Then. Don't. Go.
Ch'son doesn't kill Vaughan. Gets pretty close though. Kind of.
The docks. They are long flat arrangements of planks of wood arranged between pilings stretching out into the shallow sea, onto which things and people are unloaded from ships and from which people and things are loaded onto ships. They are also where Vaughan works, so it is not surprising that he is working here, during hours that he normally works. He's specifically unloading things from a ship, trudging in the heat up the planks toward shore, one carrier ant in a slow line of many. There's a cart on dry land into which the things carried are placed, things too small to want cranes or hand trucks for their moving. So Vaughan, like most of the others, is headed there, sweating in the sun. One thing is perhaps a little abnormal: the way the dockmaster looks at the dirty dockhand as he passes. Like something ain't right there. But the dockmaster shakes his head and gets on with tallying things brought ashore, because it's not his concern.
This is where Ch'son worked when he first came to the Weyr. Not even three turns ago yet. As the Weyrleader makes his way along the beach and toward the docks, though, there's definitely something in his stride that might suggests he thinks he's risen above this sort of thing now. Considering that this is Chaes, it's quite likely he thinks just that. "Vaughan!" he calls impatiently as he gets closer, skimming his blue-eyed gaze across those nearest to him before casting out along the other workers on the dock. There's a tension in his shoulders that's clear enough considering, as usual, he's lacking a shirt. Surely if this were anything formal he would have bothered getting dressed.
Vaughan's name jerks his head up from its bend and he looks around, up, sideways-- oh. Well, not 'oh,' exactly; his mouth remains a flat line, but the draw of his brows makes his face go from blank to deadly grim. He gives the package he's just put down in the cart a good shove to stick it back against the others and leave ample room for those that will follow, and without looking back he leaves the ant-trail behind. The dockmaster knows what the Weyrleader looks like; if he wonders what his worker's doing, he'll decide to stop wondering pretty soon, when he sees. Vaughan just trudges toward the man who called his name, though along the way he steps out of his sandals and bends to pick them up, like it's better to present yourself to the master of all he sees while barefoot. "Sir," he says, once he's doing just that, face gray and blank.
It's got to say something, anything, for Ch'son self control that he doesn't just take a swing at Vaughan right off. Because he's definitely not pleased. There's a shadow of anger in his usually clear eyes and his fists flex where they stay at his sides. "Explain yourself," he says, voice rumbling evenly. If there were someone around that knew him very well, they might be outright proud of the bronzerider so far!
Vaughan doesn't know him in the least and might be proud anyway, so dismal is his dreadful gray blankness. Not that this conveys pride. It conveys being worthy of a good punching. "Didn't want them hurt," he offers at last, shortspoken but not sullen; the words are willing, if spare. His own hands itch a bit and the sandals tip against his thigh, swinging from fingers that curl and flex in a fidget, not a fist.
It kind of makes Ch'son want to punch him, too, if the way he can't quite relax his right hand is any indication. "So y' fuck with 'em? Damage property 'n piss people off? Real good way a not hurtin' 'em, man." That's sarcasm if there's any question. "And for what? What did you get outta it, huh?" The bronzerider is sounding just slightly less even now, all his previous feelings of being pissed the fuck off seeping back into the fore. His eyes narrow and he turns, jerking his head for the other to follow as he makes his way a little further up the beach and aimed somewhat for the jungle.
"Unharmed whores." What he got out of it. He doesn't say it like he's proud. If Vaughan is relieved that he's going to be killed in the shade rather than the sun, he shows no sign of it. He does drop his sandals and shove his feet into them before following, though, and hurries his steps to catch up in those first few strides. "Chance to explain." A chance he is, of course, expending on two- and four-word remarks of dubious clarity. But he trudges up toward the trees obediently enough.
"You didn't get money? Didn't get some nice piece of ass t' make up for it? Heard it was some kid." Ch'son apparently doesn't seem to think 'some kid' is worth going after, though. The idiot that listened to some kid is much more worthwhile for him, the model citizen of the Weyr that he is himself. Once they pass into the trees and a few steps further, Ch'son pauses, lifting a hand to rub over his face. "Anything else y' wanna tell me?" Now that they're somewhere slightly more private?
