In which our heroine falls to the dark side for a bit.
Who: Miniyal and R'vain
Where: Records Room, HRW
When: 16:41 on day 24, month 7, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
What: R'vain shows up for round two. And loses. And yet, Min is still the one who ends up crying. Life is so unfair!
10/9/2006
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 16:41 on day 24, month 7, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
An hour before the dinner hour sees most of Caucus pursuing matters other than homework-- though the diligent remain at their studies, and some of those studies no doubt take place in the den of despair that maintains the Weyr's host of records ancient and recent. There are no weyrlings here just now, however, and that would be the first sign. It is a little early for drinking, and that would be the second sign; it is a little late for drills, and that would be the third. But these are small things, simple things, things for which in fact many sorts of people would be grateful instead of questioning-- so it is most likely without fanfare that the Weyrlingmaster takes his first step inside this place for turns.
It is more than a seven later. It is-- well, however long past it is later. But he has that book in one massive paw, thumb and fingers closed around the spine, the leaves upward pointing, the weight of the binding curved in his palm and tucked against his wrist. He only gets a few paces in before he has to bend his head and stare long at his boots, breathing hard, and when some studious member of the records room's denizens sneaks around him to escape he fairly jumps out of his skin in his effort to get away from them. But the experience serves to jolt him into self-awareness and, worse, determination. R'vain lifts his head and parts lips with tongue, sets his jaw, and aims deeper into records. Aisles and stacks he avoids, shoulders broad, jacket bulky. A bull in a china shop, he trods toward the reception desks, moving slowly.
That it is so quiet is a boon to at least one person in the weyr this evening. The book that should have been returned has, in all truth, been forgotten. Forgotten after conversations with a certain new weyrwoman and a certain former weyrleader, and most importantly? With her parents. The fact Miniyal is here, when a mere seven ago she would have left by now to dine in private G'thon is an indication her world has, yet again, twisted around. She has, perhaps, convinced herself that this coming confrontation would not arrive. Truly not believing he would show up for such a little thing. Because she thought to show him up.
She is, has it been noted, not such a shrewd judge of people. Not yet. Which is why, with so few people about she has finally relaxed. Not that she is content. Because she is here when she could be there, being consoled over an unfair parent. Seated not that far from that reception area she studiously copies records. Oh, joy. Oh, rapture. Well, it might have been once before. Now it is drudgery and one she wishes simply to finish so she might end her day. Instead it is interrupted by footsteps and so she sets her pen down because being here means she will have to deal with those footsteps and lifts her head to see. . .him. Oh, dear.
It takes him a few moments squinting around at the decided lack of help at the desks to determine that she is, somehow, not there. So he puts the reception area behind him and starts unwillingly, with an expression of unmetered dread, toward the stacks. But there's this table, where someone sits copying-- and there she is, saving him for now the need to explore deeper into this terrible territory. Of course, he approaches. And of course, he comes around so he can set that book down right before her, carefully not in the way of the hide she's currently scribing-- just in the way of everything else involved in her work. Between the ink and her hand would be ideal. "Finished," he remarks in a low growl, and fits a lupine grin around the end of the word. "There's slips in where something's wrong. Didn't want t'write on th'copy, just in case." The grin widens. He is so thoughtful.
There is a bit of blinking as if trying to clear her eyes and determine that she is seeing what she is seeing. So, yes, he seems to have shown up. Well, chin up then! And indeed, up she sits straighter, chin tilting up as she looks at him. Then at the book. "Watch it!" she says with a frown as it nearly bumps into the ink. "Try to be a little considerate would you? That means to think of others and not yourself." She smiles, ever so helpful in defining a word that is foreign to him. "We shall correct what needs correcting. Thank you." Then she takes up the book and sets it aside to once more pick up her pen. That was all, yes? Of course it was. Or so Miniyal is going to pretend. She has, or has tried to, dismiss him. No real belief it will take, but without extending the effort how does one know?
R'vain hustles up to the edge of her table. He is tall; most such surfaces hit him lower than the hip. The casual aggressiveness with which he gets his thighs right up against the wood and lets the edge tighten his leathers there is prowling, intentional, but entirely unpremeditated. His paws splay out on the wood and he bends over them, arms straight, so he can stare hard upon her. "I was being considerate," he lets out in a gravelly rumble. "Put it right where you could reach it. Now you got t'consider me. And our bargain." Again his lips curl back from his teeth and this time, he polishes their sterling surfaces with a sweep of his tongue before adding, "I can wait." A glance down at what she's copying. A glance back up. He lets his shoulders lift and fall. He can wait. Like this. Right here.
Miniyal lets out a sigh. Such a heavy, world weary sigh. So put upon our poor recordskeeper. "Yes, of course. I was being considerate too," she says coolly as she slips out of her chair, away from him. Standing now she doesn't bother looking at him. Instead she glances around the room, oh so casual as she remarks, "I thought, considering how far down it was in here. How crowded it could seem to those not used to it, well, that you would like to leave. Quickly." A pause as she takes a step back, to fetch what she needs of course. "Before embarrassing himself." She is so thoughtful! So kind. So, taking another step back. "You just have a seat. Try not to think of it. Don't mind the dust, it's just the records settling or the room settling or something. Nothing to worry about." Another backwards step, so not turning her back on him. "I'll just be right back."
She steps back. So he sidesteps the table and advances a step. His legs are longer, but-- considerate-- he shortens his stride so the space between them remains, largely, consistent. "I don't embarrass." But he does sweat. Beads of it appear, first tiny and glistening, at his temples. The discomfort is, for now, ignored; R'vain overrides it with libido and other ill intents. "Oh no," he rumbles, and steps forward again as Miniyal steps back. His paws open and ball up again at his sides, then open once more, fingers bent and clawed at the air. "You're takin' me to where this tome is, and goin' t'read it to me. Remember?" Another step forward, to finally gain space on her unless she retreats the more. "On my knee." He fairly slathers over those three words, as if the recordskeeper were the most desirable property in the Weyr.
Which just goes to show he would screw anything that had nothing dangling in his way. Miniyal watches, nervous, but then her eyes light up. It is not a happy sort of expression. And, just maybe she should have begged off. But she's been dealing with other people all day treating her poorly because they can with her on the outs with her father. Time to strike back. Poor, poor thing. So, she stops moving. And she smiles a small, nearly cruel smile while her eyes remain lit. "Oh, yes. Let me take you right to where it's at. There's this little corner. Tucked away safely. It's a little. . .cramped. One of the shelves is in ill repair, but although it hangs over some it hasn't fallen." The word 'yet' is not added, but it hangs in the air, accompanied by that smile. A glance around the room as if selecting that little corner at random she nods once. "If you're going to be alright?" she asks, solicitous. So concerned for the weyrlingmaster. So concerned she still doesn't turn her back on him. Instead slow, backwards steps are taken. He will have to follow her or stop her. Follow her into the stacks, back to that little corner. She will not stop until they are there. Each step accompanied by a hopeful feeling he will break finally and leave her in peace.
