Who A'ster, Thys
What Tempers tempered.
When Spring, Turn 2711
Where Tír na nÓg (Thys's weyr), Fort Weyr

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Fort Weyr - Tir Na nOg
Located in the administration complex, this ledge is reached by walking up stone stairs carved into the bowl wall, passing several other ledges before reaching the wide tongue of stone that shapes this one. Worn smooth by centuries of time, wind, rain and dragon hide, its finish is almost glossy, shimmering with minerals deep within the basalt. The ledge transitions into a massive cave that shelters the queen's wallow, and from there there is a sturdy wooden door that leads to the inner weyr.

Step inside, and you'll find that, as with any of Fort's leadership weyrs, this one is spacious and well appointed. Already furnished with fine hardwood furnishings, the new occupant is of course welcome to alter things. A sitting area cozies up to the large fireplace, stones from the mountains creating the facade and the hearth. There is a small kitchenette with simple storage and workspace, and further back is a nook that could easily be used as an office, complete with a rod for hanging a curtain. The far back of the cave has a small hallway, through which the modest bedroom and precious bathing chamber are located, the bath carved into the floor itself with running hot and cold water.
All that being said, this weyr is /cramped/. Not that it's full of furniture, but it's full of /stuff/. There's a bookshelf overflowing with old books and records, half of them nearly disintegrated and most of them being based in poetry. Shelves are crammed full of knick-knacks and various other *things*, stuff piled upon stuff piled upon stuff. No doubt there are treasures hidden within, but it'll take a lot of time to sort through it all and find things worth keeping. Might be easier just to chuck the lot.

This scene follows on from this log: Bossyface McGoldriderpants and Blondie Make a Mistake? (Leimna is Searched!).

Leimna. Sygni. Faranth. After escorting the girls to the barracks and being severely tempted to use the two long staffs she was carrying with her, Thys trudges her muddy, slightly bruised self up the steps to her weyr. The staffs are tapped in frustration against the ground with every step she takes, echoing in Rhenesath's couch before she pushes open the door to the inside and let's out a roar of frustration. "A'ster?!" It's less spoken, more yelled as she goes through to the kitchenette, where she can fix herself a tumbler of Cromese Curse. Maybe the brownrider's here already. Maybe not. Either way, with a slightly shaking hand, Thys pours a second glass of whisky for him while she knocks back her own, with one staff tucked into the crook of her arm, and the other held tightly - white knuckle tight - in her hand.

There are signs that the brownrider is here, and considering the unprintable snarl of acknowledgement he slung back through Akleteyth mind-bridge, they are impeccably polite. His boots are the worst of it, outside the door to the weyr proper; the weyr itself is clean, save for a number of half-dry mud clumps just inside the privacy the door affords. It isn’t an easy trail to follow: A’ster clearly took care to drop as little on her floors as possible. IT is a rather unerring line, once the provenance has been discovered. Near the bath, his uniform is folded — inside out, and with the cleaner piece at the bottom of the stack. The brownrider nowhere in obvious sight, but there is a note — a piece of paper ripped from one of the notebooks he always has on him — on top of the folded clothes. It consists entirely of an arrow, pointing at the bath.

Only when she's drunk her whisky and set the glass down does Thys reach out to Rhenesath to confirm with Akleteyth where his rider is. "Here?" She's surprised to hear it, and it's not until she steps around the kitchen counter that she spots the mud trail. Following it, without regards to whatever mud drops off her own mucky clothes, she enters the bathing room, spies the clothes, the note… and goes to peer over the edge of the pool. There he is. Underwater. She says nothing as she moves around the edge until she's standing behind him… then she drives her long staff right down into the water between his legs (his lower thighs to be precise, not trying to hurt him), where it'll strike the bottom with a thud. And she holds it there, waiting for him to surface, with a scowl on her face.

Okay wow yes well, THAT clearly wasn’t how A’ster was planning for this to go — his plan involved more surfacing at the end of being able to hold his breath, bellowing her name, and immediately jamming himself back underwater like a sulky toddler Atlantean, or something. One part stays the same, though: the bellowing. It’s not, unfortunately, a terribly attractive one: his head breaks the surface of the water, he articulately and calmly informs her, “HWARGH.” He also turns as he does, fists automatically up and defensive — and then dropping about an inch — but not away entirely — when he sees it’s her. “What the fuck, goldrider!” His hair, as he hasn’t bothered to shove it out of his face, covers his eyes and about halfway down his nose, and is still streaming water. He combats this with a, “Hfftttsspppt” as he tries to blow some of the water away without. Actually doing much more than making it make him make a stupid noise.

