Verbal duct tape fixes most anything.
Who: Miniyal and G'thon
Where: Mental breakdowns rarely occur outside their room.
When: Evening on day 16, month 2, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
What: Complete mental collapse. Picking up the pieces of said collapse. Emotional manipulation. Just what you would expect to happen when Gans comes home and finds Miniyal crying. If dealing with this is not proof of love I do not know what would be. This has been building since Miniyal returned from the island. And takes place here and there due to RL constraints.
1/24/2007 & 1/26/2007 & 1/30/2007
Evening on day 16, month 2, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
There are time limits on everything. So long before this happens and so long before that occurs and only a very finite time before what has not been said gets said.
Miniyal has been keeping secrets for a very long time, all her life. However, she has sadly found herself in a situation where keeping secrets is suddenly hard. So for some time now she has been quiet. Oh, she still talks about the casual, but that is really all. It began after those talks with Roa and then later R'vain and has gone on this long because she has gotten good enough at distraction. Queries about his work, about his students, funny anecdotes about her parents. When all of that might fail there is physical distraction and manipulation. She's quite good at that. Even if they both know that is what she is doing.
The indications other than silence that something bothers her are few, if noticeable. A sudden and intense unwillingness to leave their room and more drinking being the two most obvious. Perhaps a hint or two sometimes when he returns that she has been crying while alone, but it's not so obvious she cannot avoid it coming up in conversation. Today that will be harder to do. Because she has not taken the time to think before what bothers her overcomes her. She lies curled up on her side, her back to the room, crying into her blue blanket that serves as pillow only today. That he will be back soon from wherever he was, that knowledge makes no dint in the number of tears that demand to be shed.
These days, when he first comes home and slips through the door, Gans rarely speaks until he's had the chance to take a barometric reading of the atmospheric pressure in their quarters. Today's no exception. He shuts the door softly behind him, the movement of his hand slowing as those first readings - measured in sniffles and sobs - come through. Very quietly he moves, putting aside his giant rolled hide and his writing case and his coat all in a heap there by the door. Then very swiftly he moves, stride certain, toward his lover curled on the divan. "Miniyal," he breathes, and starts to go down on a knee on the floor beside her, that quickly focused solely upon her, and - of course - upon the opportunity, finally, to air whatever ails her.
If she noticed his arrival immediately there is no indication. No attempts to stifle sniffles or wipe at eyes and nose with the corner of her blanket. Instead Miniyal continues as she has been for however long this has been going on tonight. It is not until he is close that she stops, stilling and going silent. At first she does not even turn around or acknowledge him. There is nothing from her but stillness as if she debates trying to put this off once more. In the end it is dismissed as being impossible. Like it or not, and she never does like admitting what bothers her, now is the time. Pulling herself up to sit she avoids looking at him until she has done so. Until her bare feet are tucked under the hem of her skirt and she has folded trembling hands in her lap. Only then does she look at him through the remaining unshed tears. Only then does she speak. "I've made a mess of everything. No one trusts me or thinks I should be trusted. I'm useless."
His hand had just been ready to reach for her shoulder; as she turns and sits up, he draws it back. It hesitates midair until she's got her feet up, and then that pale palm lands cool and lightweight upon her knee. "I trust you," Gans offers, solemn. "And 'useless' - " There's a lecture there, all ready and prepared. He pauses. "Can I get you a handkerchief? Cup of tea? Hug?"
"No one else does. No one. You know how that feels? To know you have. . .I have no one but you. And if I lose you I have no. . .no reason." When he offers things she shakes her head. No, to each one. She is, of course, lying non verbally on that last one. She wants to be held and told it is all ok, but since that would be lying she just sits there and goes back to staring at her hands, miserable. "Useless." Miniyal is unaware of lectures that might be forthcoming. Likely she expects something of the sort somewhere for overreacting, but that doesn't make her able to /stop/ overreacting. "I tried so hard. I did. I know I messed up. I made mistakes. And I can't fix them and now I have nothing. I hate it. What is the point in trying anymore?"
"Miniyal." Breathy, still, filled with adoration; but there is mild reproach in it too. She must allow him to comfort her if she wishes to be comforted. Still, he turns his knees toward hers and faces her from the floor, putting up the other hand onto the cushion beside her, and leans forward so the one palm slides along her leg and the other approaches her hip; very close, like so, from something not quite a hug, he looks up at her with concerned eyes. "The word 'useless' implies some kind of worth attached only to something which may be used. You may mourn your errors with me, but please don't belittle yourself when I think so highly of you."
She so very nearly breaks down into further tears at his touch. His words do inspire a few more to fall and one hand tries to wipe them away, annoyed. "Fine. Then I have no purpose." Said softly, with no heat to them, nothing but resignation in those words. She still does not look at him, unable to bring herself to make that connection. "I'm overreacting. It's fine if you say it. I am. Sure, I've. . .fucked up everything." Likely, at some later point, Miniyal will apologise for her choice of language. But it works here for her right now so it must be used. "But I don't have to be a child about it, right? I should be an adult. I shouldn't let it get to me. I should know better. I hate me."
"I'm not seeing you being a child," Gans notes. He does not, however, deny that she might be overreacting. He instead bends his head and presses a kiss to the fabric of her skirt where it's pulled over her knee, then lifts his head and draws back his hands - just enough so he can flatten the one to the cushion and press himself up to his feet, intent to turn and sit beside her. "It's all right to be emotional. That doesn't directly imply childishness. Now tell me what all you think you've fucked up." It ought to be hilarious to hear him curse. He does it almost solely when repeating someone else; to echo back to them their own level of frustration, to validate it and encourage further discussion, and sometimes to invoke a smile. Such words get no more or less emphasis than any other, however; they slide across his silvered tongue as graciously as an offer of tea, and that's what makes it a little ridiculous. Of this, the sparkle in his eyes seems wryly aware.
He is, always, welcome to sit beside her of course. He is welcomed this time, once he is settled, with her using him for a pillow now. Curled up on her side she at least does not lie facing away from him. However, he will have to bend his head just so to see her face as she rests her head in his lap. Sitting up is clearly too much for Miniyal to handle right now. Even if mere moments ago she had attempted just that. "Issa, Roa-" Here she stops and her nose wrinkles. "R'vain." How annoyed can she sound when uttering one man's name? This annoyed. There is not the special hatred reserved for the headmaster's name, but the weyrleader has graduated to getting his own tone. The sort that implies he has been elevated from boot to the head to something worse. "My parents. I'm sure I will mess up with you soon. I am on a roll."
Gans does not trouble himself to bend for a view of her face just yet; he instead runs his hand over her hair, tucking it back from her temple, then just stroking it. "There's nothing you can do to mess up with me which will be difficult to overcome," he assures her, voice mild, his other hand reaching to rest upon her shoulder. So arranged he sits there, still, providing a lap. "Issa, Roa, the weyrleader, your parents. What do you think we should do about it, then?"
"What if that is not true? What if I do. . .what if you stop trusting me too? Do you really trust me? How can you trust me?" She cannot shake her head, not lying as she is, but Miniyal would if she could and it's the sort of thing that can be given away in tone. Her eyes close to make talking easier because it is easier to not look at someone when speaking of such things. "I can't make it better. It doesn't matter. My parents are just. . .they'll get over it. They always do. It's just that right now with everything else." Eyes still closed she stretches her arms and then wraps them loosely around his waist somewhat. "Have you ever thought about moving? Not living here." What, like she's not going to duck things? Silly.
"Miniyal." He twists so the hand on her shoulder can reach a long stroke up along her upper arm, then tuck back and stroke again along her curved side. Her name is, again, a devotion, a comfort, a series of soothing syllables more whispered than sung, but some small trace of song just the same. "Of course. I thought of it when Hirth - again when - but not now. I have you." Gans' wry mouth twists a little bemusement into those last three words. "And I do. I trust you. And I don't stop trusting, often. Even when I should - and with you I would not say 'should' has ever happened. Be easy. I'm not so easily shaken."
"What if I did not want to live here anymore?" Asked softly as her eyes open a moment to sneak a look at him, to see what his reaction will be to the question. It only lasts a second and then her eyes close again and she lets out a quiet sigh. "I've been offered work somewhere else. And I. . .I have nothing holding me here but you. But your work doesn't really require you to live here. I mean, if you had to spend a night or two. . .but there's no need to live here. I don't think. It's just there's no reason. Not right now. And a lot of them to not be here. Right now."
"Perhaps," allows Gans, gently; he leans a little, and lets his hand come to rest on her hip. The other strokes back her hair, then pins it loosely beneath fingers combed through the locks. "I'm not sure you should move, or accept a position, based on 'right now,' however. If you just want to get away, Miniyal, you know we can."
Another sigh, although from his words or the continued touches it is hard to say. "Right now is horrid." Should he not realise this she will repeat it for him. "Roa came by before lunch." Sniffle. Little sniffle over that whole thing and Miniyal chews on her lower lip. "And it's work, Gans. I can't be. . .overly picky. It's not as if I have options here, you know. I have to be doing something. I can't spend the rest of my life doing nothing. And, please. That is what it feels like so do not try to correct me. I am perfectly aware I do not do /nothing/ but right now it's all just. . .the same."
"I think you -can- be overly picky," retorts her lover, a little bit righteous, a little bit defensive; his hand on her hip curves a little closer to the shape of the flesh beneath it, the least note of possession. "But I understand it drains you to feel purposeless, and I recognize that it's sometimes better to be given a purpose than to try to sort out your own." So he draws a deep breath, lets out a little sigh, and finds a little part of a smile to affix in the corner of his mouth so his next words will be fond, warm, dry, light. "What offer is this?"
