Who Fioreyla, Kezresan
What Fire disrupts Kezresan's peace and talks about biting.
Where Central Infirmary, Fort Weyr


Fort Weyr - Central Infirmary
This room looks fairly similar to most other infirmaries, with it's faint scent of antiseptic and an eerie quiet that goes along with convalescence. Rows of cots line both walls, each separated by a privacy screen. Breaking the line of cots along the outside wall is a entrance to the dragonhealing section of the infirmary. The far end of the oval room is filled with metal cabinets that hold the tools of the Weyrhealers trade, as well as a desk from which the healer can supervise his domain. Upon one wall rests a thick 'chart' containing the information on all patients within the infirmary.

The morning is a quiet time in the infirmary, with little to do besides review charts, inventory supplies, study or day-dream. Later, after the Weyr has fully woken up and mischief begins, there will be patients to attend to; routine exams and walk-in injuries, and all sorts of other Healery-shenanigans that, hopefully, don't get too dramatic. But while things are slow, Kezresan has taken to reviewing charts in an endless and exhaustive attempt to learn about these people he is now (partially) responsible for. At least some of them are likely to pass through the doors on his watch; some of them will be assigned as patients. And he might as well try to learn names and conditions while he can. So head down, hunched over a folder with elbows thunked solidly on the wooden desk beneath him, he reads.

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN A QUIET MORNING, if not for one FIOREYLA to ruin all that blissful silence. Marchisas, true to his unpleasantly vindictive nature, has seen fit to punish Fioreyla by making the senior apprentice do something she's not very good at: PEOPLE. The clatter of a tray behind a privacy curtain is certainly not a sound those who frequent Fort's infirmary are unaccustomed to, but it's hard to tell if the sudden surge of a voice increasing with anger is the cause of a tray dropped, or the effect. Either way, Fire's response is too quiet to be heard even if Patient Zero's agitation increases tenfold - and then grows abruptly louder with a howl of sound that's part indignation, part fury, part a slew of unflattering names aimed belligerently at the redheaded healer. WORRY NOT. Fire's coming back out from around the curtain with tray in hand, an emptied needle settled on top of it, relief and perhaps just a touch of exhaustion momentarily presented on her expression as she moves to put things back where she got them from. Then she's moving slowly towards Kezresan, trepidation commandeering what was only moments ago relief as she makes an awkward gesture to a chart. "I just…" And then she just TAKES IT, so that she can scribble a medication, a date, a time, while He Behind The Curtain slowly hushes to a hiss of angry mumbles with a few words notable between. "G-Good m-morning, Kezresan," comes squeaky quiet, just as Fire places the chart back where she got it from SO AWKWARD. SO VERY AWKWARD.

He has not been here long. Perhaps a sevenday at Fort. Maybe a day or two, officially, in the infirmary. But even Kezresan is no longer surprised nor overly concerned with the clattering of dropped items. A hand lifts; fingers to temple in a universal signal for mild irritation and HEADACHES, though he does, however, manage to contain any sounds of disapproval to that of a longer-than-necessary exhale. It's breathed out and consequently terminated before the howl of displeasure that indicates lack of appreciation for healerly-ministrations brings brown eyes up and tips his gaze ever-so-briefly in the direction of that curtain. A press of lips but really… NOT his patient. NOT his apprentice. And therefore NOT HIS PROBLEM even if there's an innate sense of wanting to step in. But he resists, valiantly, because two days is simply NOT enough time to start sticking his nose into everyone's business like that. And he has a chart to read. So back to that, as Fire emerges as the apparent victor, leaving her less than pleasant patient behind to calm the eff down or die a slow death. Whichever. Fingers poised at a page, just about to turn that sucker and get a peek at what's beneath, when hands are darting out to rudely STEAL the object of his attention. Cue another sigh; soft and subtle and mostly masked as simply a breathy exhale. "Good morning, Fioreyla," because we are all about those full-names up in here. And then fingers thread together, hands are placed on the desk, and brown eyes watch that red-head with focused intent. Patiently (or not so) waiting for the return of his chart.

