little faster from here to there and will, more often than normal, be caught smiling at him. Or touching him, even if it's just a small touch of her fingers to his arm. Well, she was the little girl who once dreamed of running Harper. Of course she's excited to be here.
And here with someone who can get her into archives she'd not normally be allowed in as just plain Miniyal? Does that not make her the luckiest woman on Pern? Oh, indeed it does. He might consider himself the luckiest man considering his treatment when they arrived. She did not even try to drag him off to records the first day. The first day of the new turn was spent as secluded as she could make them and if there was anything decent and proper in that time alone it was not of her making. However, the second day? Well, after they gave up sleep she was ready to be off to the races.
So like a child on her birthday she caught herself hopping excitedly a time or two on their way to where she would ensconce herself until he decides to haul her off. Law is the order of the day and as dry as the subject tends to be when written by those experts on it she devours it all like a featherbrain devours a romance novel. (Like she does the same but don't anyone dare point that out.) Right now she's got a couple of older books laid out on a table before her. No notes are being taken. She'll make those later in their room. No sense letting anyone know what she is up to. For all she's taken with her research she knows he is there and so while he does what he will she, every now and again, will nudge his foot with hers under the table and when he looks up smile at him, promising something.
She has known him long enough - and intimately enough - that she might, when she has a calm moment, know her lover to be excited also. He may have less ardent desire to spend days and nights in those dry stacks deep in Harper's halls, behind locked doors and weary journeyman keeper, but there must be some purpose that invites Gans here. She'd know, from the way he goes through their books that morning, reading a few lines out of one and then a few from another, picking them up, putting them down. She'd know, too, from the way he packs, then unpacks, then reduces the bulk of and packs again a little roll of hide and pen and ink for his own studies, as his memory is good but lacks the perfection of hers. But in time he's ready to go, and her hopping can stop to give way to walking - down to those archives, so their academic respite from all things present-day, save each other, may begin.
Her footsie-nudges win glance after glance, wry half-smiles accompanying each; occasionally one gives way to a mock-arch expression with brows raised, as if he might call her out on what she's doing. But he never does. His own research - ostensibly for his class - keeps his attention for the most part, or at least he pretends as much. But from time to time Gans glances up even when there's been no nudge at his toes to cue him, and watches subtly for a time his lover's study, thoughtful or just pleased.
A page turns and she bends her head down to make out a line that is slightly more faded than the others. One hand absently lifts to brush hair from her face where it falls when she leans forward. Tucking it behind her ears she turns another page. Glances and footsies do all the work for her and she hasn't said much of anything since they settled down to do their work. Frowning at something she reads the expression clears when she looks up, smiling at him and then ducking her head once more. Sliding down in her chair some her foot nudges his, but she does not look up. There's no need this time because she just turns a page, so intent on her reading she doesn't even notice what her foot does. One slippered toe slides over his foot and then rather than stop continues upwards. It doesn't stop until it finds the bend of his knee required for sitting. Then she does glance up, all innocence. "Oh. Sorry." But the foot doesn't move.
Gans is quite still while her foot moves, or he seems to be still, in any case. But the hand that rested on the arm of his chair slips into his lap, prepared - and when her foot comes up to his knee, and she looks up and gives the game away with her words, that hand pounces, wrapping slender fingers around her slipper. "Are you?" That, while she's caught thus, and he doesn't even look up to say it - but there's no shortage of dry, rich bemusement in his voice.
Whatever she might retort with is going to be secondary, most likely, to a more physical reaction. The lock on the door, not far from the law archive's study tables, rattles and then the door unlatches and begins to swing in.
With her foot caught there's not much she can do. It cannot move upwards, as might have been the intention. Or away as was probably not at all the case. So, she just turns a page. He doesn't get an answer to his question although he might have indeed. Because her head tilts just a fraction upwards and the smile that has been promising much since they arrived has changed in a subtle manner that indicates she might be, now, ready to make good on those promises.
Alas. It doesn't happen. Instead the door opens and she gently tries to tug her foot away. Back to the ground where it may rest and Miniyal can pretend she is a proper decent sort of person. Wait. Not pretend. She /is/. Yes. Right.
His hand begins to stroke the sole of her foot through the slipper, his thumb making slow, firm passes so as not to tickle - yet. But Gans can hear as well as she can and the jolt of the lock in the door sends him sitting a little straighter, his fingers uncurling from her foot.
"Sir?" Someone's either been prepared in the matter of address, or is making the safest assumption. The someone in question comes around the door and looks in, scoping; it might seem a repeated movement, as if the lad's done this a couple times recently, looking for the pair in other archives. "Ma'am," he says, when his eyes catch on Miniyal. Brown eyes, sweet enough, and a mop of hair that ought to have been trimmed some time ago - but this is Harper, and boys have hair. "Sir," then, to confirm he's found them, and the boy - maybe an apprentice, but without his knot if so - steps in, nudging the door not entirely shut behind him. The journeyman must have lent him the key; he holds it in one tight fist. "The masterharper's sent me with news, sir." In a pause his eyes shift over. "Ma'am."
Her foot comes down once it is released and that is the end of that. She wasn't doing anything wrong after all and if there's one thing Miniyal can do it's pretend as if nothing at all is going on. So when the boy looks in she has her head down, reading more in her law books with the hand not busy turning a page rests in her lap. When the boy speaks, Miniyal lifts her head. Blinking a few times she shakes her head. "Please don't call me, ma'am." Her voice drops lower, enough to carry. As if the man seated across from her will not hear now. As if he's not between her and the boy. "He's old. I'm not." The slightest of turns to her head allows her to wink at her lover without the boy seeing. Sometimes, rarely, it is ok to tease about their ages. So rarely. That said she keeps her head up, not reading anymore as she folds both hands in her lap and waits to hear the news that caused them to be interrupted in their work.
Gans clears his throat, slipping a sideways look of droll bemusement - fond - at his 'young' lover. Then he turns in his seat, putting one elbow on the chair's arm and the other on the edge of the table, instantly at ease facing the lad who's come in. "News?"
"Miss," self-corrects Kazimir's messenger, joining his hands before himself to keep them from twitching fidgets at his sides. "Sir. The masterharper asked me to tell you - both - " A glance at Miniyal, then, who does not get a third attempt at direct address. "- that High Reaches has had a queen's flight. He wished to know if you would be staying on?"
Her expression gives away nothing, at least not to the messenger. To Gans there is a certain sparkle in her eyes he will likely make note of. But since she is watching the messenger that is all that he gets. She sits up straighter than before, a remaining slouch from her earlier activities gone at the news. Her mouth opens to speak and then closes. Then it opens again and she, instead, laughs. "Is that what said? And who was it, then, that rose? And who won?" And with those questions asked she directs her attention to Gans. Speaking to him, although answering the question asked of them both. "There's no reason to go back. We'll be staying on." It is their holiday. They have not been sufficiently indecent in here yet. He knows better than to pull her away from here.
"Ah," replies Gans, to the lad; and nothing at all after that save, when Miniyal addresses him, a lone and solemn nod. They will not leave. Not for something so minor. His mouth quirks and he turns back to attend to the messenger who will, after all, have their answers.
"Uh." They are, perhaps, straining the messenger's capacity for memory - or else, his capacity for bravery. He steps sideways, for no reason except to be in motion, and begins anew - ah, not a memory problem after all. "The Weyrleader's R'vain, with Ruvoth," he states, rote, probably as the word came from the drummers, instantly translated into formalese. "To Weyrwoman Roa, with Tialith."