"No one else thinks so. I don't know how to fix everything I have messed up and I am not even sure I /can/ or should want to." One hand wraps around his waist as Miniyal opens her eyes once more for another peek upwards at him. "Sometimes your belief in me is a bit overwhelming. I can't even. . .I can't even convince myself that I am worth believing in sometimes. And you're always so supportive and I don't, I can't. . .I don't know." Here is another spot that she could shake her head, but that would require moving and she is quite content to stay where she is. "My great uncle. Corin was nice enough to write to him about how. . .I don't know. Unproductive I am right now."
"Ah." That -would- be his response. Gans' palm loosens over her hip, but its casual lie there may seem somewhat forced, especially in its unstroking stillness. "How good of her." He manages to get a little smile around that so it doesn't sound too exactly like he's got plans of having a sharp word with his lover's mother; it sounds more as though he's wryly tickled that the woman should think to interfere. How sweet, how thoughtful, how unnecessary but darling. "I would take issue with the descriptor, 'unproductive.'"
"She was just trying to help." A defense that sounds weak even to her own ears. But it must be made because it is her mother and no matter the pain she is, well, Miniyal loves her mommy and daddy. "You take issue with how I describe myself no matter what I say." If there is a sharpness to her tone it is a light enough one. "So, you tell me then. How should I refer to myself and all of the time I have wasted lately doing nothing. If I am not unproductive and not useless and not. . .not whatever. What am I? Because I don't feel as if I am anything at all."
"You have made of yourself an envoy, Miniyal." Gans lifts his hand from her hip only to let it fall again, then again, very gently, a stroke so short it nearly qualifies as a pat; should she twist her head to look up she would find him not looking back down at her, but out across the room with eyes focused on an unseeably distant point. "You have defined for yourself particular goals and achieved them - perhaps at great expense, but I think your costs may be recovered with a little diplomacy." A twist of mouth. "And in between you have spent days in rest and planning; you have recovered from your journeys and prepared for new ones. To say nothing, of course, of looking after me."
Another sigh, it will serve in place of any physical gesture she might have made in reply. "I cannot work with her anymore. I have done my part and I am through with the whole thing. I cannot make her understand and I am tired of having to /try/ to make people understand." Miniyal falls silent, unmoving but for the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. "I have done what I can and the rest is in the hands of others. I know-" No sigh this time, but there should be one, perhaps, in that empty space between words where one thought is broken off before completion to turn into another. "I am not easy to work with. I am not easy to get along with. I am not accustomed to. . .to having to explain my actions. And if I have made people upset it was for good cause and it is not as if they have left me unhurt in the process. Even though I am accustomed to being hurt does not mean I enjoy it. And I accept that my actions will sometimes require me to, well, be hurt. Some things are important like that. But no one understands." Now she looks up again, blinking back fresh tears. "I do what I do to protect people. And maybe I get carried away, but it is not as if I am the only one who has ever screwed up when learning."
"I never said you were an envoy for the weyrwoman," observes Gans, very briefly (for him). When he feels her head move in his lap he looks down, and the sight of her welling tears draws a little breath of 'ah' out of him, wounded on her behalf, and the hand that held back her hair gives up that amusement to stretch out the pad of a slim, cool thumb which offers to slip those tears away with the lightest caress. "There - you just said it yourself."
"I am just tired of always messing up. There is no. . .no learning curve." None. Zero. Wallow in misery now thank you. Miniyal closes her eyes although the hand on his waist tightens a moment, clinging. "If no one wants me to do what I do why should I? I mean. . .there comes a time when the greater good loses its appeal. And maybe that is wrong of me, but I cannot see. . .I cannot see why I should try. For what? More misery? To make more people hate me? To be seen as. . .as untrustworthy. There is-" Her head tilts down a fraction at this and her cheek rubs against his leg a moment. "Sometimes I cannot tell people what I am doing. And I cannot help it if I am better at finding things out quietly than directly. It is not so easy, you know. Knowing that what you are good at makes people not trust you and dislike you."
"No," says Gans, very quietly, just above a whisper. His thumb strokes back from beneath her eye, sliding over her temple, tucking back a wisp of chestnut hair. "I know it isn't." There is weight enough, solemnity enough in his voice that she should be aware of what he means; therefore he can leave the rest of those implications undiscussed, for now. "I understand about the greater good losing its appeal," he adds then, droller, warmer, gentle; with those words he begins to truly stroke her hair again. "When you do something good for an individual you are more likely to be thanked, and the larger body is unlikely to track you down when you wrong them. Still - " He bows his head, in part to look at her and in part to complete his sentiment with only a short, weak whisper of a laugh.
"I just wish I could stop caring. I know it's a horrid thing to say, but I do. I don't want to fix things with them. I should want to because it's my fault, but I don't. I've been horrid." Miniyal is perfecting her sighs. This one is weary, resigned, disappointed. In herself, of course. "And I am afraid if I try to fix things it will only go worse. I will say the wrong thing or they will be cruel and I will not be able to. . .to do what I should. To say what I should say. I want to just go away and never come back. If I started over then I wouldn't have to. . .to spend the rest of my life with people believing one thing about me. And I know it is wrong to want to run away, but I still do."
"What one thing do you think they believe?" There's honest perplexion in this question; he holds back her hair and his hand falls still again, though the one on her side takes up its petting anew, sliding down toward her hip all over again. "And while you're on the subject of fixing things - " Head already bowed, Gans favors her for a moment with his lopsided smile, eyes briefly bright. "- what would you consider 'fixed' to be? With each of them - what do you want, anyway?"
"Any one thing. It's not. . .It was better when most people didn't even know I was alive. When I was just someone in the background no one paid any attention to. Then what I did was not important. If I messed up no one knew. If I made a mistake it did not matter because no one saw." She may have been just as unhappy as before, but at least no one noticed and forced her to /talk/ about it. This thought is stray and does not show up in the look she gives him. Somewhat less ready to become hysterical at least. Miniyal can manage a smile, brief and weak in intensity, but she finds one for him. "I cannot be trusted. I have betrayed people. I do not. . .I do not give anything. It is not fair to hold past actions against people. You should reach a point where you let them go. How do people live carrying around so much. . .disappointment and anger? Why is it so hard for people to forgive?" Just because she does not answer his questions does not mean she will not ask her own and expect answers.
"Sometimes we must betray people to help them," muses Gans, drily. "Is what you want, then, to be forgiven?" His shoulders lift the least bit and fall; she may feel the gesture in the muscles of his stomach or in the lilt of his hands upon her, but most of all it's present in the way he lifts his head and looks out into beyond again, distant, bemused. "I think forgiveness, except among those we love most dear, is overrated. I might offer an alternative, if you have a mind to hear suggestions."
"I do not think forgiveness overrated." Said firmly, a Belief held dear like truth. "But I do not expect to be forgiven. It would just be nice if it happened every now and again. I guess people have not had as much experience as I have." Miniyal looks up, watching him a moment with another tiny smile. "I forgave you before we were ever close. Even if the offense was only in my own mind. I guess I would like understanding. That what I do may not be what people wish to happen, but that sometimes it must." Another sigh, this one more of a general 'so be it' for the world at large and the weyr in particular. "But what is your alternative then? I am at a loss as to what to do now. I would have left already were it not for you." Of course, she wouldn't be in the situation she is in were it not for him, but really, that doesn't need saying.
"If not overrated," sighs Gans, rueful for a moment, "unrealistic. And understanding ever more so. These we gain only from those who love us, who take the time to try." Again that little lift and fall of shoulders, and once more he looks down on her with eyes that, no longer distant, aim to convey all of the love, understanding and forgiveness -he- can give, however poor replacement he may be for what she craves. "Perhaps respect," he offers, softly.
There is no way to quite be quick enough to stifle the wry, very nearly bitter, laugh that his words bring. "Respect? No. I do not think I can expect that from anyone." Miniyal does not sigh, she does not have to. Instead she just closes her eyes again and lies still once more. "I do nothing worthy of respect. I never have. And I shall have given up completely long before I might in the future. I know I will. I cannot. . .I am so tired of trying. So very tired of it all. It's too much."
"Oh, but you do." This is almost a laugh, and Gans does something he so rarely does - interrupt - to say it, right after 'I do nothing worthy of respect.' He stifles it after that much, and takes up petting her again, hip and hair, while she goes on with her weariness; he cannot quite get the brightness out of his eyes, however, not even for that. "If you give up, Miniyal, you will find no sympathy from me," he says, a murmur so low and droll and fond it could hardly sound like admonishment - but make no mistake, for it is exactly that. "I shall love you no less, but I will have no patience to listen to you bemoan your failures. If you give up, you will have no failures to bemoan. But you shall have no successes, either; and I do not think your career so far without success. So."
"You always make it sound so. . .I don't know. Like. . .I don't know." She is frustrated, muscles tensing up some as if she will get up and stalk about the room to release restless nerves. But Miniyal needs, more than an outlet for her nervousness, the comfort provided by his touch and so she remains as she is. "I wish I offered you more than just someone who requires piecing back together so often. I lean on you so much and every time I do I worry it is the last time you will be able to deal with it. And what will I do when you are gone? And I shouldn't think about what will happen in the future and let that fear ruin what happens now, but I can't stop it. I can't explain it. I don't want to not give up for you. I want to not give up for me and I can't. Because all I want to do right now is hide and let the world forget I even exist."
"Then let's hide a while." Ever willing to simplify, Gans does so this time with a wry, knowing tone, sure she won't fall for it; he doesn't really even try to help her to. "Miniyal. I wish only that you would worry less about my willingness to support you, and take advantage of my support instead. Relax. Focus on what you need for a while. When you feel strong again, focus on what must be done; tell me if you can, and one way or another we will find out how you can do it. Then you can come home and rest again." Another of those ridiculous little shrugs and he's stroking her hair in long laps from her temple to her neck, eyes following the motion of his hand. "I should, I think, point out that you offer me much more than your need for support. You support me, too, not the least of several things. And I intend to last long enough that you will not need me so much - not for support, anyway - when I'm gone."