He cannot really have expected otherwise. After all-- there have been indications, over the turns, especially over the last turn, especially over the last month, that she knows. And he has come, evidently, steeled for the knowing, and for the exploitation. "Sounds very cozy," R'vain growls in reply, and if his growl sounds a little thin, a little strained, a little less deeply rumblingly rich and mean than it should be-- well, that's her point to score, then. But he's still coming after her, and peeling off his jacket while he does so. A few steps along toward her-- just on the edge of the stacks-- and he stops, turns his shoulder to her, and flings the jacket at the chair she'd been sitting in, working. Then he turns back to face her. She's had her chance, right there, to flee while he dealt with the business of being too. damn. hot-- if she missed it, he stalks after her.
Flee? She is not going to flee. There is /no/ way he is going to win. She's steeled herself for this as well. Gotten her advice, planned things in her head. That these plans will not likely hold up to the real thing is not something Miniyal will think of right now. Instead she just watches him, warily. Hands clenched at her side she turns on her heel and stalks off through the stacks, stopping at a corner where an old desk sits, battered with use. It's actually her favorite spot to work because so few people see it in the back corner. An older chair sits before it, mended and mended again, but comfortable enough. "Sit," she says tightly, barely not growling out the word. This is /her/ turf at least and so she will take advantage of what little comfort that offers. "And I shall just be a moment fetching that record. It's just right over here." That she means to leave him for some time sitting here is a good guess, if he would guess it. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes to stew in the cramped quarters. She shows no sign of it, but he might guess.
He could, of course, trail after her. He thinks of it, and even opens his mouth to demand, "You take me-- " Take him there. Let him follow her right up to the stacks where she has to turn and reach up or down or out to get that volume they've discussed, where he could pin her against the shelves and cover her with his breadth and height. But that's not their deal, and he lets the words go without finishing their intent, or even their spirit. A glance at the chair, and his ruddy brows crouch low over his eyes. Skeptical. "A'right," the Weyrlingmaster rumbles, and grabs the seatback in a palm, turning it around so he can sit in it facing away from the table. So he can watch the stacks. Because they are marginally better than the wall, the corner. And because his mark's going out into them.
R'vain is there, still, when she returns. But that wait has had telling effects on him. His legs are spread wide, elbows propped on them, paws fidgeting at one another between his knees. His head is bowed, his forehead damp, the floor melting in the heat of his glare. All right, not quite melting.
Besides, he doesn't want to play dirty. Cause he may be bigger and stronger, but she knows how to counter all of that. Miniyal just smiles, still so sweet, and heads off a few rows over to get what she needs. She does, indeed, take her time. Shoring up her courage most likely. The fact she knows it bugs him as well is good. It helps her remember this is horrid for the both of them. Worse for her, of course, because she is delicate and sweet and nice. And really despises him. Bully. She /hates/ bullies and here, in this weyr, she sees him as the king of all bullies. And so she will exact her revenge for all the people he has bullied. At nearly any cost.
None of which shows as she comes around the corner, smirking when she sees him, squashing any guilt. He doesn't deserve pity! Other than the soft fall of steps there is no hint she has returned until she stops before him. "I've marked the page. Let's get this over with. One line. Who did it last. Then you let me up and get out of here and never return." She sounds so strong and serious and not scared. Other than the smallest tremor on those last two words.
R'vain straightens as her footfalls come into hearing range. He looks up at her, his face a little flushed, and shows teeth through an angry smile. "Oh, no, sweetcheeks. We made our deal way back. You ain't adding amendments to it now." He puts his back to the back of the chair and withdraws his arms from his legs, one straying behind so a paw can pat, slow and somehow lasciviously, a place just above his left knee. "I didn't promise I wouldn't come back. Someday. Seriously, don't you got better stuff t'worry about than me comin' up t'this hole with any regularity?" Like for example she might instead want to worry about the way he suddenly lunges forward again and reaches out with that paw, to grab any bit of her he can-- skirt, hand, book-- his aim to pull her in toward that lap he's got waiting.
Miniyal laughs quietly and gives him a look. A cool, considering, knowing look. "I don't worry about that at all. We both know how it's killing you be in here. We both know about your weakness, R'vain." Because, she suspects he suspects and therefore is giving nothing away. "How you hate it in here. Inside, with the walls and the ceiling closing in on you. I wonder, would you have survived if you hadn't impressed? Or gone to work, where? I mean, there's few places you wouldn't have to not be inside. A boat perhaps." A smirk and she shakes her head. "Where you could abuse a whole different set of people." She would say more, but he is lunging and rather than give him the satisfaction, she stays still. When he grabs her skirt and tugs she lets him, following the pull until she is, indeed, seated in his lap. Holding herself straight and still she shakes her head. "So predictable." Then she opens the book. See how she is unbothered? Well, he can't see her face as it's buried in said book.
"Shaddup." A growl, almost a hiss. R'vain has nothing else to say until she's on his leg, and then he wraps a hand around her back to her other side to make sure she's kept there firm, in his grip. He dips his head and glares at her, craning his neck so he can get an upward look at the woman on his knee, though the book's in the way. So he puts up his other paw on the binding, fingertips crawling up to the top of the spine and curling over there, not yet pulling on it-- just a warning. A suggestion, maybe. "You got no idea what I did before here," he tells her, dark and heated and agitated, voice rough and strained. He focuses on her, not the walls, not the stacks behind her. He licks his lips. "But by all means, babycakes, keep on talkin' and put off th'readin'. I don't mind you havin' a nice long sit." He bounces his knee, like a man might do with a little child on his lap. Gently, very gently.
"Oh, did I touch a nerve?" Miniyal asks so sweetly, so apologetic. "Do forgive me." Yes, indeed. That she does not remark on what she knows of his work here since arriving is simply because that information is still being hoarded. For when she really needs it. Biting down on her lip she tries to suppress the complete squickiness factor of his arm on her. Of being in his lap. Ewwww. The knee bouncing causes her to roll her eyes and then she lifts her head from where it hides in the book. "Predictable," she repeats and then holds the book open, tilted up so he might read along, lips moving to be sure. "Here it is," she says as she points to the line. Then she reads out the date ten turns ago and that, indeed, G'thon, former weyrlingmaster now weyrleader, bronze Hirth's, reports that all records are accurate. When she is done she makes to stand. Deal done and over. He just has to let her go.
Yeah, right. Like that's going to happen. He tightens his grasp, an effort to make her sit. Down. And hold her there, the hand from the book falling to firm up a grip over her thigh if he can manage it. "Wait, wait, wait." R'vain straightens his neck and looks on her with a wicked, hungry glee. "You keep sayin' that. 'Predictable.'" Twice is a pattern! "And it seems t'me you wouldn't really know." He leans forward in the chair, devouring her personal space with his physical presence, and splits a grin wider than any he's managed thus far. His face glistens, the short hairs above his ears curling a little with damp. "It's not like we've spent so much time together. Yet. Maybe we should fix that up, girly, don'tcha think?"