If she shows a slight hint of relief at his not deciding to leave then it is only slight and likely missed by those not near her. By those not knowing her ways. After all, he could have pushed the issue and Miniyal would have agreed to return with him. Because, well. . .she just would go if he said so. Since he does not make her do this she can focus on the words. The words said and there are two fleeting expressions to be caught. The first is annoyance, resignation. Well, it's /R'vain/ and well, yes. When Roa's name comes out she lets out a quiet sigh. Relief. That's all. Then she ducks her head a moment to look at the book she is reading. A moment to regain that polite neutrality. Lifting her head once more she smiles at the boy. "Thank you for the news."
It's a watching game. Gans watches Miniyal. The boy watches Gans. And in a moment Miniyal's looking at the boy again. Everyone gets to see the reactions they're aiming to see. Miniyal's annoyance at R'vain's name is counterbalanced by a dry, satisfied half-smile from the former weyrleader, but both of them seem pleased to hear Roa's name accompany the bronzerider's. "Very good," G'thon allows, voice mild, eyes too bright. "We'll be staying on," he adds, as confirmation and reassurance. On these words, the boy nods, and departs. He does remember to lock the door again behind him.
She doesn't say anything else until the boy is gone. There doesn't seem to be anything else for Miniyal to say and so she returns to her book until the door is closed and locked. Once those things occur she lets out a held breath. "R'vain. Well. . .I suppose it could have been worse." Like, say, someone dead had one or one of the dogs that turns the spit in the kitchen. Wait. A dog did win. Well, she has nothing else to say to that. Insufferable man. "I was right." A switch then as she leans back in her chair and one foot finds its way into his lap. "I told her that taking Tialith away would probably work." She's so brilliant. Tell her so!
"Indeed." It could have been worse. And Gans, by the fullness of satisfaction in which he makes his remark, probably has more objects (and people) on his list of worse possibilities than R'vain. But it's not a topic they're going to have a particularly rich discussion about, so as he turns back to the table and slips up a hand to gently close his book, he says instead, "Did you, now? And why do you suppose it did?" Leading, sure. Unsubtly so. But his voice praises her where his words do not, and the closure of his reading material lends her his entire attention.
"When I was working for her I did some research for her." As if she doesn't still, in her own way, work for the new weyrwoman. But it's not something she speaks of outside their room. If anyone knows about the chance of being overheard it's Miniyal who overhears all sorts of things. "I thought if she spent time away from the weyr Tialith might get her cycle back on. . .track. With the caucus queens there things were messed up. That's why Vasyath and Nenuith rose after leaving. They just had to be away for a bit. I'm pretty sure that's why Sinopa was trying to go away. She kept making all those trips, but she wasn't away long enough. She couldn't and lose what little grasp she had on the weyr." If all his attention is on her, some of hers is still on her book. He will have to forgive her for that but. . .book. She hasn't read it! It's special.
Gans is, where books are concerned, too good for jealousy. He'll reserve that for J'cor. "Clever," he says, only, but there's nothing wry in it; and while she splits her attention he shows no sign of being troubled about giving her his all. "So you've placed a weyrwoman. Already." -There- is the wry. And it's a warning, a signal of what's to come. He leans back, the way he does when any other man would lean forward; he laces his hands across his middle and regards her from this distance, uninterrogative. That manner does not, does never, stop him from asking prying questions. "And are you quite sure you've no idea what you want to do with your professional skills?"
She blinks at the statement and the book is abandoned. Poor book, not given any of her attention. Instead Miniyal looks up and there's almost a smile. "You think I didn't help with the weyrleader too?" Well, she was going to. And she's done her bit for him. . .in her own mind. Even if he doesn't see it that way. The truth always helps. Ahem. Yes, right. However, her head shakes when he asks the question. "It was just research, Gans. She said, go look at flight patterns. I went and looked at flight patterns. We pieced it together. I recommended a course of action. It's just research." So stop trying to make it anything else. Which is nearly clear in her tone. Then she drops her head back down to give attention to her second love.
"Define help," replies Gans, softly, almost a whisper, and somewhat tiredly, about what she says regarding the weyrleader. But he keeps smiling, and keeps smiling straight on through as she redefines instead what her help with Roa was. "You acquired knowledge," he observes, mild, pushing back his chair as he unlaces his hands. "I shall not expound further upon the point. I will ask, however," before he rises - because he seems likely to do so soon, from his body language, "whether our weyrwoman's holiday might have qualified as an experiment and, if so, you feel the hypothesis adequately proven."
"Help is when you point out what is wrong so someone might consider fixing it. And when you offer to help someone . . . even if you change your mind. Because I did. I mean. . .R'vain." Wrinkling her nose she shakes her head and glances up from her book. "I can't believe I almost made a deal with him. But in the end I think I helped anyway. Which is sort of annoying. And he was very annoying the last time we met. He gave me something, but I didn't get a chance to look into it before we left. Well, when we get back." Miniyal looks back at her book, turning the page. "An experiment? Well, I guess? I mean, it seemed like a likely cause. If you had seen all the data you would have suggested the same thing. Besides. . .I mean, as annoying as she is at least she's not Sinopa. She wouldn't even give me a decent interview. Anyway, I'm sure Roa, knowing what she does, will find a way to fix things. Even if it's not just sending the caucus away so someone else can deal with it."
"You cannot make deals with R'vain." Gans slips up out of the chair and drifts down the length of the table toward the nearest aisle of the stacks, but his movement's quite slow. He's pacing, not traveling. "But if he gave you something, it's probably honestly meant." At the end of the table a few long fingertips graze the table's glossy, ancient surface and Gans turns around to face her, one brow crooked. "All Pern has to deal with the Caucus, Miniyal. And I would be most inconvenienced if it were to leave." He is far too grave to be talking about his career options, and he turns away to start into the aisle in a drifting manner somewhat pensive, even moody. He does not go far; just looking for something to look at. The spines of books will do.
She considers, head tipped to the side and book abandoned for the conversation. Otherwise she will get lost, surely. "No. You can. You just have to be smarter than I am. I'm not good enough with people." Miniyal frowns some and then gives her head a shake, dismissing it. "Well, and I never will be and anyway, it doesn't matter now." He is watched as he moves although she makes no move to follow him or rise as well. Instead she leans back in her chair and folds her hands in her lap. "Yes, exactly. We have to deal with it. I don't see where it's done us much good." Here she holds up a hand, letting out a weary sigh. "But I don't wish to discuss it. Not the caucus. We have opinions that differ on it and that will not change. "Is something wrong?" Because usually it is her that paces.
"It was an advisory comment. I shouldn't have selected quite those words." He's visually absorbed in the books before him, his hands sliding behind him so the fingers of one can loosely clasp the back of the other wrist at the small of his back. "No," Gans allows after a time, as a reply to what's not wrong. "You know what I'm doing, I assume."
"Gans? Love? I would not dream that I ever truly know what you are doing." There is humor in her tone, but Miniyal is serious enough about it. He's always up to something that she doesn't understand. Her gaze drifts from him to her book. She can't help it and there's silence from her as she scans the page she was just reading. Quiet until she finishes it when she looks up again she lets out a sigh. "Nothing may be wrong, but the mood has definitely shifted. And I wonder what has brought that on. Tell me so I may shift it again." She teases now, lightly. It is not enough to truly try to change what they talk about unless he should wish it. If he will be serious then she will go along with it as well.