"You know I cannot stop worrying." Teasing, ever so slightly. Chiding him for dare think she might stop worrying. Another peek is given to him, Miniyal unable to keep her eyes closed always after all. Not when she can look at him every now and again to be sure he is paying attention. Or something. Who knows. Maybe she just chooses to look at him every now and again. "What if I never feel strong again? What if. . .this is it? If I never get better what do I do? You deserve better than someone like me. I love you, but I don't know what to do anymore."
"Then you retire," admits Gans, his gaze straying from her hair to her eyes but for a moment, brief. "Or you take a break. You rest. You wait. Maybe forever; maybe only until it's time to try again." One pale brow slips up a little bit, and his crooked smile twitches into life. "You had better not think I'm spilling rhetoric here."
Another sigh, this one almost amused. "I shall not think so this time." Said with eyes closed because if she is going to maintain some degree of upset still she cannot look at him. "I don't want to give up." Quietly said, not quite a whisper so much as a thought barely given breath to be heard. "But I am not sure what I should do now." Now Miniyal opens her eyes to look up at him once more. "I am not even sure. . .if I should do anything. I hate not knowing." A pout there at the end, one that were she standing would require her foot to stomp in frustration.
"Perhaps," offers Gans, very gently indeed - because she has not given him, never without immediately taking it back, leave to be her instructor; he may only advise, and that with this much obvious and fond hesitation. "Perhaps your best step, then, is no step at all. Perhaps you wait, and observe, and decide where best your next move should be." His tongue goes into his cheek for a moment, an uncommon (though not unheard of, and she has seen it before) gesture of thoughtfulness, of measuring something he might say against a silence that might be more advisable. But Gans so does love words; he chooses them, of course. "You need not always take your turn."
"But I'm -" She is something. What is she? Well, Miniyal has to consider this for a moment, the hand she's left on his waist curls again so her fingers might stroke his side. "Bored. I get bored. Every job I have ever had has bored me. I tried. I really tried to not get bored, but it never worked. Things sort of just have a way of causing me to lose interest. And I am bored now." Frowning a moment she smiles up at him quickly. "Not with you. Not with us. I would have to have some. . .certain footing to be bored. Which is not. . .that sounds bad. I do not mean it to be. I'm sorry."
"In the interest of my self-confidence," murmurs Gans, his smile quirked into fuller form now, "I shall go on believing that even with such footing, I might keep you somehow amused." The hand in her hair leaves it, so he can tap her nose very lightly with one gentle, cool fingertip. "I think finding new work is, in all honesty, unlikely to unbore you, my love. Not unless it's new every few sevens. What sort of position has your great-uncle offered?"
"I believe you would manage to hold my interest no matter my footing. Or lack there of." A touch, and only a touch, of something teasing in her tone. Something to match the warm sparkle in her eyes as she looks up at him. "Am I that bad?" Miniyal lets out a sigh that cancels out that teasing quickly enough. "It is not a very exciting position. He lost his son recently and his grandson whom he wishes to run things now is not quite old enough to do so and he is too old to do it alone. So. . .I know. It's terribly boring, ledgers and the like. It does not sound appealing other than it would get me away from the weyr. I can't imagine there would be any problems and if there were I cannot imagine I couldn't have them fixed in no time."
"You are that bad," confirms Gans, his voice rich, fond, admiring even. But all of his pleasure fades, grows dim and distant and reserved, as she describes this post to which she's been invited. In the end he manages, actually, a small frown - it affects both sides of his mouth, though the left-hand-side less than the other. "You would hate that," he points out, in a little while; his voice warm where his mouth is not.
"Well, you don't have to sound so sure." Hmph. Tilting her head a fraction so she might look up at him, Miniyal sticks out her tongue. "I cannot help it if I am so very good at what I do it holds no challenge for me anymore." And she couldn't do something new because then she would not be so very good at it after all. To his other statement she offers simply confirmation. "I would hate it." This then earns a sigh as she rolls over onto her back so she might stare at the ceiling and still have a convenient lap for a pillow. Once she is settled one of his hands is claimed to be held in hers. "But it is something. There is nothing here for me to do. They do not even need help in records at the moment."
Gans glances down again at the rock of her head moving in his lap, and at the sight of her tongue stretches out that fingertip that tapped her nose, this time to tap her lips as soon as the tongue's gone back in. He can smile again, looking upon her, even if the smile is wry and deep; and he lets her have the hand that stroked her hip to hold. "I believe you're needed here, Miniyal. If you want a month away to try something else, far be it from me, but - " That abbreviated lift and fall of shoulders which passes for his shrug does so, now. "Tell me. If your old work - records, etcetera - bores you. What doesn't?"
"It is not that it bores me so much as there is nothing new to it." Miniyal frowns thoughtfully as she lies there. "And I am needed here by you and that is it. I imagine there's plenty of people who would be quite pleased to see me leave. And even more who would never even notice." Lifting his hand she idly entwines her fingers with his and then brings it to her lips for a brush of a kiss across his knuckles. "There just. . .it's frustrating. Copying the same old things, right? Checking someone else's work. Just. . .boring." She sighs once more and then smiles faintly. "I realise it is not a very exciting thing, you know. My chosen field. But I enjoy it. I like finding new things and saving old documents that might otherwise be lost. Getting to know everything that has been written down. And I like ledgers. Because you can learn a lot from them. I don't want to start over at something else."
"You like finding new things and saving old documents," murmurs Gans. "And ledgers. But not keeping them: so finding new things," he repeats, voice now highly droll, "and saving old information." His fingers rest lazy in her grasp, though the other hand takes up again stroking back her hair. "I assume there must be some place you've considered that would have room for work like that. Inherently."
Her eyes shift just enough so she is no longer staring at the ceiling and instead might gaze up at him. "The thing is. . .see? I want to do, well, what I want. I hate having everything I do decided by someone else. There is never enough time to do what I want." Miniyal wrinkles her nose and rests her hand, and his, on her stomach. "I know, I know. I sound like a kid who doesn't want to do anything but what she wants. But it's not. . .not like that. Entirely. I mean, it is. But people don't understand what is important the way I do. It's not as if I am adverse to doing things for other people. I've made a career of that as well, although it was hardly successful. I hate people telling me what to do like I cannot determine for myself what should be done."
"Mmm." Beware of thoughtfully-humming Ganses. Especially when after the thoughtful hum there comes bemused and distant smiling, thoughtless stroking of chestnut locks, and slow, deliberate nodding. "So is there some reason you can't," and he pauses this early in the question so as to allow her opportunity - false opportunity - to deny him already; less than a breath and he goes on: "Start a career of doing what you want, for yourself or at least for your own purposes?"
"Yes." It is almost instinct to avoid, after all, any mention she should do something and not just sit about complaining she doesn't know what to do. Miniyal sighs, weary and long suffering, and closes her eyes. "I mean, there's no. . .there's nothing I can do. What am I supposed to do then?" It might be a good thing, possibly, that at this she sits and pulls away from him so she might rise and begin to pace. "I can't think. It's like I'm stuck and I can't figure out how to get unstuck and it's just-" Pace, pace, pace. Back to the divan she goes to throw herself upon it and shake her head. "I'm stuck." Looking over now she gives him two words that are part plea, part demand. "Help me."
And Gans? Just sits there. He does stretch his legs a little while she paces, unbending his knees, crossing and uncrossing his ankles, then slipping back farther into the divan's cushions so he can angle a little into the corner, prepared to be a pillow or a comfort all over again - and until then, just waiting, watching his lover move until she plops back down. "Every time you take a risk," he says then, reaching over to curve a palm cool and lightweight across her knee, "you unstick yourself. I've seen you be purposeful, adept, capable. But when you take a risk and something bad happens, you're inclined a little bit to - pace circles." His brows slide up, and he does not glance out at the floor she's just walked; his eyes are for her, and his words broader than that. "Risk is so-called because failure is an inherent possibility. But failure is not the same as a mistake. I haven't seen you make many mistakes, Miniyal. Why are you so averse to risk?"
She had to know the whole question thing would begin with those two little words. Had to. Still, it does not mean Miniyal is ready to just answer everything without pause. One hand rests atop his and she stares down at them together rather than look over at him as she considers. It would hardly be fair to ask for help and then not answer questions so as much as she does not want to she lifts her head and focuses on him. "It's scary. Don't laugh." Not that she thinks he would. That is evident in the look she gives him anyway. "I'm not. I'm a coward. If I have time to think about it I won't do it. The only time I've ever taken a risk is when I wasn't thinking."
"So you weren't thinking," supposes Gans, not as dry as he might be, "when you came back to me?" Does he need to explain that he means the first time? "You weren't thinking when you spoke to Roa? To R'vain? To the Masterharper? Either time?" One brow slips up a little higher; they have acres to go on that long forehead, and this increment is only a little telling, with many chances to tell more yet to come. "You weren't thinking when you made arrangements to go to the Instigators? I won't claim you were thinking on the actual trip, given the state you returned in, but - " Another increment of eyebrow, and now his bright pale eyes dance for her, fond, teasing, amused, proud. "Come on, Miniyal. Convince me your fear is worse than your need to be doing something."