Frowning, although she suspected something would be up, Miniyal shakes her head. "The deal is done. I did what I said I would. Let me up. I've no desire to spend /any/ time with you ever." She will not give him the satisfaction of struggling. So, instead she sits still and grips the book tightly in both hands. She wouldn't dare hit him with it, but the thought lingers for a few minutes anyway. "You are predictable, R'vain. I've lived in this weyr my whole life. I know how your sort acts. Let me go. Now." She does not bother with 'or else' as she has no threats. But she puts as much force into her words as she can. No fear, no desperation, no desire to be denied her request. Just the simple and plain truth. "I would rather not," she adds after a moment, "Be seen here with you like this when my father returns to work."
"I don't want t'let you go," R'vain replies, half-petulant, half-smug, and runs his paw up from her knee to the hip. It's harmless, but he means no harmlessness by it, and will make that touch firm enough that her skirt will rumple with his hand's passing if she doesn't stop it. "And why would I care what your father sees?" Low and rough, that remark. A threat, a promise. The grip of his arm around her might become painful. "His baby girl agreed t'sit my knee. S'not my fault. You afraid he'll see you sit something else before I'm done?"
"Yes, you do," Miniyal says reasonably. So, so reasonable. As if she's not bothered at all by what is being said or done. She lets him have his fun with her clothes. Not bothered at all, so above this. Disassociated from it entirely. "He would never see that. Ever. I'm not going to play this game, R'vain." Shaking her head she twists her neck to look at him. "You're not going to win this round. You may as well give it up." See how serene she is? He may as well quit, give up, let her go. "And I promise to not tell anyone how weak you are." Ok, well, she probably could have left that part out. Shut up brain! Zip it mouth! She is so dumb.
He tugs her a little tighter against him. The hand at her hip starts doing a splay-and-gather motion, tugging at the skirt. Bunching up folds of it in his grip. Hiking it. "Y'think it's some sort of big secret, honeybutt? You should've pulled this stunt on me a turn ago or more. After th'last hatching I mark you every weyrling and half th'Weyr's riders know. That little cave off the sands-- " R'vain has to pause here and glare at Miniyal, as if it's her fault. As if she's personally responsible for that one little cave, that tiny space too small for his dragon, too small for /him,/ the one space his work requires him be with no way to make someone else his substitute. The curl of his lips is no longer smiling. He looks like he might bite. But instead he yanks hard on the woman, like to shove her right up against himself. "You got nothing on me," he hisses, and then it's an awful lot like he intends to crane his neck and get his head down by the side of her face, teeth looking for the lobe of her ear.
Miniyal listens, because she is so good at it. She is so good at listening and sitting still. No matter what. It is how she lives in life, quietly in the dark, sitting so very still and quiet. No matter what. Like there is anything he can say or do that is worse than what that little voice in her head says to her day in and day out. He's an amateur compared to her own demons. "You are allowed to think what you want, R'vain. But, know this, if you push me too hard or step over the line? I will know. And I will make you pay. Now, let me up." Definitely disassociated with what's going on and still not trying to break away. "After all, that's not your only weakness. And, R'vain?" She pauses here because she purred his name, so taunting and so soft and she needs to let that settle in. "I know enough about you that even Dara would want nothing to do with you if I told her. Enough even your being vaguely useful where you are wouldn't keep you bring sent away." Which is, not the truth. But, oh, does she sound believable. Like she knows every last detail of every horrid thing he has ever done.
The nips of his teeth are unkind. Let her try not to feel them-- it is his desire, his /demand/ that she feel them, and each one becomes sharper, harder, because if he cannot make her heave for breath, he seems bent on making her squeal in pain. And plainly he doesn't have the least of faiths in her threats, in her suggestion that he has more weaknesses than the terror of enclosed spaces. His paw slides back down her thigh to bunch up more fabric from that dowdy and endless skirt, his touch convinced there'll be skin eventually to lavish with his attentions. She doesn't struggle, after all. So he's only yet to find what she likes, what she wants. She must, obviously, want something, and he's doing all he can to block out the horror of this cramped and musty space so he can figure that out and fulfill it.
Until she speaks part of Essdara's name. At that he drags his teeth away from her ear and lifts his head to glare at her. "Like what." Growled, almost grunted, and he rocks beneath her, punctuating the words with wicked intents. But there's something of a tremble in the hand around her, something of the repeating enclosures the stacks of the records room create reflected in his angry eyes. "Tell me what she'd hate so much."
Oh, she /feels/ them, but she ignores them. Min is so very good at ignoring her body. Not quite so much now that she's being taken advantage of by and old man, but still. So she lets him bite, ignores his hand, ignores all he does. She just. . .sits there. Unmoving but for the measured rise and fall of her chest as she breathes evenly. Unmoving but for the flicker of her eyes around, eyes which settle on the desk. On those glows illuminating what they can of the corner. The only glows here. Sure, there's some elsewhere in records, but not that close. Were they to go away? So much darkness.
"Silly, R'vain," she whispers, still taunting. "It's not for /your/ ears. It's for hers. She might even listen. We don't really get along, but she knows I know things. Knows I would be concerned." A deep breath and she has to stifle a shudder of disgust as she leans back against him, pressing against his chest as one arm moves as if she might be trying to touch him. But she doesn't. Instead it finds that basket of glows and with a quick movement of hand, covers it. Musty, murky darkness settles over the corner and there's a feral tone to her voice when she speaks, still so soft, "Darkness, R'vain." Another purr of his name. "Darkness. Does it feel like it is closing in? It can if you're not used to it. If you're scared of it. It creeps up on you and fills the air. Sometimes, people say the darkness, the enclosure, makes them have trouble breathing. How about you? Will you let me up? Or will I have to lead you so far into the darkness that not even Ruvoth could find you for days? It would be so easy. So simple. And you could do nothing." A pause and then as forceful as she can manage, wary and tense as she toys with him so dangerously, "Let. Me. Go."
"You don't know anything she'd shy away from." R'vain is all brash and boldness, his hand finally finding the hem of her skirt and shoving it clear up to the hip so his fingers can shove down along the inside of her thigh and search for the next barrier of cloth expected there-- or just feel through it. His chest heaves with breaths inspired by her closeness, his thigh tensing beneath her as the thrill of her tremble-- her shudder, mismarked-- goes through him. And he's just about to try to shut her up with his mouth when they're, together, plunged into blackness.
His fingers stop. Stop, but don't move; prised into the space between fleshy thighs, they go suddenly cold and clammy. His breath continues to heave, but the tone of it becomes shallow and harsh. "Stop it," he hisses, but the hiss lacks power. "Whatever y'did with th'light." He twists his head, blind in the dark, seeking out the hand she reached past him. Of course he can't find it, and then he ducks his head as if he expects there's something suddenly over him, as if the space has become too small for him to fit into. "The light, bitch, now."
"It's. . .sad," Miniyal muses, trying so very hard not to give away how scared she is, holding herself with that same stillness. The same and different because the tone of it has changed. Although she is in his lap she seems to think in the dark if she holds still enough he will lose her. She will be able to get away if she just. stays. still. "Let me go," she repeats, voice barely a whisper now in the darkness. As if she doesn't have to speak so loud because the light won't blot out her words. Teeth worry at her lip and she takes a deep breath, calm and still and at peace. Not. But faking it quite well. So, to hide it? Bravado. "Poor, R'vain," she coos in a sultry whisper. Yes, she can do sultry when she wants to! "So afraid of the dark. Does it feel like it's getting smaller in here? Let me up and I can fix that. But, you see, little boy? I /like/ the dark. And it likes me. And it sees what you do. Always. Let me go and I won't tell anyone what I see."