Sure, Thys was expecting a strong reaction… but fists in her face? They make her flinch, though she does try hard not to show it. She leans on the long staff, breath trembling with adrenaline from the scare she's just had, and from the frustration and annoyance of dealing with those girls. "A'ster." It's a loaded two syllables, as she looks down at him sternly. "Did I invite you to my weyr, or to my bath?" She reaches out with the hand not clutching the staff, so she can sweep some of that hair back from his eyes… giving it a little tug as she does so. "What are you doing naked in my weyr." No question there as the inflection is absent, and Thys doesn't even try to hide the fact that she is taking a long moment to check him out. Who wouldn't? When her eyes make it back up to his, she cants her head slightly to one side, taps her foot just once - it catches in the water-splash from A'ster's rapid pool ascent and spreads mud across the floor - to show her irritation. With everything.

A’ster is still panting as he looks at her, a little dumbfounded-confused by her question, but he fully lowers his fists and consciously unfists his hands as he says, “My weyr. Now.” He doesn’t imitate her voice — he’s not a mimic, and it would just end up insulting — but he’s a dead-on match for tone and cadence. The sweep and tug of his hair isn’t enough — the day has just been too much — to have all the wire-strung tension ease out of his entire goddamn body, but it’s enough that he unclenches enough to follow the movement with his head,and the unfairly thick line of his eyelashes to lower fractionally, almost but not quite enough to make him have to look through them at her. He does gesture, though, one of those wide shrugs that’s all bunchy shoulder muscle and arms held out to the side, palms of his hands up. “So. Yes.” As for the invitation to her bath? He makes sure he’s got her attention on his eyes, Thys, his eyes are up here, then pointedly looks down at the water, where her foot-tapping is spreading more mud than anything he’s done. Then looks back up at her face, both eyebrows raised. Ask an obvious question, get a well-duh answer.

Thys could argue. She's even got a big stick to back her argument up, which she pulls out of the water so she can rest it against the wall, instead of leaning on it. "Not what I intended, but whatever." A handwave dismisses the argument-that-could-have-been, and she settles her hands on her hips, exhaling a heavy breath. "You make yourself at home pretty quickly." It's not a bad thing, per se, her attitude says; she's slightly amused but also still irritated. At least the slamming of her long staff into the water seems to have taken away the brunt of her anger. The goldrider drops her gaze - not on A'ster - but down to the floor to think… and that's when she sees the muddy puddle she's creating. "Faranth's sake." There's a little chair in the bathing room and she snares it, dragging it over so she can sit and unlace her boots as she continues to look and talk to the brownrider in her tub. "You walked away."

“I thought this would be a little less of a spectacle than standing naked on your ledge beating the mud out of my uniform until either you showed up, or I wasn’t going to get it on every fucking thing I touched. I mean, sure, I could have stood at parade rest while I waited for you to show up, and then shed ten pounds of half-dried clumps of muck all over your floor as soon as I moved.” It’s snappy in a precise way — the irritation in his voice bleeds through enough to be obvious, but it’s also very clear that the snip in his tone is indicative of how much effort he’s putting in to keep anything madder out. He watches her unlace her boots in silence for the time it takes to get three-quarters of the way through the laces on one boot. His volume is lower, his tone softer, but there’s still the slightly clipped quality that says there’s still a whole lotta un-resolved really fuckin’ unhappy going on — just not at her. “I shouldn’t have. I especially shouldn’t have walked away from you, and I apologize. I was pissed off and embarrassed and just so. fucking. done. I needed to leave before me and my serious lack of chill said or did something truly fucking unprofessional.” This has taken them through the end of that boot and a good portion of the other, and he watches the rest of the process again, then looks up at her. “By the time I finally felt like my skin had stopped crawling, I realized I was clean, my clothes weren’t, and I still really didn’t want to deal with another human being. So, I — stormed off again. Stayed in the tub, stayed underwater as long as I can hold my breath for,” and here, finally, a smile starts to break, “and yelling THYS when I came up, then went right back under. I THOUGHT you’d end up hearing one of them, not,” he points at the staff. “That.”