"Not. . .not the same way. It's. . .I don't know. I mean, I like things planned out. I like to know where things might go. I thought, well, it's not the same." Shaking her head, Miniyal sighs and glances away for a moment. "You have no idea what it took. For any of that. How hard it was. I stood. . .I stood in the hallway one night. All night, staring at your door. Because I couldn't just go and be normal and just knock. I was so scared. And if I had been thinking I would never have talked to R'vain in the first place. Ever. And if I can help it I never will again." She nods her head at this because, really, who /wants/ to talk to him? "Sometimes I just have to. I mean, sometimes things have to be done. And if no one else will do them than I will, but it doesn't mean I am less scared. It just means, well, it needs doing. Also, I just didn't anticipate mud. And I was not warned. It was poor planning, but it doesn't mean I was not thinking."
He's so good to listen to her so patiently, to wait for proof that never comes, to smile at her and love her with his gently twinkling eyes while she speaks. "I'm not convinced," replies Gans, after all of that, voice low and almost suggestive, moreso from the curve of his palm tightening a little over her knee. "I'm also not convinced you don't think. Perhaps your thinking is a little frantic. But if you weren't giving it thought you wouldn't know what -needs- to be done." The hand uncurls, lifts, overturning; two fingers seek the spot below her chin. "Do you really need me to tell you what to do? "
Of course he's not convinced. Even if he were he would not be because he doesn't want to be! "I'm not so good at convincing people of things. I'm especially not so good at convincing you of things." Miniyal worries at her lip and when his hand tightens on her knee she moves just a fraction closer towards him, just an inch or so. "Frantic I can do. It leads to trouble, but I can do it." His question, the fingers on her chin leave her staring at him silently. Does she need him to? Probably not. Does she want him to? Likely yes. Some combination of the two would be closer to the truth. It's not nearly as scary that way. "Yes. I- Well, yes."
"Oh, Miniyal." He doesn't believe her. But he smiles mildly, his one-sided, gentle-eyed smile, and allows her this moment, her weakness - since her weakness is, after all, for him. Gans' fingertips stroke a swift little slide off the bottom of her chin; his hand reaches up to tuck back a lock of nut-brown hair, then back farther so his arm's open for her to slip into. "You know how tempting I find that." One more chance to escape his wisdom. He's so thoughtful.
She does know how tempting it is although that is likely not the only reason she leaves herself open for his advice and guidance. Miniyal then will not answer, pretending to consider a little longer. In the mean time she finds her place next to him, curled up against his side with one arm stretched across him in a loose half-embrace of her own so it can curve around his waist. "Please. I asked for your help."
Gans lets her curl up, then slips his arm back down off the top of the divan's back, around her arm, his palm curving over her far shoulder. "I'm not sure my help's what you want," he murmurs, voice low, rhetorical, almost spoken to himself instead of her. He bends his head and looks for his chance to kiss her temple, her hair, her cheek. Then he lifts his head and takes a breath to proceed. "You seem to be devoted to improving society. I think you should focus on that; take what measures you can to accomplish it; and take every chance at an advantage that could better your ability to accomplish it. I think you should reconsider Caucus, perhaps only on audit - so you have flexibility to come and go. I think you should start hunting for the rest of the records that must be out there. And I think you should reconsider taking at least a try on the sands, because your own authority will eventually exceed mine."
Her head shakes gently, not enough to upset the way they sit together, but enough to start off her words. "I will not reconsider Caucus, Gans. It is not an avenue I will pursue. It is just. . .it's not." There is a quiet sigh to follow this up, an apology without words because Miniyal is aware here is one spot on which they will never agree. "Hunting for records is, well. It is not the finding, but knowing what to do with them after. Or having anything at all to do with them after. It's so easy to find things, but after finding even one it leads to a search for another and then another and it can take a long time to find the complete picture. At least enough to make what you have worth doing something with. I would like to. . .I would like to find a way so people might see what I find. Some way to be sure what has been hidden is not any longer. So everyone knows." There is after this a quiet laugh before she moves on to the other subject. "I doubt my authority shall ever be much of any, Gans. And I do not think anything which might happen on the sands would change that. I'd. . .I'd not like to wind up like Issa."
"If there was another Headmaster?" He does not ask this until the very end, until she's said all she has to say. Perhaps because then, he can ask a sequence of questions, meant either to dizzy her, or to draw her to answering just the easiest, the best. "If you had a way to tell everyone everything?" Gans bends his head now, breathes warm kisses into her hair. He can sound a little tickled, a little like he might like to laugh, about this. "If I thought no green would ever take you?"
"Not even with another Headmaster. It's just not- I do poorly in class situations. I always have. I can't do it. I don't want to do it. All of those people." She shivers and squirms closer, hiding her face against him. There is nothing else for a short while as Miniyal marshals her thoughts. "Well, I mean, Harper has all this information and they do nothing with it. I mean, I do not think everything written should just be tossed out there to everyone. But if someone is curious. If someone truly desires to know why should they be prohibited? Just because they were born to a farmer or a cook does not mean they have less right than someone born to some Lord. So, if I had a way. I would. If I had a way to tell them." More silence then, but briefer and ended with a shake of her head. "If you think no green would ever take me then there is no need for me to be on the sands in the first place."
"I think you could take a green, if you chose to." Lowly voiced, as if an afterthought, more than a correction. Oh - she did say these other things. Address, in her way, his other questions. "Start a collection. Share it with people," Gans advises, as if this is the simplest thing in the world. Also this: "You could probably convince certain of the instructors to take you for sessions. Even instructors other than me." Yes, Gans allows that to sound a little naughty, and breathes another kiss into her hair after it. But he raises his head to note, "It's just that I don't see you choosing that. I imagine you on the sands with a purpose. Either to learn how it's done, or to do it."
"Now you're not making sense, you know. I'm sure you've noticed, love, that I am not a man." If he can be slightly naughty so can she and so she makes that sentence one that leads easily into the next. "If you have forgotten then when we are done here I will be happy to demonstrate for you again." Her head lifts then at this and she stretches up to place a kiss on the side of his neck. "That means," pointed out when she is resettled, "I have no other options." Frowning a moment she would shake her head, but has just gotten resettled. "I could get in trouble for showing people some of the things I would have them see," Miniyal informs him softly. As if he would not be aware. "And there is nothing I can learn from instructors I cannot learn on my own." So there.
"Risk," reminds Gans, though with head lifted so that the side of his neck is long indeed, a perfect plane stretched for her kiss. "Get in trouble then," he advises, though his voice might be a little airy for the lengthening of his neck, for the warmth of her lips on his skin, even after they've departed; he looks down then, and fixes a gaze upon her that tries to be stern and fails. "What means that you have no other options? I certainly didn't intend to suggest this list was exhaustive."
"Right. Risk. Easy for you to say." She grumbles, but it not anything at all. It is just what she must say even if she doesn't believe it. Instead Miniyal sits up so she might be able to reach his cheek and give another kiss there. "On the sands, love. I have no other options. Keep up. Really." Teasing then to accompany another kiss to his cheek. It is so hard to talk to him, but she does so anyway even if he is unable to follow along with what she says. "As for getting in trouble, yes. I handle that so well we have seen." He is treated to a roll of her eyes at that. "Grace under pressure, yes. That certainly defines me."
He accepts her teasing with a bit of a laugh, but at the last bit of her words he falls quite silent, and pale brows slide up. "Grace under pressure," Gans notes, in a while, as if it's after a great deal of thought, "requires experience with pressure to perfect." He curves his arm a little closer around her, encouraging her closeness, lifting the other hand so he can close her in a gentle embrace. "The alternative," and his voice lilts in a 'we have changed the topic' sort of way, "was the one I had in mind when I first mentioned it. If you think it so awful that it's not even an option - I won't bother you with it again."
She treats him to another roll of her eyes, but it occurs after she has moved yet again. This time Miniyal leans across him, her 'I would sit in your lap but we would get nowhere in conversation' pose. Not that the extra effort she does not expend to be in his lap makes a difference usually. "It is not that it is awful. It is that it is not. . .realistic. Even if it were an option and the problems that existed before still do so it is likely not going to be an option I just. . .don't see it." Stopping here she closes her eyes and lets out a breath that only hints at being a sigh. "If I were to try. If I. . .took that risk. You would not be disappointed in me? No matter the outcome?"
He laughs again, gently but with a certain incredulous note, for that. "I could never be, Miniyal." He tightens the enclosure of his arms around her a little bit, encouraging needlessly the possibility of slipping into his lap, but providing the certain grip of his embrace to steady her so she has to hear, -feel- his faith in her, his refusal of disappointment. "You have taken greater risks," remarks Gans. "It is a little one, all considered. A few hours exchanged for the privilege of finding out."
"I'll- I guess. It's only a few hours. But-" But. . .something. Miniyal lets him wait it out, what she might be bringing up as an objection. Something horrible to add to the conversation when it seemed to be going so well. When she has decided he has waited long enough, two minutes, maybe three, in which she takes his lap and gives him the briefest of worried little kisses to his lips. Only after all of that does she let out a sigh, drawn out and suffering. "If the unthinkable happens I'll be stuck in a dorm again. Bored and unable to sleep. Worse." The time for conversation, as always, comes to an end. "Do you know how long I would have to suffer being out of our bed? I've quite gotten used to it. The divan, the bed, the floor, the desk, records." Reciting from his bookmark, eyes twinkling. "You shall have to make up for potential time lost in the future. You may start now."
"Not quite a dorm," murmurs Gans, very softly, as if his voice has grown gentler for the trace of her kiss on his lips; there's a latent energy in that near-whisper, lightweight, breathy. "I would miss you. But I would have you back, in time. The interim - " Well. He parts his lips with his tongue, eyes as bright as hers. A single syllable - one of his favorites - poises next on his lips, but he does not give it voice or breath; these he saves instead for, after that raised-brow moment of cognizance, setting deed to understanding. A little stretch beneath her to settle her against him, a little stretch of his arms so his hands can slide over her spine, and one palm curves around the back of her neck just long enough to keep her - so he can kiss her, and begin making up for that interim possibly proposed.