Does Fioreyla sign off on her name with a heart? Yes, yes she does; the redhead focuses on her scrawl, making all of those girlish loops and dots unmistakably effeminate — and legible (which is sort of a bonus when you work in the field that they do, even if the chicken-scratch of every other healer to walk the planet certainly becomes easily deciphered with constant exposure). It’s a quiet smile that chases that heart after her name, dissipating when violet eyes come up to focus on Kezresan, when she makes note of the fact that his focus is on her, INTENTLY, and he probably wants his chart back. Color spreads over her cheeks, fluster gaining momentum despite the fact that it’s not an appreciative (or perhaps because it’s not) expression from the journeyman before her. “Oh, I-I-I’m s-sorry. I j-just w-wanted to f-fill this out. I-It’s important,” he knows, Fire, “b-because everybody should k-know w-what was given and when.” Shoot her. She maybe looks a little like she realizes she just explained away the obvious to somebody who outranks her, but that’s Fire for you: full of useless facts that come out en mass when she is nervous. “S-Sorry,” she says more softly (which is admirable, because she already squeaks and has such a tiny voice to begin with). Still, she holds out the file for Kezresan to take, hoping that the half-smile (that screams embarrassment) on her lips communicates the proper amount of chagrin. “H-he likes to lie to p-people about when he gets his d-doses. So I…” Hands splay in a helpless gesture, and then Fire drops her eyes, fingers finding the hem of her tunic to curl and twist in as she forces herself to turn away from Kezresan to look at rows of beds and privacy curtains. COME ON, FIRE. YOU GOT THIS. “Snow.” What? “D-Do you l-like it?” Squeak. Well, at least she’s trying to make some kind of conversation.

Did she… she did. She signed her name with a heart. There’s definitely an eyebrow raised for that one, though Kezresan refrains from comment. A soft sound of exasperation, and a pointed look, is what meets Fioreyla when she glances up. “Mmhmm,” offered for the explanation of chart-theft. It’s not impolite, though there’s definitely a sense of ‘humoring her’ rather than actual agreement. Long fingers reach out to draw the file back to his person when next he’s able, sliding it around as if he means to check up on her work. “No apology necessary,” and then, perhaps blessedly, that focused gaze of his drops to the actual chart, skimming across previous history and recently-added, flowery-swirly-heart-signed additions. A stark contrast, that loopy-script against Kezresan’s own neat, sharp and tiny print; written as if he can’t be bothered with extra motions. At least his own is also legible (probably hasn’t been in the field long enough to learn that all-important skill of producing illegible chicken scratch. “I see,” for liking to lie to people, and there’s another flickering glance up, first to Fiore and then to the curtain that separates this especially difficult patient from view. “I’m not going to bite,” offered with another drop of his gaze to the chart. For all intents and purposes, he’s reading the thing. But the question of snow has him frowning for a different reason. “Uh…” is that a normal question? Is this what NORMAL people talk about? Kez wouldn’t know, but he’s game to try. “It has its merits, I suppose.” A heartbeat. Two. A silence that sort of stretches uncomfortably before he thinks to ask, “Do you?” Like snow.

SHE SURE DID SIGN HER NAME WITH A HEART, and for as inept as Fioreyla may be in the department of humans and just how one is supposed to interact with them, there's certainly no missing Kezresan's pointed looks, or those soft sounds of exasperation — so Fire shifts, booted toes crossing over booted toes, gaze dropping, hands coming together before her where the fingers of her right arm curl around her left and rub in a gesture probably meant to physically realign herself mentally. A beat, two, three, and Fire's blinking up for comments about not biting, her mouth coming open as if she means to say something and can't quite think of the right words, lingering that way for one, two, three heartbeats until she does that thing she always seems to do when she's at a loss: she becomes a walking encyclopedia of pointless facts. "D-did you know that t-tooth enamel is the hardest s-substance in the human b-body? And d-depending on which hand is your more d-dominant one, we tend to c-chew on that side?" Shut up, Fire. "S-so if you bit me, you'd use your - " A beat. "Y-you w-wouldn't bite me though. That's w-what… that's what you said." BREATHE, FIRE. So she drops her gaze again, looks to the ceiling and perhaps jumps a little too eagerly on the topic of snow because it's a safe topic, and not one she's likely to go sideways over. "Ah - y-yes! Yes, I… I do enjoy the s-snow. It's… it's cold though." Okay, so maybe it's not such a safe topic, but she tries, clapping her hands together as if she's just been struck by an idea. "D-Do you know what s-snow becomes when it m-melts, sir?"