But she's the link between him and everything he can't see. So he doesn't let go. But his grip becomes less painfully tight and his fingers slip out from between her thighs. That relief can't last long, though. He hauls his paw up and feels around for, her throat, her face, splaying fingers wide to try to grab her by the chin. "Give me light," he snarls, lips curling audibly, spit hissing along his words, "And I'll let you go. Otherwise you're goin' t'stay right here with me." Whether he's found her chin or not by then, R'vain's hand comes away and he twists, reaching behind him, shifting in the chair to try to find the glowbasket with the one paw while trying to keep hold of her with the other.
A standoff. She's not going to give him light until he lets her go and he's not going to let her go until she gives him light. In the back of her mind that evil little voice stirs, but there's no 'help' from there. Oh, no, but it marks the occasion well. It's sad when Miniyal wishes for inner demons. Another deep breath and her head shakes, stopping when his hand finds her chin. "Sure, R'vain," she says all friendly cheer now. "I will happily free you from this dark, cluttered, confined space. As soon as you apologise and swear to never darken my door again. To never /touch/ me again. To never speak to me again." She pauses here and laughs, a deep throaty sound. "And if you lie to me now? Dara knows everything. Every last little black spot on you." One hand curls up as she talks, balling into a fist against her leg to keep it from trembling. So not brave. So trying to fake it. So going to win, dammit.
He clutches her tighter, and ducks his head against her shoulder. His forehead is wet again, draining cold sweat. "What am I apologizing for," he growls into the curve of her collarbone, but now his growls and his breath against her clothing is decidedly unsteamy. He yanks his hand back from behind him, its useless waving impossibly out of reach of the basket, and curls it around her so he has her in a two-armed embrace. "For makin' a deal with you?" The voice is weaker now. If he could see in the dark, he wouldn't be seeing now. His eyes are closed tight. His breath is shallow, panting, and not like he normally pants. Hyperventilating, more like. "I can promise not t'touch you 'less you ask it. I can promise only t'talk t'you as ever I have to. I can't tell you," he can't breathe, dammit. He heaves for breath, having spoken too long and not inhaled in too long. Gasping. "I can't promise you-- " Nope. No good. His arms go loose around her. Into Miniyal's shoulder, the Weyrlingmaster swoons.
Well, this is. . .interesting. Not expected. Interesting. Miniyal blinks, but doesn't move. "Fuck," she whispers to herself, safe enough where no one will hear such unladylike words and tell her mother. "R'vain?" she asks, hesitating. "R'vain? Whatever. . .fuck." Carefully then she slides from his lap. Carefully she reaches past him, one hand on his chest to support him so he doesn't fall. Carefully she opens the basket of glows, right where she left it, no doubts in the dark, but when the light comes she cringes. This went. . .not well. Well, she won, but now she feels bad. So, carefully she stays where she stands, hand on his chest, and watches. For a few moments before she breathes, "You are an infuriating beast and you have not won. Just remember that." More loudly she clears her throat and then snaps the fingers of her free hand. "R'vain," she barks, quietly, but with force. The voice of a librarian, you know. "Get your lazy ass up right now. Ruvoth is waiting for you." Because, the name might help. It has in the past helped some riders. So, may as well try.
It's a shame he's missing her sudden blue streak. But he's definitely missing it. He weighs more than a hundred pounds or more from the waist up and most of that weight wants to slump over, propped up only by her hand, and there is little question that he's blacked out entirely. The good part of this is that he breathes deeply, if roughly, and oxygen might eventually get back around to his brain.
Whether it be the snap, the bark, or the name of his dragon-- something wakes him. And he jolts upright, snarling and wide-eyed, and seconds later is coming up to his feet. A little woozy, still, he grabs the back of the chair and hauls it forward to be his crutch, and glares down at her. Words form and fail on his lips, licked away by a furious tongue. His gaze slips away from her, around, sideways, skittish. He's shaking. And then, with his feet steady beneath him, he's turning to face the way they came back here, prepared to leave without sharing so much as a word.
Luckily for him, Min is not some little girl and she had no trouble holding him up. When he stands she doesn't say a word. When he gets his feet under him? Still nothing. It's only when he starts to leave that she, so very quietly says, "I'm sorry." And then, "I won." Shaking her head she takes up the book to return it to where it belongs. Because he's headed for the end of the aisle same as her she trails along.
He can't speak. Still. It takes all of his effort to breathe. But at the end of the stacks, where the relative open space of the reception and study areas welcome him with relatively breathable air, he stretches out his arms and turns around, then turns again, staring back the way from which he came. Waiting, expression a stuffed blender of curious and irritated and frustrated and weirdly bemused. No rage. Or maybe there is rage, and it doesn't show because he's got such a pallid cast just now.
"Can you make it out alright?" Niya inquires politely. Because Corin raised a polite, well-mannered daughter. Just, said daughter sometimes forgets that. She hangs back, however, not daring to approach too close. Acting, or trying to, like she's doing it for him. No wanting to crowd him, see? So helpful and thoughtful. But she watches him, as if afraid he will fly off the handle, ready to bolt if she has to. To where? She will figure it out. Somewhere. Unable to stop herself teeth worry at her lower lip as she waits for his answer, waits for him to leave so she can run home.
It takes him a few more breaths to get the question out. "What did you win?" And then his expression finally resolves, from all that confused mix of varied things into a simple look: disgust. He turns from her and stalks to the table where he met her, bending there to scoop up the jacket he left behind.
Miniyal trails after a safe distance, shrugging her shoulders at his back. "You wouldn't understand," she answers, sounding unworried about the disgust. "And even if you cared I wouldn't explain." But because she is unable to stop when she should she waits until he has his coat. Until he is heading out from records. "I stood up to you," she tells his back. "I didn't let someone push me around." Another shrug and she heads for where the record came from, steps slow as she forgets as best she can what happened. Just finish up work and go home.
R'vain is, indeed, on his way out. But she doesn't have, apparently, the capacity to keep her mouth shut when it counts. So he's-- this is hard-- on his way back in. Only a couple of steps. Just enough to call out to her. And he calls out loud, too, so better hope her dad's not nearby. Anyone who /is/ gets this earful. "If you say so, babydoll. But if you ask me, you've just got t'where you can only fight back if you're allowed t'use low blows."
Down the aisle she goes, disappearing from sight. But she hears what is said. Which brings a response. Her last one. For real. "Start your life over, weyrlingmaster. Bronzerider. Start it over and live my life and see what you will do for some small victory just for once." That is all she says. To the shelf she goes, record replaced. It's only then she gives in and starts to tremble, self-loathing. A wonderful thing. She retreats into a corner, a different one, to cry silently. Bastard made her cry. But at least he doesn't know.
He doesn't know. Because as soon as she called him 'Bronzerider,' he let out a thick, hot snort of fury and turned, unable to follow her again into the stacks, and left her to her private shadows.
