Who Fioreyla, Mathis
What Time for them candidate physicals.
When Day 24 of Month 7 of Turn 2721
Where Central Infirmary, Fort Weyr

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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.


Does Fioreyla look like she's about to fall over? … Yes. Yes she does. You could probably contribute that to any number or reasons, but the most obvious one is that protruding belly, very much ready to drop a baby. SUMMONS HAVE BEEN SENT OUT, CANDIDOOTS HAVE BEEN FOREWARNED OF FATES, and there Fioreyla waits, donning healer garb and in possession of that knot denoting her as a Journeyman, a tiny woman in possession of the knowledge and training to be a trauma healer and sitting on a cot instead, waiting with swinging feet (and her nose buried in a book), for the next UNSUSPECTING VICTIM to be led to her by one of the apprentices manning the front. Also it's snowing. Enjoy that.

Truck, truck, trucking along is Mathis. He's in line with the other candidate, waiting for his turn to be poked and prodded like the rest. Some of those around him look apprehensive, some nervous, a couple like they might bolt for it at any seconds, but not him. The sixteen turn old is cool as a cucumber in ice-water, sighing softly and rocking this way and that as he's jostled from one side or another. Game face on, he steps effortlessly to the front of the cue as the girl in front of him is gathered and lead off into one of the curtained areas, waiting his turn. "They're not going to give us shots are they?" asks someone behind him, setting off a flurry of chattering that makes his head ache. "Yep," Mathis launches over his shoulder, holding up a hand with finger and thumb to indicate about six inches or so, and returns his head forward, crossing his arms over his chest. The stunned gaping silence was silence at least. He enjoys the hell out of that until someone comes and gets him next, leading him off to the cot with the pregnant lady on it. Blink-blink for that.

DOES FIRE LOOK SURPRISED TO SEE MATHIS? Maybe just a touch, for half a milisecond, when she looks up from that book and sees him there, until she's parting with a smile that doesn't seem to want to stay and wiggling awkwardly to try and get BACK OFF THE COT with a flailing limb or five (don't question it, just go with it). But she finds her feet, and she smooths down her clothes, and she turns another smile onto Mathis as one hand gestures towards the bed and the other hastily deposits that book about HOW TO MAIM PEOPLE (it's not actually called that, but it is a surgical text and therefore probably pretty maim-worthy). "H-Hello. I am F-Fioreyla," a heartbeat, as she takes a file from the apprentice who brought Mathis over and violet eye flicker across his name. "M-Mathis. It's a p…mmm. It's a p-pleasure." Awkward doesn't even begin to touch it, and she waits, watching him, wringing her hands as if this is her VERY FIRST TIME AND SHE HAS NO IDEA WHAT SHE'S DOING. Way to inspire confidence in your patients, Fire. Way to inspire. "Could you p-please, ah…" A hesitation, a flush, and Fire mimes the removal of a shirt. "Your s-sh-sh-shirt p-p-please." And now she's looking away, blinking up at the ceiling, CONTINUING TO WRING HER HANDS.

On the other hand, there's Mathis. The boy stands there and practically watches Fioreyla comes apart at the seams and then awkwardly stitch herself back together, blinking a few times, brows lifting or lowering depending on the action, but ultimately there's a whole lot of staring at her. Being a young male woodcrafter and fostered by a woman who'd never had children of her own, he didn't even have the concept of pregnancy brain, nor did he know the healer woman. All he saw, was the crazy. Still, "Are you okay?" he asks, turning sad yet concerned hazel-green eyes on her and is there to help her steady herself if needs be. A knot forms dead center of his eyebrows as she stammers her way through introductions, slinking his way cautiously towards the examination table as she gestures to it, and pulling himself up to sit upon it. Gaze dropped to all that hand wringing and the pantomime of shirt removal, blinking several times when she BLUSHES but following suit by grabbing the bottom of his tunic and lifting it up and over his head. Beneath might not be a dragonrider's physique but it was damned close. Puberty, it seems, had been most kind to this kid. That there, had no business being on a sixteen-turn-old, but that's what he gets for carrying around lumber all the time from one place to another. "Is this your first day?" he asks of her quietly, starting to feel perhaps a little more concerned for himself at this point.