Her charm - yes, she has some - brings a smile to his mouth. Would she know why? On another day he might explain. Might describe how her serious humor qualifies as charm, as one of the mildest, kindest sorts of emotional manipulation. But not today. Today he just smiles his crooked, one-sided smile and stares up at the books, his bright hazel gaze marking one after another, climbing the shelves. "Caucus brings us people who are poised and anxious to act, to incite change. People who will benefit precisely from a more truthful glance at our history - and our future. It is my vessel, Miniyal. If it's a failure as a school, if some consider it little but a marriage market - fine." He reaches up a pale hand and slender fingers pick from among the books one that's won his interest or at least his favor. "But its potential has ever lain elsewhere. Why do you think I wanted it?"
Since she would deny its existence he is better off not wasting his time. The book and his words vie for attention, but in the end the book will wait and she pushes it away even. A small victory for him since it is out of easy reading range. Miniyal listens instead, in the serious way she has sometimes. Sometimes she just sits still, barely breathing so that she misses nothing. Sitting still, a skill few people truly understand. "I never considered why. I never considered it for much. I do not like the people it brings. It is trouble." There is a pause here to consider her next words and when they come they are accompanied by a smile that might be heard even if he is not looking at her to see. "I forgive you for it. I'm a forgiving person."
"It is trouble," Gans agrees, sweetly and softly, drawing the hand down with the book in it. The pages fall open as the spine spreads in the broad curve of his palm. "And you are very forgiving." That tone is one she should certainly know, and it means he's come back to the mood they had not just before his shifted, but to the one they had before Kazimir's messenger intruded. He turns from the stacks, the book still open in his palm, and approaches it with her thus - not reading. "Someday Caucus will be useful to you, Miniyal. I don't know if it will be worth it. But it will have some worth, even if it's not enough. And that someday should be soon, I hope." He nudges with one deft toe the chair nearest hers aside so he can slip around it, then into it, and there regard her, mock-solemn, eyes twinkling. "You'll have to forgive me for that, too, I suppose."
He gets a brief look that is more wary than anything when the mood shifts. Because she never knows if he's just trying to weasel around to something he knows she doesn't want to hear. And. . .he is. In a way. Miniyal listens to his words, head shaking. "I doubt it. It's just trouble for me. As are most of the people associated with it. And it's run stupidly." The only dig she has gotten in regarding the headmaster. She has to make at least one or he'll be confused about whom he is speaking to! When he sits she shifts her position in her chair so she might still see him. One foot comes into contact with his, but she does not nudge, just rests it there lightly against his. Some small contact likely for her comfort. Her nose wrinkles as she shakes her head. "I just do not see the appeal. Did I tell you what he said? He said he wanted me to be a student. That is so ridiculous. As if I would ever waste me time. As if he had any right to claim I was not. . .not doing something worthwhile. I mean, this was just when I had quit as head of records. I mean, just resigned. Like I could not take time to figure out what I wanted to be. I hate him."
"I would think he was offering you an excuse to do just that. A temporary distraction. A place to tread water." Gans makes these suggestions lightly, not particularly attached to them, but his hand curls shut and closes the book between thumb and forefingers. Something, of course, about law. "Is that why you hate him? His offer?"
"I hate him. . .I don't know." Why does he make her think? It makes her want to stomp her foot and act childishly. Because that will amuse him and distract him and he lets things go for a bit until Miniyal can deal with them. But they are, nominally, in public so she cannot do what she might were they safely in their room. "It has nothing to do with that. And he wanted me for his own purpose. It had nothing to do with what would be good for me. Everyone is about what someone else can do for them. No one really cares about people other than that. It's all. . .what can you do for me and no what can I do for you. And that is what he teaches." Biting her lip she shakes her head gently. "I don't understand it, but I suppose that's alright since it's not for me to."
"Perhaps he did want you for his own purpose. Certainly having you as a student might feather his cap, if nothing else. But he made you an offer, also. It is not quite what he teaches, Miniyal." Gans bends his head, looks at the book in his hand. "You're talking about striking deals. When you strike a deal, ideally you want an arrangement that suits both parties. If at that you can succeed, it is permissible within the bounds of the game to seek further for an arrangement in which you receive more than you provide. As long as your counterpart's outcome is an advantage for them, or in some cases the prevention of disadvantage, the deal is fair; each party is responsible for trying to get the most out of the exchange. This is economics, Miniyal. It's not politics. He doesn't teach it."
"No. It is not like that." Now she will pace. He will try to explain away what she sees as a problem with reason. Why should Miniyal sit for that? Instead, smoothly, she rises from her seat and begins to pace, moving around the table and sighing as she looks down at her hands. "You do not. . .I don't know. But that's what happens. There is no balance. And it makes people only see. . .only see what someone might give them. Without just seeing what they might give. I know I cannot live up to what I believe in. I know at times I am as bad as anyone else at this. But I try. And I recognize what is wrong and that is. . .that is more than some do." More pacing and she does not even look at the books as she walks partway down between shelves. Instead she keeps her head down until she has turned back and is once more vaguely near the table. "I do not even know why I try. Most people see it as a weakness to exploit. I don't want things from people, Gans. But they want things from me. And please do not tell me that I do want things from people because I am aware that everyone wants something, but I do not want the /same/ things."
He sits in quiet while she goes over what she perceives as wrong - even as poorly as she does so - and puts up his book on the table so he can shift in his chair, watching her as she walks. It is not consistent, not failless, his habit of attending to her when she speaks as if she's his only focus; but today, it is perfect. He lets her have the stage of his silence until she seems done, and then a beat longer before he begins. "What do you want, then?" And, that said - stops.
The question was not unexpected. His questions these days are rarely unexpected. Their time together has taught her enough to realise that anything she can say he will turn into a question. So Miniyal has been waiting for it and when it comes. . ."I don't /know/." The emphasis is soft, anguished. There is a vision she cannot see and a goal she cannot put into words and it haunts her every day. The pacing stops and she looks at him across the table, hands bunching into the folds of her dress as if concealing them will make what she wants clear. "I want things better. But I have no right to think that what I believe is better is. . .is better for anyone. I know I am wasting time. I /know/ that. That there is something I could. . .should be doing. But it's not there. I reach for what it is and it is not there. So I drift through life. Not any good at anything and that's no way to live." Now she sits, defeated by her own words. The chair across from him is pulled out and she sinks into it as if the weight of herself is too much to bear anymore.
"Oh, Miniyal." That first cry of ache calls out to him; he answers once her words are done - with her name, and in it he aches too, beautifully. It sends him up from the chair and he starts around the table toward her, to the side that he began on, to the side where she now sits. There he pauses beside her, his hands put out, palms up, beseeching. "I have wasted enough time for two men or more," Gans murmurs, softly, solemn but warm. "I don't mean to pressure you. You have turns. Decades. Even drifting will take you somewhere. It's only that you don't know where. That's - not necessarily bad."
"But I need to know. I know it makes no sense, but I need to know." At first she ignores him. She is wrapped up in her own thoughts now and so at first he is left standing there. Until she pulls out enough from herself to realise where he is and then Miniyal rises to her feet. His hands she takes, but only to pull his arms around her and once they are she lays her head against his chest. "I've wanted things in the past and I was too afraid to go after them." She lifts her head and one hand gestures around the room before her arms go around him. "I wanted this. All of this. I could be working for that right now, but I was too afraid. I could have done it. I know I could have." And there, once again, is that belief in herself that flickers before it goes back to hiding under self-doubt. "I've been drifting my entire life. I want to stop."
Gans is guided most easily into this; it is a pose they have shared enough times for it to be all but instinctive to him, and she need only tug his hands most gently to teach them what they should do. So he stands with his arms around her, finding the places along her back where his palms fit, where they can curve and conform to the shapes of her muscles and spine. "And because you are too old to apprentice, you consider that avenue lost forever." He has no more to say than that; the summary is part rhetoric, but also part curiousity; challenge, almost, but a request for confirmation, too. That last bit gets the most emphasis; her lover leans back a little in her arms to look on her, 'have I got it right, my dear?'