"There'll be money if the marks stay put, I'm told. That can go back to the Seven. Don't want it." As for ass, well-- Vaughan's got an answer on his mouth, but holds it back when the weyrleader raises a hand to his face and looks, to a dockhand's eyes, more tired than furious. So the dockhand steps around, coming to the other man's forward side, his own expression involving a furrowing of sandy brows that might approach a frown. "Young adult," he says, instead of what he'd have said before, and didn't. "Tss." Plural.
"More?" is Ch'son's first impulse to question about the money. Beneath the still agitated rumble of his voice there's something almost vaguely hopeful about the prospect that might bring. "I don't want this shit in my Weyr. Do y' understand? This is /my/ Weyr. These are /my/ people. And I don't want other people fuckin' with them." Which... probably isn't to say that Ch'son plans on fucking with them either. Not in that sense, at least. "Somethin' happens like this again or anythin' else gets fucked up around here, I don't even care if you're not around. I'll find you and I'll hurt you." There's a pause of silence to let that sink in before he continues, "And y' /will/ report to me if these 'young adults' come wantin' your services again."
Vaughan has no idea what 'more?' means and that's written on his face, at least as plainly as anything's ever been written there; to be fair, the hand is a subtle one. It pushes up his brows and widens his eyes and purses his lips, but not much else. And even that much could look a little like rising indignation, which he has lack of wisdom enough to give into eventually and let out in a long, drawling stream of words, as many as he has breath to give in one go: "Less I been lied to it's comin' you want it or not. Yeah, I'll report. Then you can try an' stop it." His mouth stops closed, his brows sinking again. He was stoic before; he is irritable, now.
Both of them being obviously irritated might be a little less conducive to fists staying where they are. "Y' got somethin' more y' wanna say?" Ch'son asks, taking a step toward the smaller man like some sort of challenge to push him. No one ever said that the bronzerider was especially good in any sort of leading capacity. "I don't wanna see you around the Seven for awhile," he says finally, like he knows there's probably some reason, other than just whores or booze or cards, that the other might want to be there.
Dockhands are well advised not to make too many violent moves on weyrleaders, but Vaughan permits himself a step that closes out some more of the space that Ch'son squeezed with his own advance. He's squinting now, and not like a distant sunstruck smile, either. More like a grimace that's turning fast into a sneer when the Weyrleader comes out with his remark about the Seven. At that, Vaughan's nostrils have the surprising decency to flare; his eyes sharpen hard without widening in the least. "Then." It's like he's already been hit, the words come out in violent, heavy splats like coughed-up blood. "Don't. Go."
And of course Ch'son would smile. Now that he's hit on something that bothers Vaughan, he almost seems to encourage more than just words coming out violent. "Oh, I'll be goin'. A lot. And I'll make sure y' don't get close t' the place." The look that he gives the other man is somewhere along the 'keep going, see where it gets you' track as Ch'son lifts a hand to press fingers toward Vaughan's chest to try making him back up.
Vaughan's sandals aren't good traction and he has to check his stance to keep it, but after that adjustment he does, in fact, keep it. His squint's twitching, the muscles that hold it practiced but enraged. "Because that's what a weyrleader does," hisses the dockhand, with enough spit in 'weyrleader' to disrespect not just the man but the rank itself above and above just Ch'son. But that could be a subtlety lost on an angry man. "Guard a whorehouse /after/ it's been knocked over. D'you guard on your back or on your knees?"
That smile Ch'son was wearing sticks but there's a slightly ugly, telling twist to the corners as his temper is prodded into action. Like a wound up spring, a fist cuts up toward the dockhand's gut, all his pent up tension and anger driving the power behind the blow. He still manages to spit back whether that connects or not, "I like t' fuck 'em from behind. Ain't like I'm payin' /them/ t' have a good time."
Vaughan takes the blow, but it is not entirely unexpected and the stomach Ch'son's fist meets is hardened with anticipation. It guards part, but not all, of the dockhand's breath, and after part of his air's been kicked out of him he sucks some in. "What're they paying you for," he spits almost immediately, lifting a loose fist and shaking it beside his shoulder like, am I giving this to you? Or am I fighting the weyrleader and I ought to know better? But he doesn't get that courteous about his words, since he's still got breath enough to spew them. "T'be lookin' at th'backs of their heads while th'/real/ rapists come and hammer your weyr?"
Right now Ch'son isn't exactly giving off a lot of Weyrleader-y vibes but it's not like he's going to cast off whatever advantages he can get, either. There isn't a crowd of paying onlookers here to cry foul on anything, after all. If his hand hurts after that, he gives no indication and he doesn't seem set on giving the other much more space, either. "/Real/ rapists," Ch'son repeats, winding up more than down now that the first punch has been thrown. "'n who're those supposed t' be, eh? You? Your 'young adults?'