Where: Mental breakdowns rarely occur outside their room.
When: Evening on day 16, month 2, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
What: Complete mental collapse. Picking up the pieces of said collapse. Emotional manipulation. Just what you would expect to happen when Gans comes home and finds Miniyal crying. If dealing with this is not proof of love I do not know what would be. This has been building since Miniyal returned from the island. And takes place here and there due to RL constraints.
1/24/2007 & 1/26/2007 & 1/30/2007
Evening on day 16, month 2, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
There are time limits on everything. So long before this happens and so long before that occurs and only a very finite time before what has not been said gets said.
Miniyal has been keeping secrets for a very long time, all her life. However, she has sadly found herself in a situation where keeping secrets is suddenly hard. So for some time now she has been quiet. Oh, she still talks about the casual, but that is really all. It began after those talks with Roa and then later R'vain and has gone on this long because she has gotten good enough at distraction. Queries about his work, about his students, funny anecdotes about her parents. When all of that might fail there is physical distraction and manipulation. She's quite good at that. Even if they both know that is what she is doing.
The indications other than silence that something bothers her are few, if noticeable. A sudden and intense unwillingness to leave their room and more drinking being the two most obvious. Perhaps a hint or two sometimes when he returns that she has been crying while alone, but it's not so obvious she cannot avoid it coming up in conversation. Today that will be harder to do. Because she has not taken the time to think before what bothers her overcomes her. She lies curled up on her side, her back to the room, crying into her blue blanket that serves as pillow only today. That he will be back soon from wherever he was, that knowledge makes no dint in the number of tears that demand to be shed.
These days, when he first comes home and slips through the door, Gans rarely speaks until he's had the chance to take a barometric reading of the atmospheric pressure in their quarters. Today's no exception. He shuts the door softly behind him, the movement of his hand slowing as those first readings - measured in sniffles and sobs - come through. Very quietly he moves, putting aside his giant rolled hide and his writing case and his coat all in a heap there by the door. Then very swiftly he moves, stride certain, toward his lover curled on the divan. "Miniyal," he breathes, and starts to go down on a knee on the floor beside her, that quickly focused solely upon her, and - of course - upon the opportunity, finally, to air whatever ails her.
If she noticed his arrival immediately there is no indication. No attempts to stifle sniffles or wipe at eyes and nose with the corner of her blanket. Instead Miniyal continues as she has been for however long this has been going on tonight. It is not until he is close that she stops, stilling and going silent. At first she does not even turn around or acknowledge him. There is nothing from her but stillness as if she debates trying to put this off once more. In the end it is dismissed as being impossible. Like it or not, and she never does like admitting what bothers her, now is the time. Pulling herself up to sit she avoids looking at him until she has done so. Until her bare feet are tucked under the hem of her skirt and she has folded trembling hands in her lap. Only then does she look at him through the remaining unshed tears. Only then does she speak. "I've made a mess of everything. No one trusts me or thinks I should be trusted. I'm useless."
His hand had just been ready to reach for her shoulder; as she turns and sits up, he draws it back. It hesitates midair until she's got her feet up, and then that pale palm lands cool and lightweight upon her knee. "I trust you," Gans offers, solemn. "And 'useless' - " There's a lecture there, all ready and prepared. He pauses. "Can I get you a handkerchief? Cup of tea? Hug?"
"No one else does. No one. You know how that feels? To know you have. . .I have no one but you. And if I lose you I have no. . .no reason." When he offers things she shakes her head. No, to each one. She is, of course, lying non verbally on that last one. She wants to be held and told it is all ok, but since that would be lying she just sits there and goes back to staring at her hands, miserable. "Useless." Miniyal is unaware of lectures that might be forthcoming. Likely she expects something of the sort somewhere for overreacting, but that doesn't make her able to /stop/ overreacting. "I tried so hard. I did. I know I messed up. I made mistakes. And I can't fix them and now I have nothing. I hate it. What is the point in trying anymore?"
"Miniyal." Breathy, still, filled with adoration; but there is mild reproach in it too. She must allow him to comfort her if she wishes to be comforted. Still, he turns his knees toward hers and faces her from the floor, putting up the other hand onto the cushion beside her, and leans forward so the one palm slides along her leg and the other approaches her hip; very close, like so, from something not quite a hug, he looks up at her with concerned eyes. "The word 'useless' implies some kind of worth attached only to something which may be used. You may mourn your errors with me, but please don't belittle yourself when I think so highly of you."
She so very nearly breaks down into further tears at his touch. His words do inspire a few more to fall and one hand tries to wipe them away, annoyed. "Fine. Then I have no purpose." Said softly, with no heat to them, nothing but resignation in those words. She still does not look at him, unable to bring herself to make that connection. "I'm overreacting. It's fine if you say it. I am. Sure, I've. . .fucked up everything." Likely, at some later point, Miniyal will apologise for her choice of language. But it works here for her right now so it must be used. "But I don't have to be a child about it, right? I should be an adult. I shouldn't let it get to me. I should know better. I hate me."
"I'm not seeing you being a child," Gans notes. He does not, however, deny that she might be overreacting. He instead bends his head and presses a kiss to the fabric of her skirt where it's pulled over her knee, then lifts his head and draws back his hands - just enough so he can flatten the one to the cushion and press himself up to his feet, intent to turn and sit beside her. "It's all right to be emotional. That doesn't directly imply childishness. Now tell me what all you think you've fucked up." It ought to be hilarious to hear him curse. He does it almost solely when repeating someone else; to echo back to them their own level of frustration, to validate it and encourage further discussion, and sometimes to invoke a smile. Such words get no more or less emphasis than any other, however; they slide across his silvered tongue as graciously as an offer of tea, and that's what makes it a little ridiculous. Of this, the sparkle in his eyes seems wryly aware.
He is, always, welcome to sit beside her of course. He is welcomed this time, once he is settled, with her using him for a pillow now. Curled up on her side she at least does not lie facing away from him. However, he will have to bend his head just so to see her face as she rests her head in his lap. Sitting up is clearly too much for Miniyal to handle right now. Even if mere moments ago she had attempted just that. "Issa, Roa-" Here she stops and her nose wrinkles. "R'vain." How annoyed can she sound when uttering one man's name? This annoyed. There is not the special hatred reserved for the headmaster's name, but the weyrleader has graduated to getting his own tone. The sort that implies he has been elevated from boot to the head to something worse. "My parents. I'm sure I will mess up with you soon. I am on a roll."
Gans does not trouble himself to bend for a view of her face just yet; he instead runs his hand over her hair, tucking it back from her temple, then just stroking it. "There's nothing you can do to mess up with me which will be difficult to overcome," he assures her, voice mild, his other hand reaching to rest upon her shoulder. So arranged he sits there, still, providing a lap. "Issa, Roa, the weyrleader, your parents. What do you think we should do about it, then?"
"What if that is not true? What if I do. . .what if you stop trusting me too? Do you really trust me? How can you trust me?" She cannot shake her head, not lying as she is, but Miniyal would if she could and it's the sort of thing that can be given away in tone. Her eyes close to make talking easier because it is easier to not look at someone when speaking of such things. "I can't make it better. It doesn't matter. My parents are just. . .they'll get over it. They always do. It's just that right now with everything else." Eyes still closed she stretches her arms and then wraps them loosely around his waist somewhat. "Have you ever thought about moving? Not living here." What, like she's not going to duck things? Silly.
"Miniyal." He twists so the hand on her shoulder can reach a long stroke up along her upper arm, then tuck back and stroke again along her curved side. Her name is, again, a devotion, a comfort, a series of soothing syllables more whispered than sung, but some small trace of song just the same. "Of course. I thought of it when Hirth - again when - but not now. I have you." Gans' wry mouth twists a little bemusement into those last three words. "And I do. I trust you. And I don't stop trusting, often. Even when I should - and with you I would not say 'should' has ever happened. Be easy. I'm not so easily shaken."
"What if I did not want to live here anymore?" Asked softly as her eyes open a moment to sneak a look at him, to see what his reaction will be to the question. It only lasts a second and then her eyes close again and she lets out a quiet sigh. "I've been offered work somewhere else. And I. . .I have nothing holding me here but you. But your work doesn't really require you to live here. I mean, if you had to spend a night or two. . .but there's no need to live here. I don't think. It's just there's no reason. Not right now. And a lot of them to not be here. Right now."
"Perhaps," allows Gans, gently; he leans a little, and lets his hand come to rest on her hip. The other strokes back her hair, then pins it loosely beneath fingers combed through the locks. "I'm not sure you should move, or accept a position, based on 'right now,' however. If you just want to get away, Miniyal, you know we can."
Another sigh, although from his words or the continued touches it is hard to say. "Right now is horrid." Should he not realise this she will repeat it for him. "Roa came by before lunch." Sniffle. Little sniffle over that whole thing and Miniyal chews on her lower lip. "And it's work, Gans. I can't be. . .overly picky. It's not as if I have options here, you know. I have to be doing something. I can't spend the rest of my life doing nothing. And, please. That is what it feels like so do not try to correct me. I am perfectly aware I do not do /nothing/ but right now it's all just. . .the same."
"I think you -can- be overly picky," retorts her lover, a little bit righteous, a little bit defensive; his hand on her hip curves a little closer to the shape of the flesh beneath it, the least note of possession. "But I understand it drains you to feel purposeless, and I recognize that it's sometimes better to be given a purpose than to try to sort out your own." So he draws a deep breath, lets out a little sigh, and finds a little part of a smile to affix in the corner of his mouth so his next words will be fond, warm, dry, light. "What offer is this?"