Fioreyla looks much a deer in the headlights when Mathis asks her if she's okay, but she doesn't answer. Instead, she rocks awkwardly on her heels as if she DIDN'T EVEN HEAR HIM AT ALL, and starts to straighten up tools. It also doubles as a distraction for when he removes his shirt and Fire's attention is brought back by his second question. She's still flushing, but at least her eyes are finding his and holding as she blinks once, twice, three times. "I —" a beat, a hesitation and a sway of her body as brows draw in. Is this her first day? IN LIEU OF AN ANSWER, she pushes a stepping stool closer to the teenager and gives herself some height by stepping up on it. Not a word, she leans forward and presses her stethoscope to his chest. "D-deep breath," she instructs instead. But she is wearing her Journeyman's knot, in case Mathis has any doubts. "Are you e-experiencing discomfort a-anywhere?"

For Mathis, there is no struggle to understand, to puzzle Fioreyla out until she made sense to him. The moment that she chooses not to answer him the second time, any traces of worry among his features begins to dissipate, though his eyes never leave her even for a second except when he's removed his shirt that is. He's pale, probably doesn't get a lot of sun, denoting that most of his time was spent indoors but otherwise a visual inspection would suggest he was in good health. There's some scarring on his hands though, all of them long and thin, a few on the back of his hands but denser along his fingers. Some turns old, others in the last one or two, but not atypical of a woodworker. "Okay then," he exhales, leaving her to pull up that stool all by her lonesome, setting his gaze forward as she places the stethoscope against his chest. Doing as instructed, he takes in a breath and lets it out, having noted her Journeyman's knot in passing. Hey, it could be her first day on the job here, he doesn't know and it didn't look as if she was going to answer him even if he asked again. Heartbeat strong, lungs clear, "Nope," he says of discomfort, his expression now completely lax.

'Okay then.' Fioreyla winces, those hands, drop away, and Fire is silent for a long moment as she scribbles something down on paper. THINK, FIRE, THINK. "I l-like the c-color b-black," comes sudden, unbidden, provided even though he didn't ask. "It r-reminds me of… ah…" A beat. "W-well, it's just a g-good color, isn't it?" Like somebody's eyes, like somebody's clothes, like NOT NOW FIRE, STOP IT. "T-the color black is a-actually the absence of c-color. Did you know? It's m-mysterious and u-usually associated with n-negativity and the u-unknown. But it r-represents strength, and s-seriousness, and power. It's v-very formal, and e-elegant, and p-prestigious." FIRE NO, WE'RE NOT DOING THIS. THUMP. That's her maybe applying her stethoscope to his back with a little too much umph. PROBABLY TO SHUT HERSELF UP. "D-dragons," she says then, suddenly, almost frantic. "Do you… Is that… d-do you like them?" What a stupid question, but listen. She realizes she's making him feel like she doesn't want to talk to him and this is how she remedies that. By talking too damn much. Bless. But then she's scribbling something else down and patting the bed behind him. "L-lay for me, please?" Flush. Up her eyes go again, towards the ceiling. "It's v-very white." Sigh.
"W-what's your favorite color?"

The boy's eyes dart to Fioreyla when she randomly drops a personal detail about herself, one ashen brow arching over so slightly, but this develops quickly into profoundly expressed as she just keeps going. Blink. Blink. Shifting his gaze forward again, he allows her ramble on about the color black and it's meaning to her uninterrupted, and it may even appear as if he's completely tuned her out. Although, the thump of the stethoscope head does reclaim his attention, startling him at first and bringing newfound tension to ripple gently across his shoulders briefly. With it, a quick flicker of hazel back the healer's direction, there and gone again in a flash along with the softest of sighs out a "I don't know." in response to the inquiry after his own favorite color. Dragons? Instead of waiting with anticipation for there to be some sort of connective thought associated with yet another randomly interjected noun, Mathis continues on as if she hadn't mentioned brought it up, until such a time as there was something more tangible to go on. "I guess," he breathes out as if he'd just decided on a shade of gray for his cubicle, leaving it at that. Without a fuss, he lays down as she tells him to, arms stretched up over his head and fingers caught on edge of the examination table. That wasn't helping, all of that. No. White? "What is?" he asks the ceiling, hazel eyes drifting unhurriedly back to Fioreyla.

"The ceiling," Fire whispers, hesitating only a moment as violet eyes find hazel, as if she's waiting for something, some kind of validation or reprieve — something that maybe she doesn't find if the way she looks away, cheeks flushed, is indicitive of anything. Fioreyla presses her fingers up along Mathis' stomach once he's down, concentration on her brow, hands gentle but sure in contrast of her entire demeanor. "It's w-white." And she goes quiet, focused on her hands, on the skin beneath them, purely clinical in her interest as she works through the tediousness of motions and then pauses to scribble something down on paper again. NOW SHE'S ALL UP IN HIS EAR, peering in, waddling to the other side, PEERING IN. Scribble. Now Fire is grabbing one of his hands and — a pause, a heartbeat of a moment when violet hues sweep over hands used to working and the gentle pad of a thumb sweeps over the pieces of Mathis' history engraved into his skin. She doesn't say anything, though her brows knit and her gaze comes up, mouth pulling in a way that says maybe she wants to ask him something but is thinking better of it. Instead she presses two of her fingers into his palm and clears her throat. "C-can you s-squeeze for me, please? As h-hard as you c-can."