Where: Records Room, HRW
When: 16:41 on day 24, month 7, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
What: R'vain shows up for round two. And loses. And yet, Min is still the one who ends up crying. Life is so unfair!
10/9/2006
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 16:41 on day 24, month 7, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
An hour before the dinner hour sees most of Caucus pursuing matters other than homework-- though the diligent remain at their studies, and some of those studies no doubt take place in the den of despair that maintains the Weyr's host of records ancient and recent. There are no weyrlings here just now, however, and that would be the first sign. It is a little early for drinking, and that would be the second sign; it is a little late for drills, and that would be the third. But these are small things, simple things, things for which in fact many sorts of people would be grateful instead of questioning-- so it is most likely without fanfare that the Weyrlingmaster takes his first step inside this place for turns.
It is more than a seven later. It is-- well, however long past it is later. But he has that book in one massive paw, thumb and fingers closed around the spine, the leaves upward pointing, the weight of the binding curved in his palm and tucked against his wrist. He only gets a few paces in before he has to bend his head and stare long at his boots, breathing hard, and when some studious member of the records room's denizens sneaks around him to escape he fairly jumps out of his skin in his effort to get away from them. But the experience serves to jolt him into self-awareness and, worse, determination. R'vain lifts his head and parts lips with tongue, sets his jaw, and aims deeper into records. Aisles and stacks he avoids, shoulders broad, jacket bulky. A bull in a china shop, he trods toward the reception desks, moving slowly.
That it is so quiet is a boon to at least one person in the weyr this evening. The book that should have been returned has, in all truth, been forgotten. Forgotten after conversations with a certain new weyrwoman and a certain former weyrleader, and most importantly? With her parents. The fact Miniyal is here, when a mere seven ago she would have left by now to dine in private G'thon is an indication her world has, yet again, twisted around. She has, perhaps, convinced herself that this coming confrontation would not arrive. Truly not believing he would show up for such a little thing. Because she thought to show him up.
She is, has it been noted, not such a shrewd judge of people. Not yet. Which is why, with so few people about she has finally relaxed. Not that she is content. Because she is here when she could be there, being consoled over an unfair parent. Seated not that far from that reception area she studiously copies records. Oh, joy. Oh, rapture. Well, it might have been once before. Now it is drudgery and one she wishes simply to finish so she might end her day. Instead it is interrupted by footsteps and so she sets her pen down because being here means she will have to deal with those footsteps and lifts her head to see. . .him. Oh, dear.
It takes him a few moments squinting around at the decided lack of help at the desks to determine that she is, somehow, not there. So he puts the reception area behind him and starts unwillingly, with an expression of unmetered dread, toward the stacks. But there's this table, where someone sits copying-- and there she is, saving him for now the need to explore deeper into this terrible territory. Of course, he approaches. And of course, he comes around so he can set that book down right before her, carefully not in the way of the hide she's currently scribing-- just in the way of everything else involved in her work. Between the ink and her hand would be ideal. "Finished," he remarks in a low growl, and fits a lupine grin around the end of the word. "There's slips in where something's wrong. Didn't want t'write on th'copy, just in case." The grin widens. He is so thoughtful.
There is a bit of blinking as if trying to clear her eyes and determine that she is seeing what she is seeing. So, yes, he seems to have shown up. Well, chin up then! And indeed, up she sits straighter, chin tilting up as she looks at him. Then at the book. "Watch it!" she says with a frown as it nearly bumps into the ink. "Try to be a little considerate would you? That means to think of others and not yourself." She smiles, ever so helpful in defining a word that is foreign to him. "We shall correct what needs correcting. Thank you." Then she takes up the book and sets it aside to once more pick up her pen. That was all, yes? Of course it was. Or so Miniyal is going to pretend. She has, or has tried to, dismiss him. No real belief it will take, but without extending the effort how does one know?
R'vain hustles up to the edge of her table. He is tall; most such surfaces hit him lower than the hip. The casual aggressiveness with which he gets his thighs right up against the wood and lets the edge tighten his leathers there is prowling, intentional, but entirely unpremeditated. His paws splay out on the wood and he bends over them, arms straight, so he can stare hard upon her. "I was being considerate," he lets out in a gravelly rumble. "Put it right where you could reach it. Now you got t'consider me. And our bargain." Again his lips curl back from his teeth and this time, he polishes their sterling surfaces with a sweep of his tongue before adding, "I can wait." A glance down at what she's copying. A glance back up. He lets his shoulders lift and fall. He can wait. Like this. Right here.
Miniyal lets out a sigh. Such a heavy, world weary sigh. So put upon our poor recordskeeper. "Yes, of course. I was being considerate too," she says coolly as she slips out of her chair, away from him. Standing now she doesn't bother looking at him. Instead she glances around the room, oh so casual as she remarks, "I thought, considering how far down it was in here. How crowded it could seem to those not used to it, well, that you would like to leave. Quickly." A pause as she takes a step back, to fetch what she needs of course. "Before embarrassing himself." She is so thoughtful! So kind. So, taking another step back. "You just have a seat. Try not to think of it. Don't mind the dust, it's just the records settling or the room settling or something. Nothing to worry about." Another backwards step, so not turning her back on him. "I'll just be right back."
She steps back. So he sidesteps the table and advances a step. His legs are longer, but-- considerate-- he shortens his stride so the space between them remains, largely, consistent. "I don't embarrass." But he does sweat. Beads of it appear, first tiny and glistening, at his temples. The discomfort is, for now, ignored; R'vain overrides it with libido and other ill intents. "Oh no," he rumbles, and steps forward again as Miniyal steps back. His paws open and ball up again at his sides, then open once more, fingers bent and clawed at the air. "You're takin' me to where this tome is, and goin' t'read it to me. Remember?" Another step forward, to finally gain space on her unless she retreats the more. "On my knee." He fairly slathers over those three words, as if the recordskeeper were the most desirable property in the Weyr.
Which just goes to show he would screw anything that had nothing dangling in his way. Miniyal watches, nervous, but then her eyes light up. It is not a happy sort of expression. And, just maybe she should have begged off. But she's been dealing with other people all day treating her poorly because they can with her on the outs with her father. Time to strike back. Poor, poor thing. So, she stops moving. And she smiles a small, nearly cruel smile while her eyes remain lit. "Oh, yes. Let me take you right to where it's at. There's this little corner. Tucked away safely. It's a little. . .cramped. One of the shelves is in ill repair, but although it hangs over some it hasn't fallen." The word 'yet' is not added, but it hangs in the air, accompanied by that smile. A glance around the room as if selecting that little corner at random she nods once. "If you're going to be alright?" she asks, solicitous. So concerned for the weyrlingmaster. So concerned she still doesn't turn her back on him. Instead slow, backwards steps are taken. He will have to follow her or stop her. Follow her into the stacks, back to that little corner. She will not stop until they are there. Each step accompanied by a hopeful feeling he will break finally and leave her in peace.