"Jackasses who made 'em think they'd get killed if I turned 'em in." Vaughan's still spitty, still outraged in his very squinty, sneering, nasty way-- but the fist by his shoulder uncurls into a claw of bent fingers, then reforms into a first-finger point that he jabs at Ch'son. "You want to know who they are might want to think about what you're guarding. And leave th'fucking marks alone."
That, for some reason, has confusion flickering across the bronzerider's face. It's an odd addition to the still very present anger. Maybe he forgot what they were actually talking about for a moment there. He's not exactly known for being the brightest star in the sky. Mention of the marks in particular eases at least some of his need to crowd, though he tries to accomplish distance by shoving the other away. "Who'd get killed? You want me t' just let the marks walk?" Incredulity mixes with his anger and now impatience. Ch'son glances away and there's a distracted look on his face, probably something anyone that's spent any time with riders can guess at. Talking to his lifemate.
Vaughan is shoved, and this time he takes a step back, clearing some space. "The kids. They ain't kids, they're just-- fuck, sir, /kids./" You know, impetuous young people who aren't fully responsible for what they do? But the dockhand of few words hasn't got those words, and sputters spittingly for a moment in frustration. "Yes. Let 'em walk. They're marked, man. If you have any friends anywhere. Bitra? Maybe? You'll find out where they /go./" If he wasn't aware of that unbright-star reputation prior, he's coming to that conclusion now; half of his frustration is now with Himself over there, not just himself over here.
Because Ch'son really seems like a guy that would have a lot of friends, right? He just nods, though, looks like he might move toward Vaughan again with a twitch of a sneer before he stops himself. "I'm not done with you," he says, pointing a finger before he's turning to... leave? That's certainly what it seems like since he's heading off in the general direction of the Weyr proper now. Whether he expects the other to follow is kind of unclear but it seems unlikely at this point.
"I ain't staying here til you are," says Vaughan. "Got work to do. Know where t'find me." And after a moment to see if this will have him roped and hauled along, he turns away, to go back to the work the docks have for him, waiting.
The docks. They are long flat arrangements of planks of wood arranged between pilings stretching out into the shallow sea, onto which things and people are unloaded from ships and from which people and things are loaded onto ships. They are also where Vaughan works, so it is not surprising that he is working here, during hours that he normally works. He's specifically unloading things from a ship, trudging in the heat up the planks toward shore, one carrier ant in a slow line of many. There's a cart on dry land into which the things carried are placed, things too small to want cranes or hand trucks for their moving. So Vaughan, like most of the others, is headed there, sweating in the sun. One thing is perhaps a little abnormal: the way the dockmaster looks at the dirty dockhand as he passes. Like something ain't right there. But the dockmaster shakes his head and gets on with tallying things brought ashore, because it's not his concern.
This is where Ch'son worked when he first came to the Weyr. Not even three turns ago yet. As the Weyrleader makes his way along the beach and toward the docks, though, there's definitely something in his stride that might suggests he thinks he's risen above this sort of thing now. Considering that this is Chaes, it's quite likely he thinks just that. "Vaughan!" he calls impatiently as he gets closer, skimming his blue-eyed gaze across those nearest to him before casting out along the other workers on the dock. There's a tension in his shoulders that's clear enough considering, as usual, he's lacking a shirt. Surely if this were anything formal he would have bothered getting dressed.
Vaughan's name jerks his head up from its bend and he looks around, up, sideways-- oh. Well, not 'oh,' exactly; his mouth remains a flat line, but the draw of his brows makes his face go from blank to deadly grim. He gives the package he's just put down in the cart a good shove to stick it back against the others and leave ample room for those that will follow, and without looking back he leaves the ant-trail behind. The dockmaster knows what the Weyrleader looks like; if he wonders what his worker's doing, he'll decide to stop wondering pretty soon, when he sees. Vaughan just trudges toward the man who called his name, though along the way he steps out of his sandals and bends to pick them up, like it's better to present yourself to the master of all he sees while barefoot. "Sir," he says, once he's doing just that, face gray and blank.