Boots aside, socks kicked off and tossed on top of her muddy footwear, Thys sits and wiggles her toes as she listens to A'ster. Thankfully she's never been able to sustain a temper, and already she's more relaxed. Maybe all that diplomacy work pays off? "You left me," she murmurs, standing up so she can pull her muddy shirt up over her head, tossing it aside as well, "with two girls who I could have bludgeoned to death." It's overdramatic, purposefully so, but she fixes the brownrider with a look anyway. It would've 100% been his fault if she'd killed two candidates. "And it was Akleteyth who Searched Leimna. He is banned from Searching anyone else. Forever." Not that she can enforce that. "I gave her the knot. On two conditions." She unbuttons her trousers, slipping out of them and kicking them away to the rest of her clothes, leaving her standing in her underthings. "Turn around, A'ster." Thys makes a swivelling motion with her finger, asking him to turn his back as she gets naked. "One, that she stops those ridiculous lies about Th'ero. Faranth's sake, I was there and I saw the whole thing. The girl's a liar." Into the water she slips, settling on the ledge inside the pool beside A'ster. "You can turn around again now. Not like you've not seen me anyway, but…" She shrugs, turning to look at him. "The second condition is that she leaves you alone and drops the whole 'on your knees' bullshit." Then, Thys smirks a little. She flicks water at the brownrider, grinning. "She told me I could have you. I told her I already had."

“Which I would have arrested you for, but offered myself as a witness and a character witness and exigent circumstances, Thys. Justifiable homicide. It would have been fine.” It’s usually not difficult to tell when he’s teasing, but this time he’s matter of fact enough (still prickly bristly annoyed and shh use your tiny font voice creeped out) that it really could go either way. “I’ve already banned him. Threatened, refused to touch another candidate knot if it’s on his creeper ‘instinct’ say-so rather than thinking someone might not be a bad one to add in the mix. I am super especially not going to be tracking down any more of his suggestions.” From his expression, this conversation took place on his way over, on high and insistent mental volume. No wonder he wanted to hide in her tub and never come out except for air. He spends his time not watching her undress staring at the haphazard, mud-spreading discard pile of her clothes, and has finally come down on the side of taking a step toward them when she says he can turn around. “That’s a good condition,” he says, mostly to himself — because she’s still talking — so it takes him a second to catch up the contents of the second condition. He does /not/ tear up, but he does clear his throat and glance away to a point on the far wall for a moment before saying, “That’s also a good condition” in a perfectly normal voice. Then he looks at her, shifts the leg closest to her so his knee blocks the potential of accidental crotch-contact from his direction, and— and. Reaches his arm around her shoulder and curls just enough that he’s resting his forehead against the side of her head as he says, “Thank you. I owe you,” without rising to the bait of her accurate shut-down of Leimna.” It isn’t instant, but it’s obvious the way a plug being pulled from a bath: one moment he’s still all wound up, the next the tension is draining out of him, and the hug-curl-lean also adds in -slump after a sigh.

Thys breathes. She exhales, eyes closed, when A'ster wraps his arm around her shoulder and presses his head against hers. Her possibly muddy hair, but oh well. There's a little bit of leaning back against him, and she rests a hand lightly on his knee where it's close to her. "Of course they were good conditions," she says softly, tiredly even - so much drama is exhausting. "I'm a negotiator by trade. And a mediator. And a diplomat." If her eyes were open he'd see them roll, but he'll probably hear that in her tone. Another deep breath is drawn, exhaled long and slow. "Would you really have punched me?" It's a quietly asked question, and there's a tiny smile in the corner of her lips that is just about evident in her voice - she's curious and intrigued. "I thought you were going to. No-one's ever punched me before."

“Only if you had come at me again,” A’ster answers honestly, and the shrug is felt all the way over her shoulders, as well. “I came up defensive, but not actively fighting — a second’s situational awareness keeps a lot of bad from turning to worse.” He hasn’t moved other than the shrug, and the only remaining tension he carries is just enough — here, in his leg, there, in his core — to keep his weight from settling entirely, obnoxiously, onto her. If only actual golden retrievers were so obliging. “Would you like me to wash your hair? Took three rounds of vicious scrubbing before I felt like I’d gone mine clean again, and it’s,” he doesn’t look up, but holds out the arm that isn’t around her shoulders, holds his fingers out to the approximate length of his hair.