While predominantly confused (and plainly showing it in the slow-drifting eyebrows that knot and furrow aforementioned expression), at least Kezresan is patient enough through that whole 'biting' thing. Just ignore the 'Yes, I know that,' murmured someone quickly beneath his breath for talk of enamel, because it's apparently essential for her to know that he knows healer things too. Huff. Grump. Moving on now. "As I am ambidextrous, I could bite you equally well with either side of my mouth," offered oh-so casually. "But more than likely, I would employ the central and lateral incisors," front teeth, "as attempting to get you with the molars would require a great deal of struggle and is not worth the effort. Either way," back to the point, "I am not going to bite you." And perhaps they ought to move on from teeth and the application of them to parts of the body, and talk about snow instead. Or… what snow becomes. That frown though; definitely confused and somewhat questioning (of Fire's sanity? Of his own? People are so confusing!). "Is that… a real question?" because it seems pretty obvious what snow becomes when it melts. "Water." Frown. "Is there something wrong with water?"

For what it's worth, Fire looks invested in the science of it all, nodding her head as Kezresan speaks, looking as though she means to emphasize his correctness with her agreement even if the topic of teeth is moot because of course Kezresan isn't going to bite her and - oh no, Fire's blushing again. At least she swallows down trepidation, or nervousness, or whatever it is that drives Fioreyla to be so… well… Fioreyla and forces a smile instead. It's painful, really, the kind that speaks to discomfort and not knowing what to do, one that perhaps grows as Kezresan asks if that's real question before he answers. And then, against all odds, Fire is laughing. It's not cruel laughter; it's hushed and delighted, transforming that smile into something more muted, something honest, something that hints to the person Fioreyla might just be capable of being beneath all the clumsiness and rapid fire information: kind, gentle, accepting. "Spring," she tells him, cheeks flushed. "It turns into Spring." But then Marchisas is coming through the doors and Fire's smile goes tight again as the Journeyman comes closer with a scathing drawl of, "Slacking again, Fioreyla?" The apprentice opens her mouth to speak, but Marchisas silences her with a raise of his hand and a sideways glance for Kezresan. "Journeyman," comes gruff, a greeting as much as an acknowledgement before he zeros in on Fire once more. "Get your things, we have a consult." And Fire's moving, tripping over herself with a, "Y-yes s-sir!" that earns more ire from the Journeyman. "And try not to break anything this time - or embarrass yourself." It earns another frantic agreement, and then Fire's gathering books to hold close to her chest, dipping into several bows as she moves past Kezresan's desk. "T-Thank you for the c-conver -" "Fire." A blush, another dip of her body, and Fire's following Marchisas back out again.

Well, at least she's not weirded out and giving him looks that suggest a restraining order might be coming his way (hasn't happened yet, but then again, it's ONLY his first week!). Best to move on from the discussion of teeth and biting people, before someone overhears and decides they're having illicit conversations at work. So discussions of snow instead. Snow, that definitely turns into water, even if that is not the proper answer. Cue laughter from the apprentice, and startled confusion from the journeyman, who just stares at Fioreyla for a moment. And then there is a protest on his lips, something about 'snow does not melt into a season' because of technicalities. She's saved (or maybe it's Kez that is saved) from the budding counter-argument by the appearance of Marchisas, who calls Fioreyla to task and draws a frown (all of the frowns today, really. He's going to get wrinkles) from Kez. "Sir," offered in response, because WHY name titles twice? Just seemed silly. But a proper response is still due, and so it comes in that single syllable and a bob of his head, brown eyes tracking progress as Fire leaps to attention and abandons him at the desk. "Good bye, Fioreyla," offered for her 'thanks'. Gaze once more tracks the exit of the pair, but whatever his thoughts might be on the matter are kept to himself; expression neutral save for that apparently ever-present frown pulling at the corners of his mouth and producing premature wrinkles across his forehead. And then back to that chart audit he goes.

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