It's got to say something, anything, for Ch'son self control that he doesn't just take a swing at Vaughan right off. Because he's definitely not pleased. There's a shadow of anger in his usually clear eyes and his fists flex where they stay at his sides. "Explain yourself," he says, voice rumbling evenly. If there were someone around that knew him very well, they might be outright proud of the bronzerider so far!
Vaughan doesn't know him in the least and might be proud anyway, so dismal is his dreadful gray blankness. Not that this conveys pride. It conveys being worthy of a good punching. "Didn't want them hurt," he offers at last, shortspoken but not sullen; the words are willing, if spare. His own hands itch a bit and the sandals tip against his thigh, swinging from fingers that curl and flex in a fidget, not a fist.
It kind of makes Ch'son want to punch him, too, if the way he can't quite relax his right hand is any indication. "So y' fuck with 'em? Damage property 'n piss people off? Real good way a not hurtin' 'em, man." That's sarcasm if there's any question. "And for what? What did you get outta it, huh?" The bronzerider is sounding just slightly less even now, all his previous feelings of being pissed the fuck off seeping back into the fore. His eyes narrow and he turns, jerking his head for the other to follow as he makes his way a little further up the beach and aimed somewhat for the jungle.
"Unharmed whores." What he got out of it. He doesn't say it like he's proud. If Vaughan is relieved that he's going to be killed in the shade rather than the sun, he shows no sign of it. He does drop his sandals and shove his feet into them before following, though, and hurries his steps to catch up in those first few strides. "Chance to explain." A chance he is, of course, expending on two- and four-word remarks of dubious clarity. But he trudges up toward the trees obediently enough.
"You didn't get money? Didn't get some nice piece of ass t' make up for it? Heard it was some kid." Ch'son apparently doesn't seem to think 'some kid' is worth going after, though. The idiot that listened to some kid is much more worthwhile for him, the model citizen of the Weyr that he is himself. Once they pass into the trees and a few steps further, Ch'son pauses, lifting a hand to rub over his face. "Anything else y' wanna tell me?" Now that they're somewhere slightly more private?
"There'll be money if the marks stay put, I'm told. That can go back to the Seven. Don't want it." As for ass, well-- Vaughan's got an answer on his mouth, but holds it back when the weyrleader raises a hand to his face and looks, to a dockhand's eyes, more tired than furious. So the dockhand steps around, coming to the other man's forward side, his own expression involving a furrowing of sandy brows that might approach a frown. "Young adult," he says, instead of what he'd have said before, and didn't. "Tss." Plural.
"More?" is Ch'son's first impulse to question about the money. Beneath the still agitated rumble of his voice there's something almost vaguely hopeful about the prospect that might bring. "I don't want this shit in my Weyr. Do y' understand? This is /my/ Weyr. These are /my/ people. And I don't want other people fuckin' with them." Which... probably isn't to say that Ch'son plans on fucking with them either. Not in that sense, at least. "Somethin' happens like this again or anythin' else gets fucked up around here, I don't even care if you're not around. I'll find you and I'll hurt you." There's a pause of silence to let that sink in before he continues, "And y' /will/ report to me if these 'young adults' come wantin' your services again."
Vaughan has no idea what 'more?' means and that's written on his face, at least as plainly as anything's ever been written there; to be fair, the hand is a subtle one. It pushes up his brows and widens his eyes and purses his lips, but not much else. And even that much could look a little like rising indignation, which he has lack of wisdom enough to give into eventually and let out in a long, drawling stream of words, as many as he has breath to give in one go: "Less I been lied to it's comin' you want it or not. Yeah, I'll report. Then you can try an' stop it." His mouth stops closed, his brows sinking again. He was stoic before; he is irritable, now.
Both of them being obviously irritated might be a little less conducive to fists staying where they are. "Y' got somethin' more y' wanna say?" Ch'son asks, taking a step toward the smaller man like some sort of challenge to push him. No one ever said that the bronzerider was especially good in any sort of leading capacity. "I don't wanna see you around the Seven for awhile," he says finally, like he knows there's probably some reason, other than just whores or booze or cards, that the other might want to be there.
Dockhands are well advised not to make too many violent moves on weyrleaders, but Vaughan permits himself a step that closes out some more of the space that Ch'son squeezed with his own advance. He's squinting now, and not like a distant sunstruck smile, either. More like a grimace that's turning fast into a sneer when the Weyrleader comes out with his remark about the Seven. At that, Vaughan's nostrils have the surprising decency to flare; his eyes sharpen hard without widening in the least. "Then." It's like he's already been hit, the words come out in violent, heavy splats like coughed-up blood. "Don't. Go."