"No one else thinks so. I don't know how to fix everything I have messed up and I am not even sure I /can/ or should want to." One hand wraps around his waist as Miniyal opens her eyes once more for another peek upwards at him. "Sometimes your belief in me is a bit overwhelming. I can't even. . .I can't even convince myself that I am worth believing in sometimes. And you're always so supportive and I don't, I can't. . .I don't know." Here is another spot that she could shake her head, but that would require moving and she is quite content to stay where she is. "My great uncle. Corin was nice enough to write to him about how. . .I don't know. Unproductive I am right now."
"Ah." That -would- be his response. Gans' palm loosens over her hip, but its casual lie there may seem somewhat forced, especially in its unstroking stillness. "How good of her." He manages to get a little smile around that so it doesn't sound too exactly like he's got plans of having a sharp word with his lover's mother; it sounds more as though he's wryly tickled that the woman should think to interfere. How sweet, how thoughtful, how unnecessary but darling. "I would take issue with the descriptor, 'unproductive.'"
"She was just trying to help." A defense that sounds weak even to her own ears. But it must be made because it is her mother and no matter the pain she is, well, Miniyal loves her mommy and daddy. "You take issue with how I describe myself no matter what I say." If there is a sharpness to her tone it is a light enough one. "So, you tell me then. How should I refer to myself and all of the time I have wasted lately doing nothing. If I am not unproductive and not useless and not. . .not whatever. What am I? Because I don't feel as if I am anything at all."
"You have made of yourself an envoy, Miniyal." Gans lifts his hand from her hip only to let it fall again, then again, very gently, a stroke so short it nearly qualifies as a pat; should she twist her head to look up she would find him not looking back down at her, but out across the room with eyes focused on an unseeably distant point. "You have defined for yourself particular goals and achieved them - perhaps at great expense, but I think your costs may be recovered with a little diplomacy." A twist of mouth. "And in between you have spent days in rest and planning; you have recovered from your journeys and prepared for new ones. To say nothing, of course, of looking after me."
Another sigh, it will serve in place of any physical gesture she might have made in reply. "I cannot work with her anymore. I have done my part and I am through with the whole thing. I cannot make her understand and I am tired of having to /try/ to make people understand." Miniyal falls silent, unmoving but for the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. "I have done what I can and the rest is in the hands of others. I know-" No sigh this time, but there should be one, perhaps, in that empty space between words where one thought is broken off before completion to turn into another. "I am not easy to work with. I am not easy to get along with. I am not accustomed to. . .to having to explain my actions. And if I have made people upset it was for good cause and it is not as if they have left me unhurt in the process. Even though I am accustomed to being hurt does not mean I enjoy it. And I accept that my actions will sometimes require me to, well, be hurt. Some things are important like that. But no one understands." Now she looks up again, blinking back fresh tears. "I do what I do to protect people. And maybe I get carried away, but it is not as if I am the only one who has ever screwed up when learning."
"I never said you were an envoy for the weyrwoman," observes Gans, very briefly (for him). When he feels her head move in his lap he looks down, and the sight of her welling tears draws a little breath of 'ah' out of him, wounded on her behalf, and the hand that held back her hair gives up that amusement to stretch out the pad of a slim, cool thumb which offers to slip those tears away with the lightest caress. "There - you just said it yourself."
"I am just tired of always messing up. There is no. . .no learning curve." None. Zero. Wallow in misery now thank you. Miniyal closes her eyes although the hand on his waist tightens a moment, clinging. "If no one wants me to do what I do why should I? I mean. . .there comes a time when the greater good loses its appeal. And maybe that is wrong of me, but I cannot see. . .I cannot see why I should try. For what? More misery? To make more people hate me? To be seen as. . .as untrustworthy. There is-" Her head tilts down a fraction at this and her cheek rubs against his leg a moment. "Sometimes I cannot tell people what I am doing. And I cannot help it if I am better at finding things out quietly than directly. It is not so easy, you know. Knowing that what you are good at makes people not trust you and dislike you."
"No," says Gans, very quietly, just above a whisper. His thumb strokes back from beneath her eye, sliding over her temple, tucking back a wisp of chestnut hair. "I know it isn't." There is weight enough, solemnity enough in his voice that she should be aware of what he means; therefore he can leave the rest of those implications undiscussed, for now. "I understand about the greater good losing its appeal," he adds then, droller, warmer, gentle; with those words he begins to truly stroke her hair again. "When you do something good for an individual you are more likely to be thanked, and the larger body is unlikely to track you down when you wrong them. Still - " He bows his head, in part to look at her and in part to complete his sentiment with only a short, weak whisper of a laugh.
"I just wish I could stop caring. I know it's a horrid thing to say, but I do. I don't want to fix things with them. I should want to because it's my fault, but I don't. I've been horrid." Miniyal is perfecting her sighs. This one is weary, resigned, disappointed. In herself, of course. "And I am afraid if I try to fix things it will only go worse. I will say the wrong thing or they will be cruel and I will not be able to. . .to do what I should. To say what I should say. I want to just go away and never come back. If I started over then I wouldn't have to. . .to spend the rest of my life with people believing one thing about me. And I know it is wrong to want to run away, but I still do."
"What one thing do you think they believe?" There's honest perplexion in this question; he holds back her hair and his hand falls still again, though the one on her side takes up its petting anew, sliding down toward her hip all over again. "And while you're on the subject of fixing things - " Head already bowed, Gans favors her for a moment with his lopsided smile, eyes briefly bright. "- what would you consider 'fixed' to be? With each of them - what do you want, anyway?"
"Any one thing. It's not. . .It was better when most people didn't even know I was alive. When I was just someone in the background no one paid any attention to. Then what I did was not important. If I messed up no one knew. If I made a mistake it did not matter because no one saw." She may have been just as unhappy as before, but at least no one noticed and forced her to /talk/ about it. This thought is stray and does not show up in the look she gives him. Somewhat less ready to become hysterical at least. Miniyal can manage a smile, brief and weak in intensity, but she finds one for him. "I cannot be trusted. I have betrayed people. I do not. . .I do not give anything. It is not fair to hold past actions against people. You should reach a point where you let them go. How do people live carrying around so much. . .disappointment and anger? Why is it so hard for people to forgive?" Just because she does not answer his questions does not mean she will not ask her own and expect answers.
"Sometimes we must betray people to help them," muses Gans, drily. "Is what you want, then, to be forgiven?" His shoulders lift the least bit and fall; she may feel the gesture in the muscles of his stomach or in the lilt of his hands upon her, but most of all it's present in the way he lifts his head and looks out into beyond again, distant, bemused. "I think forgiveness, except among those we love most dear, is overrated. I might offer an alternative, if you have a mind to hear suggestions."
"I do not think forgiveness overrated." Said firmly, a Belief held dear like truth. "But I do not expect to be forgiven. It would just be nice if it happened every now and again. I guess people have not had as much experience as I have." Miniyal looks up, watching him a moment with another tiny smile. "I forgave you before we were ever close. Even if the offense was only in my own mind. I guess I would like understanding. That what I do may not be what people wish to happen, but that sometimes it must." Another sigh, this one more of a general 'so be it' for the world at large and the weyr in particular. "But what is your alternative then? I am at a loss as to what to do now. I would have left already were it not for you." Of course, she wouldn't be in the situation she is in were it not for him, but really, that doesn't need saying.
"If not overrated," sighs Gans, rueful for a moment, "unrealistic. And understanding ever more so. These we gain only from those who love us, who take the time to try." Again that little lift and fall of shoulders, and once more he looks down on her with eyes that, no longer distant, aim to convey all of the love, understanding and forgiveness -he- can give, however poor replacement he may be for what she craves. "Perhaps respect," he offers, softly.
There is no way to quite be quick enough to stifle the wry, very nearly bitter, laugh that his words bring. "Respect? No. I do not think I can expect that from anyone." Miniyal does not sigh, she does not have to. Instead she just closes her eyes again and lies still once more. "I do nothing worthy of respect. I never have. And I shall have given up completely long before I might in the future. I know I will. I cannot. . .I am so tired of trying. So very tired of it all. It's too much."
"Oh, but you do." This is almost a laugh, and Gans does something he so rarely does - interrupt - to say it, right after 'I do nothing worthy of respect.' He stifles it after that much, and takes up petting her again, hip and hair, while she goes on with her weariness; he cannot quite get the brightness out of his eyes, however, not even for that. "If you give up, Miniyal, you will find no sympathy from me," he says, a murmur so low and droll and fond it could hardly sound like admonishment - but make no mistake, for it is exactly that. "I shall love you no less, but I will have no patience to listen to you bemoan your failures. If you give up, you will have no failures to bemoan. But you shall have no successes, either; and I do not think your career so far without success. So."
"You always make it sound so. . .I don't know. Like. . .I don't know." She is frustrated, muscles tensing up some as if she will get up and stalk about the room to release restless nerves. But Miniyal needs, more than an outlet for her nervousness, the comfort provided by his touch and so she remains as she is. "I wish I offered you more than just someone who requires piecing back together so often. I lean on you so much and every time I do I worry it is the last time you will be able to deal with it. And what will I do when you are gone? And I shouldn't think about what will happen in the future and let that fear ruin what happens now, but I can't stop it. I can't explain it. I don't want to not give up for you. I want to not give up for me and I can't. Because all I want to do right now is hide and let the world forget I even exist."
"Then let's hide a while." Ever willing to simplify, Gans does so this time with a wry, knowing tone, sure she won't fall for it; he doesn't really even try to help her to. "Miniyal. I wish only that you would worry less about my willingness to support you, and take advantage of my support instead. Relax. Focus on what you need for a while. When you feel strong again, focus on what must be done; tell me if you can, and one way or another we will find out how you can do it. Then you can come home and rest again." Another of those ridiculous little shrugs and he's stroking her hair in long laps from her temple to her neck, eyes following the motion of his hand. "I should, I think, point out that you offer me much more than your need for support. You support me, too, not the least of several things. And I intend to last long enough that you will not need me so much - not for support, anyway - when I'm gone."