Who says he cannot be trained? Even crazy old dogs can learn tricks. "It's a stupid system." Mumbled against his chest before moves away that tiny bit. Hey, what is up with that? She clearly still needs consoling. Sheesh! Miniyal lets out a quiet sigh before she tilts her head up enough so she can look at him. "Expecting children to decide the rest of their lives. Either by themselves or with someone doing it for them. It's dumb." All of this in its roundabout way provides him the answer. She'll not just say yes or no knowing full well that is not the end of it. Let him earn the answer by translating every word in sentences that could really be defined with a yes or no. "I don't care anymore." She is, as always, allowed to lie to him.
"Correct," replies Gans to her 'It's dumb,' and then, as if -that- was any kind of proper answer, he just folds her in his arms again and bends his head, too ready to breathe the kisses into her hair that might soothe her and certainly always soothe him, too ready to let his sole remark go unremarked upon. He does this sometimes: plant a seed, and refuse to water it. Besides, she has gone so far to lie to him, and most disingenuously, so much so that the kisses he releases into her nut-brown locks are shaped like smiles.
Usually she can be a much better liar. Well, she could with practice. Unfortunately she never really lies since the untruths she tells him are so obviously that they can hardly count. So, Miniyal says nothing herself and instead just takes what she can from his embrace and his kisses. "It's just I want to do something." Said from the confines of his embrace so she does not have to look up. Not so long ago those words might have been said in the manner to indicate she was having indecent thoughts but now it's just rather annoyed. At the words themselves or what is behind them or at herself. Perhaps all three. "I know I have done things. And I should be content knowing that what I'm good at is helping other people to do what they believe they need to do. But it's not the same. I want something that is mine. I don't want to just be an assistant to everyone else's cause."
"You can be an assistant to your own cause," points out her lover, drily, into the soft refuge of her hair. "Even if that cause has little form but ambition. Look around you. There are other ways; you only have to create them." Gans knows better than to make it sound like this is easy. He raises his head, solemn now, the smile gone; and as he's instructed her to do herself, he glances around, taking in the archives. One arm loosens about her, but does not let go; if she'll turn, and look, she'll have to do it herself. "You made an effort, and Kazimir demurred. This does not mean you should make no further efforts."
"He didn't like me." Mumbled as she keeps her head down. It's an easy answer. She always has an easy answer and it usually involves pointing out some flaw in herself. Well, clearly he did not like her. Miniyal lifts her head and sighs before she looks around the room and then back at him. "It is not that simple, you know." As if she has to explain this to him. "Even if I tried I would just say the wrong thing again and make it worse. I nearly always do." Which is, at least, a step upwards from her usual always do the wrong thing statement about herself. Barely better, but better none the less. Her tone, alas, still contains the same helpless frustration with herself that it always does.
"If he did not approve of you, we would not be here now." 'Like' is apparently irrelevant, and Gans will not pander to it. He replaces the word effortlessly, but with a certain sternness that makes it all too plain she's being corrected. It is a fond tone, but a -tone- just the same. "Perhaps you would say the wrong thing. But if you can keep to the honest things, Miniyal, I think even your backsteps might fascinate him. He is a bit like you, my dear." Now he has a little smile for her, a little affection to warm the fondness, and he tightens his arms around her, defying her gaze with his desire to close her again, safe, in his embrace. "I will not force you. I don't even presume to make a recommendation because I, myself, do not know how it would be done. I know only that it is possible, and that I think you capable. I just want you to know that I see it, and maybe believe me that I do."
"Why does so much require talking to people?" More weary annoyance, but there is enough spirit to it that her foot stomps on the floor. His arms around her again allows her to lean against him with a near silent sigh. "Maybe I could try again. Maybe." Which is all she has to say for her brain to start thinking of ways to do it. She won't believe she can do it until she does, but that won't stop her from plotting out ways to try this new thing. If for no other reason than she likes puzzles and dealing with other people is always the hardest puzzle to piece together. It will lurk in the back of her brain and when she finally moves on it the action will be taken quickly so she does not talk herself back out of it. "I should get back to my studies. We've only so much time here. Unless we cut other parts of our trip short?" It will certainly not be the first time she tries to do this.
"Write him a letter, then," murmurs Gans, into her hair, and smiles as her foot thumps the floor beneath his. He does not quite expect her to take this easy out, but he provides it with such gentle indifference to make it clear that he, himself, does not direct her to handle the situation in any particular way. That he will not, beyond this, direct her at all. At the notion of compressing the rest of their holiday he lets a little chortle move soundlessly through him; she'll feel it in his chest, in his arms and his breath, and see it on his face when he pulls back to look at her with a silent, delighted scold, mouth curved, eyes bright. "We both know you can take what you study with you. I would not give up our opportunity to - dissect our notes - together, for the world. Not even for this world." His hands sleek down her back, stroking, even as he steps back from her, introducing a little space between them. Let her regain it, or go back to her studies, indeed.
Her head shakes and she tilts her head up to look at him, hopeful. "But, Gans." His name is just a whisper on her lips, suited more to rooms other than this one. Or perhaps not. "What if I do not get to everything I need? I have important research to do." With a quiet sigh, resigned to having her time here not extended Miniyal takes her own step backwards to break all contact with him. "And that's not even taking into account what I want to look at for myself. There is not enough time." There is never enough time for anything. A little sigh finishes off her words and she shakes her head and turns to wander off, not back to her books but to pace about the room until she finds a place to stop near the door. Turning to face him once more she leans back then and pushes her hair over her shoulder once more. One foot kicks at the floor and she smiles, all innocence. "Gans? Love? I find myself with a dilemma."
"Have I ever said this is our last trip here, or yours?" Gans lets her go, though, and waits by the table, one hand trailing fingertips loosely over its surface; he watches her as she drifts away, and smiles for her doing so. Something, once she's there, draws him back to her - and it is likely not her words, because as he starts his slow stride over he's already raising a hand. When he comes to her, it will reach for her hair, to comb slim pale fingers up through the tumble of it that she pushed over her shoulder and draw it forward again. "Do you," he replies, simply, neither droll nor wry, but lowly enough that either would have fit. Neither is called-for, that's all; his gaze transfers, slowly, from his hand in her hair to her face.
As if being logical about getting to come back will mean anything. It's like he conveniently forgets how much like her mother she is in the musthaveitallnownownow sort of way. Miniyal watches him move closer, her smile staying in place although it's surely a chore to make it keep that thin veneer of innocence she has laced it with. "I do," she agrees with a heavy sigh. "Perhaps we might come to a conclusion to the dilemma that will satisfy us both?" Ok, well, the innocent act fled without much of a fight on that sentence. Quite likely because he chose to touch her hair. Her arm snakes out to wrap around his waist and give a sharp tug meant to bring him up against her. "On second thought," is murmured lowly as she leans up to speak with lips nearly touching his. "I find there is no dilemma after all." She then sacrifices some of her valuable research time to other endeavors. Ones that begin with nothing more than a kiss.
Where: Archives at Harper
When: Afternoon of day 2, month 1, turn 3 of the 7th pass.
What: While doing nothng more than reading up on law (no indecency I swear) the couple is interrupted with a message about High Reaches' new weyrleaders. It changes the mood of the day and provokes conversation.