He cannot really have expected otherwise. After all-- there have been indications, over the turns, especially over the last turn, especially over the last month, that she knows. And he has come, evidently, steeled for the knowing, and for the exploitation. "Sounds very cozy," R'vain growls in reply, and if his growl sounds a little thin, a little strained, a little less deeply rumblingly rich and mean than it should be-- well, that's her point to score, then. But he's still coming after her, and peeling off his jacket while he does so. A few steps along toward her-- just on the edge of the stacks-- and he stops, turns his shoulder to her, and flings the jacket at the chair she'd been sitting in, working. Then he turns back to face her. She's had her chance, right there, to flee while he dealt with the business of being too. damn. hot-- if she missed it, he stalks after her.
Flee? She is not going to flee. There is /no/ way he is going to win. She's steeled herself for this as well. Gotten her advice, planned things in her head. That these plans will not likely hold up to the real thing is not something Miniyal will think of right now. Instead she just watches him, warily. Hands clenched at her side she turns on her heel and stalks off through the stacks, stopping at a corner where an old desk sits, battered with use. It's actually her favorite spot to work because so few people see it in the back corner. An older chair sits before it, mended and mended again, but comfortable enough. "Sit," she says tightly, barely not growling out the word. This is /her/ turf at least and so she will take advantage of what little comfort that offers. "And I shall just be a moment fetching that record. It's just right over here." That she means to leave him for some time sitting here is a good guess, if he would guess it. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes to stew in the cramped quarters. She shows no sign of it, but he might guess.
He could, of course, trail after her. He thinks of it, and even opens his mouth to demand, "You take me-- " Take him there. Let him follow her right up to the stacks where she has to turn and reach up or down or out to get that volume they've discussed, where he could pin her against the shelves and cover her with his breadth and height. But that's not their deal, and he lets the words go without finishing their intent, or even their spirit. A glance at the chair, and his ruddy brows crouch low over his eyes. Skeptical. "A'right," the Weyrlingmaster rumbles, and grabs the seatback in a palm, turning it around so he can sit in it facing away from the table. So he can watch the stacks. Because they are marginally better than the wall, the corner. And because his mark's going out into them.
R'vain is there, still, when she returns. But that wait has had telling effects on him. His legs are spread wide, elbows propped on them, paws fidgeting at one another between his knees. His head is bowed, his forehead damp, the floor melting in the heat of his glare. All right, not quite melting.
Besides, he doesn't want to play dirty. Cause he may be bigger and stronger, but she knows how to counter all of that. Miniyal just smiles, still so sweet, and heads off a few rows over to get what she needs. She does, indeed, take her time. Shoring up her courage most likely. The fact she knows it bugs him as well is good. It helps her remember this is horrid for the both of them. Worse for her, of course, because she is delicate and sweet and nice. And really despises him. Bully. She /hates/ bullies and here, in this weyr, she sees him as the king of all bullies. And so she will exact her revenge for all the people he has bullied. At nearly any cost.
None of which shows as she comes around the corner, smirking when she sees him, squashing any guilt. He doesn't deserve pity! Other than the soft fall of steps there is no hint she has returned until she stops before him. "I've marked the page. Let's get this over with. One line. Who did it last. Then you let me up and get out of here and never return." She sounds so strong and serious and not scared. Other than the smallest tremor on those last two words.
R'vain straightens as her footfalls come into hearing range. He looks up at her, his face a little flushed, and shows teeth through an angry smile. "Oh, no, sweetcheeks. We made our deal way back. You ain't adding amendments to it now." He puts his back to the back of the chair and withdraws his arms from his legs, one straying behind so a paw can pat, slow and somehow lasciviously, a place just above his left knee. "I didn't promise I wouldn't come back. Someday. Seriously, don't you got better stuff t'worry about than me comin' up t'this hole with any regularity?" Like for example she might instead want to worry about the way he suddenly lunges forward again and reaches out with that paw, to grab any bit of her he can-- skirt, hand, book-- his aim to pull her in toward that lap he's got waiting.
Miniyal laughs quietly and gives him a look. A cool, considering, knowing look. "I don't worry about that at all. We both know how it's killing you be in here. We both know about your weakness, R'vain." Because, she suspects he suspects and therefore is giving nothing away. "How you hate it in here. Inside, with the walls and the ceiling closing in on you. I wonder, would you have survived if you hadn't impressed? Or gone to work, where? I mean, there's few places you wouldn't have to not be inside. A boat perhaps." A smirk and she shakes her head. "Where you could abuse a whole different set of people." She would say more, but he is lunging and rather than give him the satisfaction, she stays still. When he grabs her skirt and tugs she lets him, following the pull until she is, indeed, seated in his lap. Holding herself straight and still she shakes her head. "So predictable." Then she opens the book. See how she is unbothered? Well, he can't see her face as it's buried in said book.
"Shaddup." A growl, almost a hiss. R'vain has nothing else to say until she's on his leg, and then he wraps a hand around her back to her other side to make sure she's kept there firm, in his grip. He dips his head and glares at her, craning his neck so he can get an upward look at the woman on his knee, though the book's in the way. So he puts up his other paw on the binding, fingertips crawling up to the top of the spine and curling over there, not yet pulling on it-- just a warning. A suggestion, maybe. "You got no idea what I did before here," he tells her, dark and heated and agitated, voice rough and strained. He focuses on her, not the walls, not the stacks behind her. He licks his lips. "But by all means, babycakes, keep on talkin' and put off th'readin'. I don't mind you havin' a nice long sit." He bounces his knee, like a man might do with a little child on his lap. Gently, very gently.
"Oh, did I touch a nerve?" Miniyal asks so sweetly, so apologetic. "Do forgive me." Yes, indeed. That she does not remark on what she knows of his work here since arriving is simply because that information is still being hoarded. For when she really needs it. Biting down on her lip she tries to suppress the complete squickiness factor of his arm on her. Of being in his lap. Ewwww. The knee bouncing causes her to roll her eyes and then she lifts her head from where it hides in the book. "Predictable," she repeats and then holds the book open, tilted up so he might read along, lips moving to be sure. "Here it is," she says as she points to the line. Then she reads out the date ten turns ago and that, indeed, G'thon, former weyrlingmaster now weyrleader, bronze Hirth's, reports that all records are accurate. When she is done she makes to stand. Deal done and over. He just has to let her go.
Yeah, right. Like that's going to happen. He tightens his grasp, an effort to make her sit. Down. And hold her there, the hand from the book falling to firm up a grip over her thigh if he can manage it. "Wait, wait, wait." R'vain straightens his neck and looks on her with a wicked, hungry glee. "You keep sayin' that. 'Predictable.'" Twice is a pattern! "And it seems t'me you wouldn't really know." He leans forward in the chair, devouring her personal space with his physical presence, and splits a grin wider than any he's managed thus far. His face glistens, the short hairs above his ears curling a little with damp. "It's not like we've spent so much time together. Yet. Maybe we should fix that up, girly, don'tcha think?"