"You know I cannot stop worrying." Teasing, ever so slightly. Chiding him for dare think she might stop worrying. Another peek is given to him, Miniyal unable to keep her eyes closed always after all. Not when she can look at him every now and again to be sure he is paying attention. Or something. Who knows. Maybe she just chooses to look at him every now and again. "What if I never feel strong again? What if. . .this is it? If I never get better what do I do? You deserve better than someone like me. I love you, but I don't know what to do anymore."
"Then you retire," admits Gans, his gaze straying from her hair to her eyes but for a moment, brief. "Or you take a break. You rest. You wait. Maybe forever; maybe only until it's time to try again." One pale brow slips up a little bit, and his crooked smile twitches into life. "You had better not think I'm spilling rhetoric here."
Another sigh, this one almost amused. "I shall not think so this time." Said with eyes closed because if she is going to maintain some degree of upset still she cannot look at him. "I don't want to give up." Quietly said, not quite a whisper so much as a thought barely given breath to be heard. "But I am not sure what I should do now." Now Miniyal opens her eyes to look up at him once more. "I am not even sure. . .if I should do anything. I hate not knowing." A pout there at the end, one that were she standing would require her foot to stomp in frustration.
"Perhaps," offers Gans, very gently indeed - because she has not given him, never without immediately taking it back, leave to be her instructor; he may only advise, and that with this much obvious and fond hesitation. "Perhaps your best step, then, is no step at all. Perhaps you wait, and observe, and decide where best your next move should be." His tongue goes into his cheek for a moment, an uncommon (though not unheard of, and she has seen it before) gesture of thoughtfulness, of measuring something he might say against a silence that might be more advisable. But Gans so does love words; he chooses them, of course. "You need not always take your turn."
"But I'm -" She is something. What is she? Well, Miniyal has to consider this for a moment, the hand she's left on his waist curls again so her fingers might stroke his side. "Bored. I get bored. Every job I have ever had has bored me. I tried. I really tried to not get bored, but it never worked. Things sort of just have a way of causing me to lose interest. And I am bored now." Frowning a moment she smiles up at him quickly. "Not with you. Not with us. I would have to have some. . .certain footing to be bored. Which is not. . .that sounds bad. I do not mean it to be. I'm sorry."
"In the interest of my self-confidence," murmurs Gans, his smile quirked into fuller form now, "I shall go on believing that even with such footing, I might keep you somehow amused." The hand in her hair leaves it, so he can tap her nose very lightly with one gentle, cool fingertip. "I think finding new work is, in all honesty, unlikely to unbore you, my love. Not unless it's new every few sevens. What sort of position has your great-uncle offered?"
"I believe you would manage to hold my interest no matter my footing. Or lack there of." A touch, and only a touch, of something teasing in her tone. Something to match the warm sparkle in her eyes as she looks up at him. "Am I that bad?" Miniyal lets out a sigh that cancels out that teasing quickly enough. "It is not a very exciting position. He lost his son recently and his grandson whom he wishes to run things now is not quite old enough to do so and he is too old to do it alone. So. . .I know. It's terribly boring, ledgers and the like. It does not sound appealing other than it would get me away from the weyr. I can't imagine there would be any problems and if there were I cannot imagine I couldn't have them fixed in no time."
"You are that bad," confirms Gans, his voice rich, fond, admiring even. But all of his pleasure fades, grows dim and distant and reserved, as she describes this post to which she's been invited. In the end he manages, actually, a small frown - it affects both sides of his mouth, though the left-hand-side less than the other. "You would hate that," he points out, in a little while; his voice warm where his mouth is not.
"Well, you don't have to sound so sure." Hmph. Tilting her head a fraction so she might look up at him, Miniyal sticks out her tongue. "I cannot help it if I am so very good at what I do it holds no challenge for me anymore." And she couldn't do something new because then she would not be so very good at it after all. To his other statement she offers simply confirmation. "I would hate it." This then earns a sigh as she rolls over onto her back so she might stare at the ceiling and still have a convenient lap for a pillow. Once she is settled one of his hands is claimed to be held in hers. "But it is something. There is nothing here for me to do. They do not even need help in records at the moment."
Gans glances down again at the rock of her head moving in his lap, and at the sight of her tongue stretches out that fingertip that tapped her nose, this time to tap her lips as soon as the tongue's gone back in. He can smile again, looking upon her, even if the smile is wry and deep; and he lets her have the hand that stroked her hip to hold. "I believe you're needed here, Miniyal. If you want a month away to try something else, far be it from me, but - " That abbreviated lift and fall of shoulders which passes for his shrug does so, now. "Tell me. If your old work - records, etcetera - bores you. What doesn't?"
"It is not that it bores me so much as there is nothing new to it." Miniyal frowns thoughtfully as she lies there. "And I am needed here by you and that is it. I imagine there's plenty of people who would be quite pleased to see me leave. And even more who would never even notice." Lifting his hand she idly entwines her fingers with his and then brings it to her lips for a brush of a kiss across his knuckles. "There just. . .it's frustrating. Copying the same old things, right? Checking someone else's work. Just. . .boring." She sighs once more and then smiles faintly. "I realise it is not a very exciting thing, you know. My chosen field. But I enjoy it. I like finding new things and saving old documents that might otherwise be lost. Getting to know everything that has been written down. And I like ledgers. Because you can learn a lot from them. I don't want to start over at something else."
"You like finding new things and saving old documents," murmurs Gans. "And ledgers. But not keeping them: so finding new things," he repeats, voice now highly droll, "and saving old information." His fingers rest lazy in her grasp, though the other hand takes up again stroking back her hair. "I assume there must be some place you've considered that would have room for work like that. Inherently."
Her eyes shift just enough so she is no longer staring at the ceiling and instead might gaze up at him. "The thing is. . .see? I want to do, well, what I want. I hate having everything I do decided by someone else. There is never enough time to do what I want." Miniyal wrinkles her nose and rests her hand, and his, on her stomach. "I know, I know. I sound like a kid who doesn't want to do anything but what she wants. But it's not. . .not like that. Entirely. I mean, it is. But people don't understand what is important the way I do. It's not as if I am adverse to doing things for other people. I've made a career of that as well, although it was hardly successful. I hate people telling me what to do like I cannot determine for myself what should be done."
"Mmm." Beware of thoughtfully-humming Ganses. Especially when after the thoughtful hum there comes bemused and distant smiling, thoughtless stroking of chestnut locks, and slow, deliberate nodding. "So is there some reason you can't," and he pauses this early in the question so as to allow her opportunity - false opportunity - to deny him already; less than a breath and he goes on: "Start a career of doing what you want, for yourself or at least for your own purposes?"
"Yes." It is almost instinct to avoid, after all, any mention she should do something and not just sit about complaining she doesn't know what to do. Miniyal sighs, weary and long suffering, and closes her eyes. "I mean, there's no. . .there's nothing I can do. What am I supposed to do then?" It might be a good thing, possibly, that at this she sits and pulls away from him so she might rise and begin to pace. "I can't think. It's like I'm stuck and I can't figure out how to get unstuck and it's just-" Pace, pace, pace. Back to the divan she goes to throw herself upon it and shake her head. "I'm stuck." Looking over now she gives him two words that are part plea, part demand. "Help me."
And Gans? Just sits there. He does stretch his legs a little while she paces, unbending his knees, crossing and uncrossing his ankles, then slipping back farther into the divan's cushions so he can angle a little into the corner, prepared to be a pillow or a comfort all over again - and until then, just waiting, watching his lover move until she plops back down. "Every time you take a risk," he says then, reaching over to curve a palm cool and lightweight across her knee, "you unstick yourself. I've seen you be purposeful, adept, capable. But when you take a risk and something bad happens, you're inclined a little bit to - pace circles." His brows slide up, and he does not glance out at the floor she's just walked; his eyes are for her, and his words broader than that. "Risk is so-called because failure is an inherent possibility. But failure is not the same as a mistake. I haven't seen you make many mistakes, Miniyal. Why are you so averse to risk?"
She had to know the whole question thing would begin with those two little words. Had to. Still, it does not mean Miniyal is ready to just answer everything without pause. One hand rests atop his and she stares down at them together rather than look over at him as she considers. It would hardly be fair to ask for help and then not answer questions so as much as she does not want to she lifts her head and focuses on him. "It's scary. Don't laugh." Not that she thinks he would. That is evident in the look she gives him anyway. "I'm not. I'm a coward. If I have time to think about it I won't do it. The only time I've ever taken a risk is when I wasn't thinking."
"So you weren't thinking," supposes Gans, not as dry as he might be, "when you came back to me?" Does he need to explain that he means the first time? "You weren't thinking when you spoke to Roa? To R'vain? To the Masterharper? Either time?" One brow slips up a little higher; they have acres to go on that long forehead, and this increment is only a little telling, with many chances to tell more yet to come. "You weren't thinking when you made arrangements to go to the Instigators? I won't claim you were thinking on the actual trip, given the state you returned in, but - " Another increment of eyebrow, and now his bright pale eyes dance for her, fond, teasing, amused, proud. "Come on, Miniyal. Convince me your fear is worse than your need to be doing something."