1/5/2007 & 1/8/2007
It is afternoon on day 2, month 1, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
The holiday has started off swimmingly. How could it not? Miniyal has been brought to the one place in the world she loves more than anything. Except for the man who brought her here, of course. It's hard to tell, of course, for an outsider. That she gets overly excited about coming here. She maintains her neutral politeness in public that speaks more to her shyness than anything else. Still, he knows. She hurries them a little faster from here to there and will, more often than normal, be caught smiling at him. Or touching him, even if it's just a small touch of her fingers to his arm. Well, she was the little girl who once dreamed of running Harper. Of course she's excited to be here.
And here with someone who can get her into archives she'd not normally be allowed in as just plain Miniyal? Does that not make her the luckiest woman on Pern? Oh, indeed it does. He might consider himself the luckiest man considering his treatment when they arrived. She did not even try to drag him off to records the first day. The first day of the new turn was spent as secluded as she could make them and if there was anything decent and proper in that time alone it was not of her making. However, the second day? Well, after they gave up sleep she was ready to be off to the races.
So like a child on her birthday she caught herself hopping excitedly a time or two on their way to where she would ensconce herself until he decides to haul her off. Law is the order of the day and as dry as the subject tends to be when written by those experts on it she devours it all like a featherbrain devours a romance novel. (Like she does the same but don't anyone dare point that out.) Right now she's got a couple of older books laid out on a table before her. No notes are being taken. She'll make those later in their room. No sense letting anyone know what she is up to. For all she's taken with her research she knows he is there and so while he does what he will she, every now and again, will nudge his foot with hers under the table and when he looks up smile at him, promising something.
She has known him long enough - and intimately enough - that she might, when she has a calm moment, know her lover to be excited also. He may have less ardent desire to spend days and nights in those dry stacks deep in Harper's halls, behind locked doors and weary journeyman keeper, but there must be some purpose that invites Gans here. She'd know, from the way he goes through their books that morning, reading a few lines out of one and then a few from another, picking them up, putting them down. She'd know, too, from the way he packs, then unpacks, then reduces the bulk of and packs again a little roll of hide and pen and ink for his own studies, as his memory is good but lacks the perfection of hers. But in time he's ready to go, and her hopping can stop to give way to walking - down to those archives, so their academic respite from all things present-day, save each other, may begin.
Her footsie-nudges win glance after glance, wry half-smiles accompanying each; occasionally one gives way to a mock-arch expression with brows raised, as if he might call her out on what she's doing. But he never does. His own research - ostensibly for his class - keeps his attention for the most part, or at least he pretends as much. But from time to time Gans glances up even when there's been no nudge at his toes to cue him, and watches subtly for a time his lover's study, thoughtful or just pleased.
A page turns and she bends her head down to make out a line that is slightly more faded than the others. One hand absently lifts to brush hair from her face where it falls when she leans forward. Tucking it behind her ears she turns another page. Glances and footsies do all the work for her and she hasn't said much of anything since they settled down to do their work. Frowning at something she reads the expression clears when she looks up, smiling at him and then ducking her head once more. Sliding down in her chair some her foot nudges his, but she does not look up. There's no need this time because she just turns a page, so intent on her reading she doesn't even notice what her foot does. One slippered toe slides over his foot and then rather than stop continues upwards. It doesn't stop until it finds the bend of his knee required for sitting. Then she does glance up, all innocence. "Oh. Sorry." But the foot doesn't move.
Gans is quite still while her foot moves, or he seems to be still, in any case. But the hand that rested on the arm of his chair slips into his lap, prepared - and when her foot comes up to his knee, and she looks up and gives the game away with her words, that hand pounces, wrapping slender fingers around her slipper. "Are you?" That, while she's caught thus, and he doesn't even look up to say it - but there's no shortage of dry, rich bemusement in his voice.
Whatever she might retort with is going to be secondary, most likely, to a more physical reaction. The lock on the door, not far from the law archive's study tables, rattles and then the door unlatches and begins to swing in.
With her foot caught there's not much she can do. It cannot move upwards, as might have been the intention. Or away as was probably not at all the case. So, she just turns a page. He doesn't get an answer to his question although he might have indeed. Because her head tilts just a fraction upwards and the smile that has been promising much since they arrived has changed in a subtle manner that indicates she might be, now, ready to make good on those promises.
Alas. It doesn't happen. Instead the door opens and she gently tries to tug her foot away. Back to the ground where it may rest and Miniyal can pretend she is a proper decent sort of person. Wait. Not pretend. She /is/. Yes. Right.
His hand begins to stroke the sole of her foot through the slipper, his thumb making slow, firm passes so as not to tickle - yet. But Gans can hear as well as she can and the jolt of the lock in the door sends him sitting a little straighter, his fingers uncurling from her foot.
"Sir?" Someone's either been prepared in the matter of address, or is making the safest assumption. The someone in question comes around the door and looks in, scoping; it might seem a repeated movement, as if the lad's done this a couple times recently, looking for the pair in other archives. "Ma'am," he says, when his eyes catch on Miniyal. Brown eyes, sweet enough, and a mop of hair that ought to have been trimmed some time ago - but this is Harper, and boys have hair. "Sir," then, to confirm he's found them, and the boy - maybe an apprentice, but without his knot if so - steps in, nudging the door not entirely shut behind him. The journeyman must have lent him the key; he holds it in one tight fist. "The masterharper's sent me with news, sir." In a pause his eyes shift over. "Ma'am."
Her foot comes down once it is released and that is the end of that. She wasn't doing anything wrong after all and if there's one thing Miniyal can do it's pretend as if nothing at all is going on. So when the boy looks in she has her head down, reading more in her law books with the hand not busy turning a page rests in her lap. When the boy speaks, Miniyal lifts her head. Blinking a few times she shakes her head. "Please don't call me, ma'am." Her voice drops lower, enough to carry. As if the man seated across from her will not hear now. As if he's not between her and the boy. "He's old. I'm not." The slightest of turns to her head allows her to wink at her lover without the boy seeing. Sometimes, rarely, it is ok to tease about their ages. So rarely. That said she keeps her head up, not reading anymore as she folds both hands in her lap and waits to hear the news that caused them to be interrupted in their work.
Gans clears his throat, slipping a sideways look of droll bemusement - fond - at his 'young' lover. Then he turns in his seat, putting one elbow on the chair's arm and the other on the edge of the table, instantly at ease facing the lad who's come in. "News?"
"Miss," self-corrects Kazimir's messenger, joining his hands before himself to keep them from twitching fidgets at his sides. "Sir. The masterharper asked me to tell you - both - " A glance at Miniyal, then, who does not get a third attempt at direct address. "- that High Reaches has had a queen's flight. He wished to know if you would be staying on?"
Her expression gives away nothing, at least not to the messenger. To Gans there is a certain sparkle in her eyes he will likely make note of. But since she is watching the messenger that is all that he gets. She sits up straighter than before, a remaining slouch from her earlier activities gone at the news. Her mouth opens to speak and then closes. Then it opens again and she, instead, laughs. "Is that what said? And who was it, then, that rose? And who won?" And with those questions asked she directs her attention to Gans. Speaking to him, although answering the question asked of them both. "There's no reason to go back. We'll be staying on." It is their holiday. They have not been sufficiently indecent in here yet. He knows better than to pull her away from here.
"Ah," replies Gans, to the lad; and nothing at all after that save, when Miniyal addresses him, a lone and solemn nod. They will not leave. Not for something so minor. His mouth quirks and he turns back to attend to the messenger who will, after all, have their answers.