Frowning, although she suspected something would be up, Miniyal shakes her head. "The deal is done. I did what I said I would. Let me up. I've no desire to spend /any/ time with you ever." She will not give him the satisfaction of struggling. So, instead she sits still and grips the book tightly in both hands. She wouldn't dare hit him with it, but the thought lingers for a few minutes anyway. "You are predictable, R'vain. I've lived in this weyr my whole life. I know how your sort acts. Let me go. Now." She does not bother with 'or else' as she has no threats. But she puts as much force into her words as she can. No fear, no desperation, no desire to be denied her request. Just the simple and plain truth. "I would rather not," she adds after a moment, "Be seen here with you like this when my father returns to work."
"I don't want t'let you go," R'vain replies, half-petulant, half-smug, and runs his paw up from her knee to the hip. It's harmless, but he means no harmlessness by it, and will make that touch firm enough that her skirt will rumple with his hand's passing if she doesn't stop it. "And why would I care what your father sees?" Low and rough, that remark. A threat, a promise. The grip of his arm around her might become painful. "His baby girl agreed t'sit my knee. S'not my fault. You afraid he'll see you sit something else before I'm done?"
"Yes, you do," Miniyal says reasonably. So, so reasonable. As if she's not bothered at all by what is being said or done. She lets him have his fun with her clothes. Not bothered at all, so above this. Disassociated from it entirely. "He would never see that. Ever. I'm not going to play this game, R'vain." Shaking her head she twists her neck to look at him. "You're not going to win this round. You may as well give it up." See how serene she is? He may as well quit, give up, let her go. "And I promise to not tell anyone how weak you are." Ok, well, she probably could have left that part out. Shut up brain! Zip it mouth! She is so dumb.
He tugs her a little tighter against him. The hand at her hip starts doing a splay-and-gather motion, tugging at the skirt. Bunching up folds of it in his grip. Hiking it. "Y'think it's some sort of big secret, honeybutt? You should've pulled this stunt on me a turn ago or more. After th'last hatching I mark you every weyrling and half th'Weyr's riders know. That little cave off the sands-- " R'vain has to pause here and glare at Miniyal, as if it's her fault. As if she's personally responsible for that one little cave, that tiny space too small for his dragon, too small for /him,/ the one space his work requires him be with no way to make someone else his substitute. The curl of his lips is no longer smiling. He looks like he might bite. But instead he yanks hard on the woman, like to shove her right up against himself. "You got nothing on me," he hisses, and then it's an awful lot like he intends to crane his neck and get his head down by the side of her face, teeth looking for the lobe of her ear.
Miniyal listens, because she is so good at it. She is so good at listening and sitting still. No matter what. It is how she lives in life, quietly in the dark, sitting so very still and quiet. No matter what. Like there is anything he can say or do that is worse than what that little voice in her head says to her day in and day out. He's an amateur compared to her own demons. "You are allowed to think what you want, R'vain. But, know this, if you push me too hard or step over the line? I will know. And I will make you pay. Now, let me up." Definitely disassociated with what's going on and still not trying to break away. "After all, that's not your only weakness. And, R'vain?" She pauses here because she purred his name, so taunting and so soft and she needs to let that settle in. "I know enough about you that even Dara would want nothing to do with you if I told her. Enough even your being vaguely useful where you are wouldn't keep you bring sent away." Which is, not the truth. But, oh, does she sound believable. Like she knows every last detail of every horrid thing he has ever done.
The nips of his teeth are unkind. Let her try not to feel them-- it is his desire, his /demand/ that she feel them, and each one becomes sharper, harder, because if he cannot make her heave for breath, he seems bent on making her squeal in pain. And plainly he doesn't have the least of faiths in her threats, in her suggestion that he has more weaknesses than the terror of enclosed spaces. His paw slides back down her thigh to bunch up more fabric from that dowdy and endless skirt, his touch convinced there'll be skin eventually to lavish with his attentions. She doesn't struggle, after all. So he's only yet to find what she likes, what she wants. She must, obviously, want something, and he's doing all he can to block out the horror of this cramped and musty space so he can figure that out and fulfill it.
Until she speaks part of Essdara's name. At that he drags his teeth away from her ear and lifts his head to glare at her. "Like what." Growled, almost grunted, and he rocks beneath her, punctuating the words with wicked intents. But there's something of a tremble in the hand around her, something of the repeating enclosures the stacks of the records room create reflected in his angry eyes. "Tell me what she'd hate so much."
Oh, she /feels/ them, but she ignores them. Min is so very good at ignoring her body. Not quite so much now that she's being taken advantage of by and old man, but still. So she lets him bite, ignores his hand, ignores all he does. She just. . .sits there. Unmoving but for the measured rise and fall of her chest as she breathes evenly. Unmoving but for the flicker of her eyes around, eyes which settle on the desk. On those glows illuminating what they can of the corner. The only glows here. Sure, there's some elsewhere in records, but not that close. Were they to go away? So much darkness.
"Silly, R'vain," she whispers, still taunting. "It's not for /your/ ears. It's for hers. She might even listen. We don't really get along, but she knows I know things. Knows I would be concerned." A deep breath and she has to stifle a shudder of disgust as she leans back against him, pressing against his chest as one arm moves as if she might be trying to touch him. But she doesn't. Instead it finds that basket of glows and with a quick movement of hand, covers it. Musty, murky darkness settles over the corner and there's a feral tone to her voice when she speaks, still so soft, "Darkness, R'vain." Another purr of his name. "Darkness. Does it feel like it is closing in? It can if you're not used to it. If you're scared of it. It creeps up on you and fills the air. Sometimes, people say the darkness, the enclosure, makes them have trouble breathing. How about you? Will you let me up? Or will I have to lead you so far into the darkness that not even Ruvoth could find you for days? It would be so easy. So simple. And you could do nothing." A pause and then as forceful as she can manage, wary and tense as she toys with him so dangerously, "Let. Me. Go."
"You don't know anything she'd shy away from." R'vain is all brash and boldness, his hand finally finding the hem of her skirt and shoving it clear up to the hip so his fingers can shove down along the inside of her thigh and search for the next barrier of cloth expected there-- or just feel through it. His chest heaves with breaths inspired by her closeness, his thigh tensing beneath her as the thrill of her tremble-- her shudder, mismarked-- goes through him. And he's just about to try to shut her up with his mouth when they're, together, plunged into blackness.
His fingers stop. Stop, but don't move; prised into the space between fleshy thighs, they go suddenly cold and clammy. His breath continues to heave, but the tone of it becomes shallow and harsh. "Stop it," he hisses, but the hiss lacks power. "Whatever y'did with th'light." He twists his head, blind in the dark, seeking out the hand she reached past him. Of course he can't find it, and then he ducks his head as if he expects there's something suddenly over him, as if the space has become too small for him to fit into. "The light, bitch, now."
"It's. . .sad," Miniyal muses, trying so very hard not to give away how scared she is, holding herself with that same stillness. The same and different because the tone of it has changed. Although she is in his lap she seems to think in the dark if she holds still enough he will lose her. She will be able to get away if she just. stays. still. "Let me go," she repeats, voice barely a whisper now in the darkness. As if she doesn't have to speak so loud because the light won't blot out her words. Teeth worry at her lip and she takes a deep breath, calm and still and at peace. Not. But faking it quite well. So, to hide it? Bravado. "Poor, R'vain," she coos in a sultry whisper. Yes, she can do sultry when she wants to! "So afraid of the dark. Does it feel like it's getting smaller in here? Let me up and I can fix that. But, you see, little boy? I /like/ the dark. And it likes me. And it sees what you do. Always. Let me go and I won't tell anyone what I see."