With that, Mathis exhales with a heaviness just shy of a sigh, not holding Fire's gaze longer than that as it returns to the ceiling above him. Maybe he was fact checking? "Yep," he agrees, "It's white." Now that this had been established on both sides, he does his best to ignore the fact that Fioreyla is palpating his stomach and such, lips soon pressed into a thin white line as his abs tighten and further defines them. There wasn't much in that area that wasn't muscular, perhaps a little bit of extra something-something noted around the love handle region, but that looks to be the last traces of his baby fat rather than anything else. Abdominal pulse and bowel sounds are good, retraction good once pressed through the firmness of that ridiculousness, with Mathis almost looking relieved when she's finished. Considering that his eyes had closed in all that, he startles faintly when she's suddenly all up inside of his ear, nearly jerking away before he stops himself. His hazel-hued gaze was surely on her then, peering at her at the corners, all too soon flickered back up at the undeniably white ceiling. Fingers flex slightly when he feels Fire's thumb brushing over the scars on fingers, ashen lashes lowering some, "I'm a woodcrafter," he voices, even and matter of fact in explanation, rather than let anyone's imagination run wild or anything. Prompted, Mathis indeed squeezes down on the fingers places against his palm, with no qualms about doing so firmly. That there, was a very strong grip.

EXCCCCCCCCCCCELLLLENT. But it's all very tedious work: the eyes next, then his posture, then his spine. She records his height, and takes his weight, and measures his flexibility. It's not until they're done that she's clearing her throat and trying to shake off the vestiges of professionalism, handing him his shirt and looking politely away even if she's trying to conjure up enough spine to ask a proper question. A beat, two, three, four, and: "C-Commissions. I… do you…" Breathe, Fire. "D-do you take c-commissions? I… My h-hus… mm… ma — n-no." The healer closes her eyes, as if she might drown out too many thoughts, too much nervousness, and center herself here, now, to this conversation. "Toys." THERE WE GO. She blinks open her eyes again, a timid smile given as she pushes hair the color of her namesake behind an ear. "I h-have a daughter and…" A press of hand to swollen belly. "A-another child on the way. I w-was wondering if you… you could make them t-toys. O-only if your duties a-allow it of c-course. And… And if you impress a d-dragon then… then of course I…" A shift of her body, more wringing of her hands. "I'm sorry. I-I… nevermind." This time soft, another flicker of a smile that gutters out as quickly as it appears. Because she is aware that she's making a mess of something so simple, and instead she turns back to his file and starts to mark things down. "Y-you're free to go. I will l-let the Weyrlingmaster know you're in g-good health. T-thank you for your time."

Like a trained monkey, Mathis does all the things, following every instruction and weathering every well-meaning poke and prod of his person. Beautiful hazel-green eyes with stellar vision, not too bad posture but he does slouch just a little, height is average with nearly an ideal weight to go along with it, and as it turns out disturbingly flexible. Handed back his shirt, the boy pulls it back on over his head rather mechanically, tugging it back into place as he slides free of the table and back to his feet. He's just about to take his leave when Fioreyla sputters out her request, either assuming everything was hunky dory peachy keen, or not caring about the results of his physical. Brows instantly form a knot the moment 'commission' is a word that registers inside his brain, "I think a better question would be, do you have any samples of your work. I could be rubbish, you know." He's not, by the way, it was just the principle of the thing. Eyes drop to the rotundness of the woman's belly, giving it a nice long gander before he sighs for the rest of her request, this time with considerable heaviness. Slowly he lifts them back upwards, meeting her gaze with his own, his expression unreadable as he waits for her to finish. When she has, "I don't really make things for people anymore, and now that I'm a candidate again I probably won't have a lot of free time to be fooling around like that." Seconds tick by and his lips turn down at the corners, dropping his voice for whatever reason to the most conspiring of volumes, "I'll bring some samples by and if you still want me to make stuff for your kids, we'll go from there." He really didn't care about his check up, because even before Fire can sum up all those things, he's swept aside the curtain and was making his way for the exit.


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