"Uh." They are, perhaps, straining the messenger's capacity for memory - or else, his capacity for bravery. He steps sideways, for no reason except to be in motion, and begins anew - ah, not a memory problem after all. "The Weyrleader's R'vain, with Ruvoth," he states, rote, probably as the word came from the drummers, instantly translated into formalese. "To Weyrwoman Roa, with Tialith."
If she shows a slight hint of relief at his not deciding to leave then it is only slight and likely missed by those not near her. By those not knowing her ways. After all, he could have pushed the issue and Miniyal would have agreed to return with him. Because, well. . .she just would go if he said so. Since he does not make her do this she can focus on the words. The words said and there are two fleeting expressions to be caught. The first is annoyance, resignation. Well, it's /R'vain/ and well, yes. When Roa's name comes out she lets out a quiet sigh. Relief. That's all. Then she ducks her head a moment to look at the book she is reading. A moment to regain that polite neutrality. Lifting her head once more she smiles at the boy. "Thank you for the news."
It's a watching game. Gans watches Miniyal. The boy watches Gans. And in a moment Miniyal's looking at the boy again. Everyone gets to see the reactions they're aiming to see. Miniyal's annoyance at R'vain's name is counterbalanced by a dry, satisfied half-smile from the former weyrleader, but both of them seem pleased to hear Roa's name accompany the bronzerider's. "Very good," G'thon allows, voice mild, eyes too bright. "We'll be staying on," he adds, as confirmation and reassurance. On these words, the boy nods, and departs. He does remember to lock the door again behind him.
She doesn't say anything else until the boy is gone. There doesn't seem to be anything else for Miniyal to say and so she returns to her book until the door is closed and locked. Once those things occur she lets out a held breath. "R'vain. Well. . .I suppose it could have been worse." Like, say, someone dead had one or one of the dogs that turns the spit in the kitchen. Wait. A dog did win. Well, she has nothing else to say to that. Insufferable man. "I was right." A switch then as she leans back in her chair and one foot finds its way into his lap. "I told her that taking Tialith away would probably work." She's so brilliant. Tell her so!
"Indeed." It could have been worse. And Gans, by the fullness of satisfaction in which he makes his remark, probably has more objects (and people) on his list of worse possibilities than R'vain. But it's not a topic they're going to have a particularly rich discussion about, so as he turns back to the table and slips up a hand to gently close his book, he says instead, "Did you, now? And why do you suppose it did?" Leading, sure. Unsubtly so. But his voice praises her where his words do not, and the closure of his reading material lends her his entire attention.
"When I was working for her I did some research for her." As if she doesn't still, in her own way, work for the new weyrwoman. But it's not something she speaks of outside their room. If anyone knows about the chance of being overheard it's Miniyal who overhears all sorts of things. "I thought if she spent time away from the weyr Tialith might get her cycle back on. . .track. With the caucus queens there things were messed up. That's why Vasyath and Nenuith rose after leaving. They just had to be away for a bit. I'm pretty sure that's why Sinopa was trying to go away. She kept making all those trips, but she wasn't away long enough. She couldn't and lose what little grasp she had on the weyr." If all his attention is on her, some of hers is still on her book. He will have to forgive her for that but. . .book. She hasn't read it! It's special.
Gans is, where books are concerned, too good for jealousy. He'll reserve that for J'cor. "Clever," he says, only, but there's nothing wry in it; and while she splits her attention he shows no sign of being troubled about giving her his all. "So you've placed a weyrwoman. Already." -There- is the wry. And it's a warning, a signal of what's to come. He leans back, the way he does when any other man would lean forward; he laces his hands across his middle and regards her from this distance, uninterrogative. That manner does not, does never, stop him from asking prying questions. "And are you quite sure you've no idea what you want to do with your professional skills?"
She blinks at the statement and the book is abandoned. Poor book, not given any of her attention. Instead Miniyal looks up and there's almost a smile. "You think I didn't help with the weyrleader too?" Well, she was going to. And she's done her bit for him. . .in her own mind. Even if he doesn't see it that way. The truth always helps. Ahem. Yes, right. However, her head shakes when he asks the question. "It was just research, Gans. She said, go look at flight patterns. I went and looked at flight patterns. We pieced it together. I recommended a course of action. It's just research." So stop trying to make it anything else. Which is nearly clear in her tone. Then she drops her head back down to give attention to her second love.
"Define help," replies Gans, softly, almost a whisper, and somewhat tiredly, about what she says regarding the weyrleader. But he keeps smiling, and keeps smiling straight on through as she redefines instead what her help with Roa was. "You acquired knowledge," he observes, mild, pushing back his chair as he unlaces his hands. "I shall not expound further upon the point. I will ask, however," before he rises - because he seems likely to do so soon, from his body language, "whether our weyrwoman's holiday might have qualified as an experiment and, if so, you feel the hypothesis adequately proven."
"Help is when you point out what is wrong so someone might consider fixing it. And when you offer to help someone . . . even if you change your mind. Because I did. I mean. . .R'vain." Wrinkling her nose she shakes her head and glances up from her book. "I can't believe I almost made a deal with him. But in the end I think I helped anyway. Which is sort of annoying. And he was very annoying the last time we met. He gave me something, but I didn't get a chance to look into it before we left. Well, when we get back." Miniyal looks back at her book, turning the page. "An experiment? Well, I guess? I mean, it seemed like a likely cause. If you had seen all the data you would have suggested the same thing. Besides. . .I mean, as annoying as she is at least she's not Sinopa. She wouldn't even give me a decent interview. Anyway, I'm sure Roa, knowing what she does, will find a way to fix things. Even if it's not just sending the caucus away so someone else can deal with it."
"You cannot make deals with R'vain." Gans slips up out of the chair and drifts down the length of the table toward the nearest aisle of the stacks, but his movement's quite slow. He's pacing, not traveling. "But if he gave you something, it's probably honestly meant." At the end of the table a few long fingertips graze the table's glossy, ancient surface and Gans turns around to face her, one brow crooked. "All Pern has to deal with the Caucus, Miniyal. And I would be most inconvenienced if it were to leave." He is far too grave to be talking about his career options, and he turns away to start into the aisle in a drifting manner somewhat pensive, even moody. He does not go far; just looking for something to look at. The spines of books will do.
She considers, head tipped to the side and book abandoned for the conversation. Otherwise she will get lost, surely. "No. You can. You just have to be smarter than I am. I'm not good enough with people." Miniyal frowns some and then gives her head a shake, dismissing it. "Well, and I never will be and anyway, it doesn't matter now." He is watched as he moves although she makes no move to follow him or rise as well. Instead she leans back in her chair and folds her hands in her lap. "Yes, exactly. We have to deal with it. I don't see where it's done us much good." Here she holds up a hand, letting out a weary sigh. "But I don't wish to discuss it. Not the caucus. We have opinions that differ on it and that will not change. "Is something wrong?" Because usually it is her that paces.
"It was an advisory comment. I shouldn't have selected quite those words." He's visually absorbed in the books before him, his hands sliding behind him so the fingers of one can loosely clasp the back of the other wrist at the small of his back. "No," Gans allows after a time, as a reply to what's not wrong. "You know what I'm doing, I assume."
"Gans? Love? I would not dream that I ever truly know what you are doing." There is humor in her tone, but Miniyal is serious enough about it. He's always up to something that she doesn't understand. Her gaze drifts from him to her book. She can't help it and there's silence from her as she scans the page she was just reading. Quiet until she finishes it when she looks up again she lets out a sigh. "Nothing may be wrong, but the mood has definitely shifted. And I wonder what has brought that on. Tell me so I may shift it again." She teases now, lightly. It is not enough to truly try to change what they talk about unless he should wish it. If he will be serious then she will go along with it as well.