And of course Ch'son would smile. Now that he's hit on something that bothers Vaughan, he almost seems to encourage more than just words coming out violent. "Oh, I'll be goin'. A lot. And I'll make sure y' don't get close t' the place." The look that he gives the other man is somewhere along the 'keep going, see where it gets you' track as Ch'son lifts a hand to press fingers toward Vaughan's chest to try making him back up.
Vaughan's sandals aren't good traction and he has to check his stance to keep it, but after that adjustment he does, in fact, keep it. His squint's twitching, the muscles that hold it practiced but enraged. "Because that's what a weyrleader does," hisses the dockhand, with enough spit in 'weyrleader' to disrespect not just the man but the rank itself above and above just Ch'son. But that could be a subtlety lost on an angry man. "Guard a whorehouse /after/ it's been knocked over. D'you guard on your back or on your knees?"
That smile Ch'son was wearing sticks but there's a slightly ugly, telling twist to the corners as his temper is prodded into action. Like a wound up spring, a fist cuts up toward the dockhand's gut, all his pent up tension and anger driving the power behind the blow. He still manages to spit back whether that connects or not, "I like t' fuck 'em from behind. Ain't like I'm payin' /them/ t' have a good time."
Vaughan takes the blow, but it is not entirely unexpected and the stomach Ch'son's fist meets is hardened with anticipation. It guards part, but not all, of the dockhand's breath, and after part of his air's been kicked out of him he sucks some in. "What're they paying you for," he spits almost immediately, lifting a loose fist and shaking it beside his shoulder like, am I giving this to you? Or am I fighting the weyrleader and I ought to know better? But he doesn't get that courteous about his words, since he's still got breath enough to spew them. "T'be lookin' at th'backs of their heads while th'/real/ rapists come and hammer your weyr?"
Right now Ch'son isn't exactly giving off a lot of Weyrleader-y vibes but it's not like he's going to cast off whatever advantages he can get, either. There isn't a crowd of paying onlookers here to cry foul on anything, after all. If his hand hurts after that, he gives no indication and he doesn't seem set on giving the other much more space, either. "/Real/ rapists," Ch'son repeats, winding up more than down now that the first punch has been thrown. "'n who're those supposed t' be, eh? You? Your 'young adults?'
"Jackasses who made 'em think they'd get killed if I turned 'em in." Vaughan's still spitty, still outraged in his very squinty, sneering, nasty way-- but the fist by his shoulder uncurls into a claw of bent fingers, then reforms into a first-finger point that he jabs at Ch'son. "You want to know who they are might want to think about what you're guarding. And leave th'fucking marks alone."
That, for some reason, has confusion flickering across the bronzerider's face. It's an odd addition to the still very present anger. Maybe he forgot what they were actually talking about for a moment there. He's not exactly known for being the brightest star in the sky. Mention of the marks in particular eases at least some of his need to crowd, though he tries to accomplish distance by shoving the other away. "Who'd get killed? You want me t' just let the marks walk?" Incredulity mixes with his anger and now impatience. Ch'son glances away and there's a distracted look on his face, probably something anyone that's spent any time with riders can guess at. Talking to his lifemate.
Vaughan is shoved, and this time he takes a step back, clearing some space. "The kids. They ain't kids, they're just-- fuck, sir, /kids./" You know, impetuous young people who aren't fully responsible for what they do? But the dockhand of few words hasn't got those words, and sputters spittingly for a moment in frustration. "Yes. Let 'em walk. They're marked, man. If you have any friends anywhere. Bitra? Maybe? You'll find out where they /go./" If he wasn't aware of that unbright-star reputation prior, he's coming to that conclusion now; half of his frustration is now with Himself over there, not just himself over here.
Because Ch'son really seems like a guy that would have a lot of friends, right? He just nods, though, looks like he might move toward Vaughan again with a twitch of a sneer before he stops himself. "I'm not done with you," he says, pointing a finger before he's turning to... leave? That's certainly what it seems like since he's heading off in the general direction of the Weyr proper now. Whether he expects the other to follow is kind of unclear but it seems unlikely at this point.
"I ain't staying here til you are," says Vaughan. "Got work to do. Know where t'find me." And after a moment to see if this will have him roped and hauled along, he turns away, to go back to the work the docks have for him, waiting.