"Not. . .not the same way. It's. . .I don't know. I mean, I like things planned out. I like to know where things might go. I thought, well, it's not the same." Shaking her head, Miniyal sighs and glances away for a moment. "You have no idea what it took. For any of that. How hard it was. I stood. . .I stood in the hallway one night. All night, staring at your door. Because I couldn't just go and be normal and just knock. I was so scared. And if I had been thinking I would never have talked to R'vain in the first place. Ever. And if I can help it I never will again." She nods her head at this because, really, who /wants/ to talk to him? "Sometimes I just have to. I mean, sometimes things have to be done. And if no one else will do them than I will, but it doesn't mean I am less scared. It just means, well, it needs doing. Also, I just didn't anticipate mud. And I was not warned. It was poor planning, but it doesn't mean I was not thinking."
He's so good to listen to her so patiently, to wait for proof that never comes, to smile at her and love her with his gently twinkling eyes while she speaks. "I'm not convinced," replies Gans, after all of that, voice low and almost suggestive, moreso from the curve of his palm tightening a little over her knee. "I'm also not convinced you don't think. Perhaps your thinking is a little frantic. But if you weren't giving it thought you wouldn't know what -needs- to be done." The hand uncurls, lifts, overturning; two fingers seek the spot below her chin. "Do you really need me to tell you what to do? "
Of course he's not convinced. Even if he were he would not be because he doesn't want to be! "I'm not so good at convincing people of things. I'm especially not so good at convincing you of things." Miniyal worries at her lip and when his hand tightens on her knee she moves just a fraction closer towards him, just an inch or so. "Frantic I can do. It leads to trouble, but I can do it." His question, the fingers on her chin leave her staring at him silently. Does she need him to? Probably not. Does she want him to? Likely yes. Some combination of the two would be closer to the truth. It's not nearly as scary that way. "Yes. I- Well, yes."
"Oh, Miniyal." He doesn't believe her. But he smiles mildly, his one-sided, gentle-eyed smile, and allows her this moment, her weakness - since her weakness is, after all, for him. Gans' fingertips stroke a swift little slide off the bottom of her chin; his hand reaches up to tuck back a lock of nut-brown hair, then back farther so his arm's open for her to slip into. "You know how tempting I find that." One more chance to escape his wisdom. He's so thoughtful.
She does know how tempting it is although that is likely not the only reason she leaves herself open for his advice and guidance. Miniyal then will not answer, pretending to consider a little longer. In the mean time she finds her place next to him, curled up against his side with one arm stretched across him in a loose half-embrace of her own so it can curve around his waist. "Please. I asked for your help."
Gans lets her curl up, then slips his arm back down off the top of the divan's back, around her arm, his palm curving over her far shoulder. "I'm not sure my help's what you want," he murmurs, voice low, rhetorical, almost spoken to himself instead of her. He bends his head and looks for his chance to kiss her temple, her hair, her cheek. Then he lifts his head and takes a breath to proceed. "You seem to be devoted to improving society. I think you should focus on that; take what measures you can to accomplish it; and take every chance at an advantage that could better your ability to accomplish it. I think you should reconsider Caucus, perhaps only on audit - so you have flexibility to come and go. I think you should start hunting for the rest of the records that must be out there. And I think you should reconsider taking at least a try on the sands, because your own authority will eventually exceed mine."
Her head shakes gently, not enough to upset the way they sit together, but enough to start off her words. "I will not reconsider Caucus, Gans. It is not an avenue I will pursue. It is just. . .it's not." There is a quiet sigh to follow this up, an apology without words because Miniyal is aware here is one spot on which they will never agree. "Hunting for records is, well. It is not the finding, but knowing what to do with them after. Or having anything at all to do with them after. It's so easy to find things, but after finding even one it leads to a search for another and then another and it can take a long time to find the complete picture. At least enough to make what you have worth doing something with. I would like to. . .I would like to find a way so people might see what I find. Some way to be sure what has been hidden is not any longer. So everyone knows." There is after this a quiet laugh before she moves on to the other subject. "I doubt my authority shall ever be much of any, Gans. And I do not think anything which might happen on the sands would change that. I'd. . .I'd not like to wind up like Issa."
"If there was another Headmaster?" He does not ask this until the very end, until she's said all she has to say. Perhaps because then, he can ask a sequence of questions, meant either to dizzy her, or to draw her to answering just the easiest, the best. "If you had a way to tell everyone everything?" Gans bends his head now, breathes warm kisses into her hair. He can sound a little tickled, a little like he might like to laugh, about this. "If I thought no green would ever take you?"
"Not even with another Headmaster. It's just not- I do poorly in class situations. I always have. I can't do it. I don't want to do it. All of those people." She shivers and squirms closer, hiding her face against him. There is nothing else for a short while as Miniyal marshals her thoughts. "Well, I mean, Harper has all this information and they do nothing with it. I mean, I do not think everything written should just be tossed out there to everyone. But if someone is curious. If someone truly desires to know why should they be prohibited? Just because they were born to a farmer or a cook does not mean they have less right than someone born to some Lord. So, if I had a way. I would. If I had a way to tell them." More silence then, but briefer and ended with a shake of her head. "If you think no green would ever take me then there is no need for me to be on the sands in the first place."
"I think you could take a green, if you chose to." Lowly voiced, as if an afterthought, more than a correction. Oh - she did say these other things. Address, in her way, his other questions. "Start a collection. Share it with people," Gans advises, as if this is the simplest thing in the world. Also this: "You could probably convince certain of the instructors to take you for sessions. Even instructors other than me." Yes, Gans allows that to sound a little naughty, and breathes another kiss into her hair after it. But he raises his head to note, "It's just that I don't see you choosing that. I imagine you on the sands with a purpose. Either to learn how it's done, or to do it."
"Now you're not making sense, you know. I'm sure you've noticed, love, that I am not a man." If he can be slightly naughty so can she and so she makes that sentence one that leads easily into the next. "If you have forgotten then when we are done here I will be happy to demonstrate for you again." Her head lifts then at this and she stretches up to place a kiss on the side of his neck. "That means," pointed out when she is resettled, "I have no other options." Frowning a moment she would shake her head, but has just gotten resettled. "I could get in trouble for showing people some of the things I would have them see," Miniyal informs him softly. As if he would not be aware. "And there is nothing I can learn from instructors I cannot learn on my own." So there.
"Risk," reminds Gans, though with head lifted so that the side of his neck is long indeed, a perfect plane stretched for her kiss. "Get in trouble then," he advises, though his voice might be a little airy for the lengthening of his neck, for the warmth of her lips on his skin, even after they've departed; he looks down then, and fixes a gaze upon her that tries to be stern and fails. "What means that you have no other options? I certainly didn't intend to suggest this list was exhaustive."
"Right. Risk. Easy for you to say." She grumbles, but it not anything at all. It is just what she must say even if she doesn't believe it. Instead Miniyal sits up so she might be able to reach his cheek and give another kiss there. "On the sands, love. I have no other options. Keep up. Really." Teasing then to accompany another kiss to his cheek. It is so hard to talk to him, but she does so anyway even if he is unable to follow along with what she says. "As for getting in trouble, yes. I handle that so well we have seen." He is treated to a roll of her eyes at that. "Grace under pressure, yes. That certainly defines me."
He accepts her teasing with a bit of a laugh, but at the last bit of her words he falls quite silent, and pale brows slide up. "Grace under pressure," Gans notes, in a while, as if it's after a great deal of thought, "requires experience with pressure to perfect." He curves his arm a little closer around her, encouraging her closeness, lifting the other hand so he can close her in a gentle embrace. "The alternative," and his voice lilts in a 'we have changed the topic' sort of way, "was the one I had in mind when I first mentioned it. If you think it so awful that it's not even an option - I won't bother you with it again."
She treats him to another roll of her eyes, but it occurs after she has moved yet again. This time Miniyal leans across him, her 'I would sit in your lap but we would get nowhere in conversation' pose. Not that the extra effort she does not expend to be in his lap makes a difference usually. "It is not that it is awful. It is that it is not. . .realistic. Even if it were an option and the problems that existed before still do so it is likely not going to be an option I just. . .don't see it." Stopping here she closes her eyes and lets out a breath that only hints at being a sigh. "If I were to try. If I. . .took that risk. You would not be disappointed in me? No matter the outcome?"
He laughs again, gently but with a certain incredulous note, for that. "I could never be, Miniyal." He tightens the enclosure of his arms around her a little bit, encouraging needlessly the possibility of slipping into his lap, but providing the certain grip of his embrace to steady her so she has to hear, -feel- his faith in her, his refusal of disappointment. "You have taken greater risks," remarks Gans. "It is a little one, all considered. A few hours exchanged for the privilege of finding out."
"I'll- I guess. It's only a few hours. But-" But. . .something. Miniyal lets him wait it out, what she might be bringing up as an objection. Something horrible to add to the conversation when it seemed to be going so well. When she has decided he has waited long enough, two minutes, maybe three, in which she takes his lap and gives him the briefest of worried little kisses to his lips. Only after all of that does she let out a sigh, drawn out and suffering. "If the unthinkable happens I'll be stuck in a dorm again. Bored and unable to sleep. Worse." The time for conversation, as always, comes to an end. "Do you know how long I would have to suffer being out of our bed? I've quite gotten used to it. The divan, the bed, the floor, the desk, records." Reciting from his bookmark, eyes twinkling. "You shall have to make up for potential time lost in the future. You may start now."
"Not quite a dorm," murmurs Gans, very softly, as if his voice has grown gentler for the trace of her kiss on his lips; there's a latent energy in that near-whisper, lightweight, breathy. "I would miss you. But I would have you back, in time. The interim - " Well. He parts his lips with his tongue, eyes as bright as hers. A single syllable - one of his favorites - poises next on his lips, but he does not give it voice or breath; these he saves instead for, after that raised-brow moment of cognizance, setting deed to understanding. A little stretch beneath her to settle her against him, a little stretch of his arms so his hands can slide over her spine, and one palm curves around the back of her neck just long enough to keep her - so he can kiss her, and begin making up for that interim possibly proposed.