Her charm - yes, she has some - brings a smile to his mouth. Would she know why? On another day he might explain. Might describe how her serious humor qualifies as charm, as one of the mildest, kindest sorts of emotional manipulation. But not today. Today he just smiles his crooked, one-sided smile and stares up at the books, his bright hazel gaze marking one after another, climbing the shelves. "Caucus brings us people who are poised and anxious to act, to incite change. People who will benefit precisely from a more truthful glance at our history - and our future. It is my vessel, Miniyal. If it's a failure as a school, if some consider it little but a marriage market - fine." He reaches up a pale hand and slender fingers pick from among the books one that's won his interest or at least his favor. "But its potential has ever lain elsewhere. Why do you think I wanted it?"
Since she would deny its existence he is better off not wasting his time. The book and his words vie for attention, but in the end the book will wait and she pushes it away even. A small victory for him since it is out of easy reading range. Miniyal listens instead, in the serious way she has sometimes. Sometimes she just sits still, barely breathing so that she misses nothing. Sitting still, a skill few people truly understand. "I never considered why. I never considered it for much. I do not like the people it brings. It is trouble." There is a pause here to consider her next words and when they come they are accompanied by a smile that might be heard even if he is not looking at her to see. "I forgive you for it. I'm a forgiving person."
"It is trouble," Gans agrees, sweetly and softly, drawing the hand down with the book in it. The pages fall open as the spine spreads in the broad curve of his palm. "And you are very forgiving." That tone is one she should certainly know, and it means he's come back to the mood they had not just before his shifted, but to the one they had before Kazimir's messenger intruded. He turns from the stacks, the book still open in his palm, and approaches it with her thus - not reading. "Someday Caucus will be useful to you, Miniyal. I don't know if it will be worth it. But it will have some worth, even if it's not enough. And that someday should be soon, I hope." He nudges with one deft toe the chair nearest hers aside so he can slip around it, then into it, and there regard her, mock-solemn, eyes twinkling. "You'll have to forgive me for that, too, I suppose."
He gets a brief look that is more wary than anything when the mood shifts. Because she never knows if he's just trying to weasel around to something he knows she doesn't want to hear. And. . .he is. In a way. Miniyal listens to his words, head shaking. "I doubt it. It's just trouble for me. As are most of the people associated with it. And it's run stupidly." The only dig she has gotten in regarding the headmaster. She has to make at least one or he'll be confused about whom he is speaking to! When he sits she shifts her position in her chair so she might still see him. One foot comes into contact with his, but she does not nudge, just rests it there lightly against his. Some small contact likely for her comfort. Her nose wrinkles as she shakes her head. "I just do not see the appeal. Did I tell you what he said? He said he wanted me to be a student. That is so ridiculous. As if I would ever waste me time. As if he had any right to claim I was not. . .not doing something worthwhile. I mean, this was just when I had quit as head of records. I mean, just resigned. Like I could not take time to figure out what I wanted to be. I hate him."
"I would think he was offering you an excuse to do just that. A temporary distraction. A place to tread water." Gans makes these suggestions lightly, not particularly attached to them, but his hand curls shut and closes the book between thumb and forefingers. Something, of course, about law. "Is that why you hate him? His offer?"
"I hate him. . .I don't know." Why does he make her think? It makes her want to stomp her foot and act childishly. Because that will amuse him and distract him and he lets things go for a bit until Miniyal can deal with them. But they are, nominally, in public so she cannot do what she might were they safely in their room. "It has nothing to do with that. And he wanted me for his own purpose. It had nothing to do with what would be good for me. Everyone is about what someone else can do for them. No one really cares about people other than that. It's all. . .what can you do for me and no what can I do for you. And that is what he teaches." Biting her lip she shakes her head gently. "I don't understand it, but I suppose that's alright since it's not for me to."
"Perhaps he did want you for his own purpose. Certainly having you as a student might feather his cap, if nothing else. But he made you an offer, also. It is not quite what he teaches, Miniyal." Gans bends his head, looks at the book in his hand. "You're talking about striking deals. When you strike a deal, ideally you want an arrangement that suits both parties. If at that you can succeed, it is permissible within the bounds of the game to seek further for an arrangement in which you receive more than you provide. As long as your counterpart's outcome is an advantage for them, or in some cases the prevention of disadvantage, the deal is fair; each party is responsible for trying to get the most out of the exchange. This is economics, Miniyal. It's not politics. He doesn't teach it."
"No. It is not like that." Now she will pace. He will try to explain away what she sees as a problem with reason. Why should Miniyal sit for that? Instead, smoothly, she rises from her seat and begins to pace, moving around the table and sighing as she looks down at her hands. "You do not. . .I don't know. But that's what happens. There is no balance. And it makes people only see. . .only see what someone might give them. Without just seeing what they might give. I know I cannot live up to what I believe in. I know at times I am as bad as anyone else at this. But I try. And I recognize what is wrong and that is. . .that is more than some do." More pacing and she does not even look at the books as she walks partway down between shelves. Instead she keeps her head down until she has turned back and is once more vaguely near the table. "I do not even know why I try. Most people see it as a weakness to exploit. I don't want things from people, Gans. But they want things from me. And please do not tell me that I do want things from people because I am aware that everyone wants something, but I do not want the /same/ things."
He sits in quiet while she goes over what she perceives as wrong - even as poorly as she does so - and puts up his book on the table so he can shift in his chair, watching her as she walks. It is not consistent, not failless, his habit of attending to her when she speaks as if she's his only focus; but today, it is perfect. He lets her have the stage of his silence until she seems done, and then a beat longer before he begins. "What do you want, then?" And, that said - stops.
The question was not unexpected. His questions these days are rarely unexpected. Their time together has taught her enough to realise that anything she can say he will turn into a question. So Miniyal has been waiting for it and when it comes. . ."I don't /know/." The emphasis is soft, anguished. There is a vision she cannot see and a goal she cannot put into words and it haunts her every day. The pacing stops and she looks at him across the table, hands bunching into the folds of her dress as if concealing them will make what she wants clear. "I want things better. But I have no right to think that what I believe is better is. . .is better for anyone. I know I am wasting time. I /know/ that. That there is something I could. . .should be doing. But it's not there. I reach for what it is and it is not there. So I drift through life. Not any good at anything and that's no way to live." Now she sits, defeated by her own words. The chair across from him is pulled out and she sinks into it as if the weight of herself is too much to bear anymore.
"Oh, Miniyal." That first cry of ache calls out to him; he answers once her words are done - with her name, and in it he aches too, beautifully. It sends him up from the chair and he starts around the table toward her, to the side that he began on, to the side where she now sits. There he pauses beside her, his hands put out, palms up, beseeching. "I have wasted enough time for two men or more," Gans murmurs, softly, solemn but warm. "I don't mean to pressure you. You have turns. Decades. Even drifting will take you somewhere. It's only that you don't know where. That's - not necessarily bad."
"But I need to know. I know it makes no sense, but I need to know." At first she ignores him. She is wrapped up in her own thoughts now and so at first he is left standing there. Until she pulls out enough from herself to realise where he is and then Miniyal rises to her feet. His hands she takes, but only to pull his arms around her and once they are she lays her head against his chest. "I've wanted things in the past and I was too afraid to go after them." She lifts her head and one hand gestures around the room before her arms go around him. "I wanted this. All of this. I could be working for that right now, but I was too afraid. I could have done it. I know I could have." And there, once again, is that belief in herself that flickers before it goes back to hiding under self-doubt. "I've been drifting my entire life. I want to stop."