But she's the link between him and everything he can't see. So he doesn't let go. But his grip becomes less painfully tight and his fingers slip out from between her thighs. That relief can't last long, though. He hauls his paw up and feels around for, her throat, her face, splaying fingers wide to try to grab her by the chin. "Give me light," he snarls, lips curling audibly, spit hissing along his words, "And I'll let you go. Otherwise you're goin' t'stay right here with me." Whether he's found her chin or not by then, R'vain's hand comes away and he twists, reaching behind him, shifting in the chair to try to find the glowbasket with the one paw while trying to keep hold of her with the other.
A standoff. She's not going to give him light until he lets her go and he's not going to let her go until she gives him light. In the back of her mind that evil little voice stirs, but there's no 'help' from there. Oh, no, but it marks the occasion well. It's sad when Miniyal wishes for inner demons. Another deep breath and her head shakes, stopping when his hand finds her chin. "Sure, R'vain," she says all friendly cheer now. "I will happily free you from this dark, cluttered, confined space. As soon as you apologise and swear to never darken my door again. To never /touch/ me again. To never speak to me again." She pauses here and laughs, a deep throaty sound. "And if you lie to me now? Dara knows everything. Every last little black spot on you." One hand curls up as she talks, balling into a fist against her leg to keep it from trembling. So not brave. So trying to fake it. So going to win, dammit.
He clutches her tighter, and ducks his head against her shoulder. His forehead is wet again, draining cold sweat. "What am I apologizing for," he growls into the curve of her collarbone, but now his growls and his breath against her clothing is decidedly unsteamy. He yanks his hand back from behind him, its useless waving impossibly out of reach of the basket, and curls it around her so he has her in a two-armed embrace. "For makin' a deal with you?" The voice is weaker now. If he could see in the dark, he wouldn't be seeing now. His eyes are closed tight. His breath is shallow, panting, and not like he normally pants. Hyperventilating, more like. "I can promise not t'touch you 'less you ask it. I can promise only t'talk t'you as ever I have to. I can't tell you," he can't breathe, dammit. He heaves for breath, having spoken too long and not inhaled in too long. Gasping. "I can't promise you-- " Nope. No good. His arms go loose around her. Into Miniyal's shoulder, the Weyrlingmaster swoons.
Well, this is. . .interesting. Not expected. Interesting. Miniyal blinks, but doesn't move. "Fuck," she whispers to herself, safe enough where no one will hear such unladylike words and tell her mother. "R'vain?" she asks, hesitating. "R'vain? Whatever. . .fuck." Carefully then she slides from his lap. Carefully she reaches past him, one hand on his chest to support him so he doesn't fall. Carefully she opens the basket of glows, right where she left it, no doubts in the dark, but when the light comes she cringes. This went. . .not well. Well, she won, but now she feels bad. So, carefully she stays where she stands, hand on his chest, and watches. For a few moments before she breathes, "You are an infuriating beast and you have not won. Just remember that." More loudly she clears her throat and then snaps the fingers of her free hand. "R'vain," she barks, quietly, but with force. The voice of a librarian, you know. "Get your lazy ass up right now. Ruvoth is waiting for you." Because, the name might help. It has in the past helped some riders. So, may as well try.
It's a shame he's missing her sudden blue streak. But he's definitely missing it. He weighs more than a hundred pounds or more from the waist up and most of that weight wants to slump over, propped up only by her hand, and there is little question that he's blacked out entirely. The good part of this is that he breathes deeply, if roughly, and oxygen might eventually get back around to his brain.
Whether it be the snap, the bark, or the name of his dragon-- something wakes him. And he jolts upright, snarling and wide-eyed, and seconds later is coming up to his feet. A little woozy, still, he grabs the back of the chair and hauls it forward to be his crutch, and glares down at her. Words form and fail on his lips, licked away by a furious tongue. His gaze slips away from her, around, sideways, skittish. He's shaking. And then, with his feet steady beneath him, he's turning to face the way they came back here, prepared to leave without sharing so much as a word.
Luckily for him, Min is not some little girl and she had no trouble holding him up. When he stands she doesn't say a word. When he gets his feet under him? Still nothing. It's only when he starts to leave that she, so very quietly says, "I'm sorry." And then, "I won." Shaking her head she takes up the book to return it to where it belongs. Because he's headed for the end of the aisle same as her she trails along.
He can't speak. Still. It takes all of his effort to breathe. But at the end of the stacks, where the relative open space of the reception and study areas welcome him with relatively breathable air, he stretches out his arms and turns around, then turns again, staring back the way from which he came. Waiting, expression a stuffed blender of curious and irritated and frustrated and weirdly bemused. No rage. Or maybe there is rage, and it doesn't show because he's got such a pallid cast just now.
"Can you make it out alright?" Niya inquires politely. Because Corin raised a polite, well-mannered daughter. Just, said daughter sometimes forgets that. She hangs back, however, not daring to approach too close. Acting, or trying to, like she's doing it for him. No wanting to crowd him, see? So helpful and thoughtful. But she watches him, as if afraid he will fly off the handle, ready to bolt if she has to. To where? She will figure it out. Somewhere. Unable to stop herself teeth worry at her lower lip as she waits for his answer, waits for him to leave so she can run home.
It takes him a few more breaths to get the question out. "What did you win?" And then his expression finally resolves, from all that confused mix of varied things into a simple look: disgust. He turns from her and stalks to the table where he met her, bending there to scoop up the jacket he left behind.
Miniyal trails after a safe distance, shrugging her shoulders at his back. "You wouldn't understand," she answers, sounding unworried about the disgust. "And even if you cared I wouldn't explain." But because she is unable to stop when she should she waits until he has his coat. Until he is heading out from records. "I stood up to you," she tells his back. "I didn't let someone push me around." Another shrug and she heads for where the record came from, steps slow as she forgets as best she can what happened. Just finish up work and go home.
R'vain is, indeed, on his way out. But she doesn't have, apparently, the capacity to keep her mouth shut when it counts. So he's-- this is hard-- on his way back in. Only a couple of steps. Just enough to call out to her. And he calls out loud, too, so better hope her dad's not nearby. Anyone who /is/ gets this earful. "If you say so, babydoll. But if you ask me, you've just got t'where you can only fight back if you're allowed t'use low blows."
Down the aisle she goes, disappearing from sight. But she hears what is said. Which brings a response. Her last one. For real. "Start your life over, weyrlingmaster. Bronzerider. Start it over and live my life and see what you will do for some small victory just for once." That is all she says. To the shelf she goes, record replaced. It's only then she gives in and starts to tremble, self-loathing. A wonderful thing. She retreats into a corner, a different one, to cry silently. Bastard made her cry. But at least he doesn't know.
He doesn't know. Because as soon as she called him 'Bronzerider,' he let out a thick, hot snort of fury and turned, unable to follow her again into the stacks, and left her to her private shadows.