Gans is guided most easily into this; it is a pose they have shared enough times for it to be all but instinctive to him, and she need only tug his hands most gently to teach them what they should do. So he stands with his arms around her, finding the places along her back where his palms fit, where they can curve and conform to the shapes of her muscles and spine. "And because you are too old to apprentice, you consider that avenue lost forever." He has no more to say than that; the summary is part rhetoric, but also part curiousity; challenge, almost, but a request for confirmation, too. That last bit gets the most emphasis; her lover leans back a little in her arms to look on her, 'have I got it right, my dear?'
Who says he cannot be trained? Even crazy old dogs can learn tricks. "It's a stupid system." Mumbled against his chest before moves away that tiny bit. Hey, what is up with that? She clearly still needs consoling. Sheesh! Miniyal lets out a quiet sigh before she tilts her head up enough so she can look at him. "Expecting children to decide the rest of their lives. Either by themselves or with someone doing it for them. It's dumb." All of this in its roundabout way provides him the answer. She'll not just say yes or no knowing full well that is not the end of it. Let him earn the answer by translating every word in sentences that could really be defined with a yes or no. "I don't care anymore." She is, as always, allowed to lie to him.
"Correct," replies Gans to her 'It's dumb,' and then, as if -that- was any kind of proper answer, he just folds her in his arms again and bends his head, too ready to breathe the kisses into her hair that might soothe her and certainly always soothe him, too ready to let his sole remark go unremarked upon. He does this sometimes: plant a seed, and refuse to water it. Besides, she has gone so far to lie to him, and most disingenuously, so much so that the kisses he releases into her nut-brown locks are shaped like smiles.
Usually she can be a much better liar. Well, she could with practice. Unfortunately she never really lies since the untruths she tells him are so obviously that they can hardly count. So, Miniyal says nothing herself and instead just takes what she can from his embrace and his kisses. "It's just I want to do something." Said from the confines of his embrace so she does not have to look up. Not so long ago those words might have been said in the manner to indicate she was having indecent thoughts but now it's just rather annoyed. At the words themselves or what is behind them or at herself. Perhaps all three. "I know I have done things. And I should be content knowing that what I'm good at is helping other people to do what they believe they need to do. But it's not the same. I want something that is mine. I don't want to just be an assistant to everyone else's cause."
"You can be an assistant to your own cause," points out her lover, drily, into the soft refuge of her hair. "Even if that cause has little form but ambition. Look around you. There are other ways; you only have to create them." Gans knows better than to make it sound like this is easy. He raises his head, solemn now, the smile gone; and as he's instructed her to do herself, he glances around, taking in the archives. One arm loosens about her, but does not let go; if she'll turn, and look, she'll have to do it herself. "You made an effort, and Kazimir demurred. This does not mean you should make no further efforts."
"He didn't like me." Mumbled as she keeps her head down. It's an easy answer. She always has an easy answer and it usually involves pointing out some flaw in herself. Well, clearly he did not like her. Miniyal lifts her head and sighs before she looks around the room and then back at him. "It is not that simple, you know." As if she has to explain this to him. "Even if I tried I would just say the wrong thing again and make it worse. I nearly always do." Which is, at least, a step upwards from her usual always do the wrong thing statement about herself. Barely better, but better none the less. Her tone, alas, still contains the same helpless frustration with herself that it always does.
"If he did not approve of you, we would not be here now." 'Like' is apparently irrelevant, and Gans will not pander to it. He replaces the word effortlessly, but with a certain sternness that makes it all too plain she's being corrected. It is a fond tone, but a -tone- just the same. "Perhaps you would say the wrong thing. But if you can keep to the honest things, Miniyal, I think even your backsteps might fascinate him. He is a bit like you, my dear." Now he has a little smile for her, a little affection to warm the fondness, and he tightens his arms around her, defying her gaze with his desire to close her again, safe, in his embrace. "I will not force you. I don't even presume to make a recommendation because I, myself, do not know how it would be done. I know only that it is possible, and that I think you capable. I just want you to know that I see it, and maybe believe me that I do."
"Why does so much require talking to people?" More weary annoyance, but there is enough spirit to it that her foot stomps on the floor. His arms around her again allows her to lean against him with a near silent sigh. "Maybe I could try again. Maybe." Which is all she has to say for her brain to start thinking of ways to do it. She won't believe she can do it until she does, but that won't stop her from plotting out ways to try this new thing. If for no other reason than she likes puzzles and dealing with other people is always the hardest puzzle to piece together. It will lurk in the back of her brain and when she finally moves on it the action will be taken quickly so she does not talk herself back out of it. "I should get back to my studies. We've only so much time here. Unless we cut other parts of our trip short?" It will certainly not be the first time she tries to do this.
"Write him a letter, then," murmurs Gans, into her hair, and smiles as her foot thumps the floor beneath his. He does not quite expect her to take this easy out, but he provides it with such gentle indifference to make it clear that he, himself, does not direct her to handle the situation in any particular way. That he will not, beyond this, direct her at all. At the notion of compressing the rest of their holiday he lets a little chortle move soundlessly through him; she'll feel it in his chest, in his arms and his breath, and see it on his face when he pulls back to look at her with a silent, delighted scold, mouth curved, eyes bright. "We both know you can take what you study with you. I would not give up our opportunity to - dissect our notes - together, for the world. Not even for this world." His hands sleek down her back, stroking, even as he steps back from her, introducing a little space between them. Let her regain it, or go back to her studies, indeed.
Her head shakes and she tilts her head up to look at him, hopeful. "But, Gans." His name is just a whisper on her lips, suited more to rooms other than this one. Or perhaps not. "What if I do not get to everything I need? I have important research to do." With a quiet sigh, resigned to having her time here not extended Miniyal takes her own step backwards to break all contact with him. "And that's not even taking into account what I want to look at for myself. There is not enough time." There is never enough time for anything. A little sigh finishes off her words and she shakes her head and turns to wander off, not back to her books but to pace about the room until she finds a place to stop near the door. Turning to face him once more she leans back then and pushes her hair over her shoulder once more. One foot kicks at the floor and she smiles, all innocence. "Gans? Love? I find myself with a dilemma."
"Have I ever said this is our last trip here, or yours?" Gans lets her go, though, and waits by the table, one hand trailing fingertips loosely over its surface; he watches her as she drifts away, and smiles for her doing so. Something, once she's there, draws him back to her - and it is likely not her words, because as he starts his slow stride over he's already raising a hand. When he comes to her, it will reach for her hair, to comb slim pale fingers up through the tumble of it that she pushed over her shoulder and draw it forward again. "Do you," he replies, simply, neither droll nor wry, but lowly enough that either would have fit. Neither is called-for, that's all; his gaze transfers, slowly, from his hand in her hair to her face.
As if being logical about getting to come back will mean anything. It's like he conveniently forgets how much like her mother she is in the musthaveitallnownownow sort of way. Miniyal watches him move closer, her smile staying in place although it's surely a chore to make it keep that thin veneer of innocence she has laced it with. "I do," she agrees with a heavy sigh. "Perhaps we might come to a conclusion to the dilemma that will satisfy us both?" Ok, well, the innocent act fled without much of a fight on that sentence. Quite likely because he chose to touch her hair. Her arm snakes out to wrap around his waist and give a sharp tug meant to bring him up against her. "On second thought," is murmured lowly as she leans up to speak with lips nearly touching his. "I find there is no dilemma after all." She then sacrifices some of her valuable research time to other endeavors. Ones that begin with nothing more than a kiss.