"Funny, I was going to ask the same thing," Thys smirks, giving his knee a little squeeze. "And mine's not that much longer than yours." It is; she's just so used to it being no more than 2 inches long. "Hang on, one second." Wriggling her way out of the hug and past him, she goes just far enough down the slope of the pool to be able to duck completely under water, where he'll see her ruffling fingers through her hair to get the worse of whatever mud's in it washed away. Unlike him when he resurfaced, she knows to brush her hair back before coming up, so it's not plastered in her face as she returns to nestle, briefly, before sitting on the bath's inner ledge with her knees curled up to her chest. All the better for him to wash her hair with. "I know I Searched that girl on your behalf. On Akleteyth's behalf. But… everything in me said no after I'd done it. Faranth's sake, I escorted them through the Weyr carrying two damned weapons and with Rhenesath's nose up their butts so they'd do as they were told… not that she's particularly scary." How could a clucking dragon possibly terrify anyone? "What if we've made a mistake?"

“Uh, guess again, goldrider,” A’ster teases, but he waits until she’s settled in front of him to start talking again. He’s careful, too: repositions her a little so she’s sitting not quite on his feet, and he’s folded up too; continues keeping contact unquestionably unmuddled, but also gives her somewhere to lean back against while he works on her hair. He was good at this, the last time. He’s better at it, now, sober and able to pay more deliberate attention to what he’s doing rather than continually getting distracted by how much Thys was wet and available for him to put soapy hands on. “The worst part,” he says once he’s got a good later built up, and can take time massaging her scalp rather than making sure everything’s evenly distributed, “is that he isn’t always right — or right on the first shot — but he’s right a lot. Enough that if he’s adamant about it, I track down hopefuls for him. Her?” He snorts, stops moving his fingers for a moment’s thought, then shakes his head and starts working his fingers again. “He’s either deliberately fu— trying to teach me something, or somewhere under all those bad manners,there’s something to it. I was thinking,” he drops one hand to the juncture of her neck and shoulder, rubs a half-circle motion back and forth with his thumb. “That maybe I should ask Th’ero if some of the candidacy routine can borrow from trainee handling.”

Thys relaxes, leaning back where she's able to. She still keeps her knees drawn up to her chest though, arms looped loosely around them. "Don't speak with Th'ero, speak with Nyalle. Her clutch, her candidates, her Weyr." Th'ero may be Weyrleader, but he doesn't have the Weyr's Senior Gold! "For what it's worth, though, I think that sounds like a good idea because they need some reality beaten into them." She sighs softly, raising a hand to rub at her forehead. "I suppose we might just have to see what happens when the eggs crack. If the girls even make it that far. Can't you just imagine them flaking out, even though they're so excited now?" She snorts, giving her head a little shake while trying not to disrupt the washing. He's pretty damned good at it, after all. "Maybe she'll Impress a fugly little dragon. Oh - I shouldn't say that. But… can you just imagine? If she Impresses a true Velokraeth baby?" In other words, a real little uggo.

“…right, because candidates.” A’ster accepts the correction with a snorted laugh, and shakes his head. “Different chain of command.” He finally slides both hands out of her hair, and nudges the back of one shoulderblade with a knuckle. “Go rinse.” He swishes his hands in the water to rinse them as well, then — waits, until she’s got her head back above the waterline.he says, “What, like Stumpy out there?” and jerks his thumb in the direction of the weyr’s entrance. “I don’t have to imagine, I wake up to that every day.”

Slipping away, Thys ducks under the water to wash the suds from her hair, spending as long as she can hold her breath under the water. Again she brushes her hair back before surfacing, and as she approaches A'ster she gestures with her finger to ask the brownrider to shift about. He may have already washed his hair so she doesn't need to do that, but she gets him to sit as she wants him too - back to her, so she can nestle in behind him, which allows her to scrub his shoulders. "Akleteyth isn't awful-looking." Thys gives a little shrug, which he may feel behind him. She picks up fresh soapsand and begins scrubbing anew. "I mean, he's unique, for sure. But there are uglier dragons out there. He's just… got an unusual sort of charm." She's trying to be polite. "I disagree with some of his choices, though." Leimna. Leimna.

A’ster budges up when he’s directed to, allowing the goldrider free reign to — well, frankly, do anything she wants, at this point. He doesn’t say that, though. When she starts scrubbing, he sags forward a little, letting his head droop and closing his eyes as well. Which makes his bark of a laugh go a little choked-weird sounding (sounding; no actual choking, here.) “You’re practicing your diplomacy skills about him, very nice. I’d give it a three out of five for effort. He pulls forward, away from her hands — but it’s so he can turn around and face her, hook his arm over her knees like he’s using her as some kind of leaning post, despite the fact that he’s not all the way stretched out by any means. “Ames, we compared him to a wher, once — got ‘im while he was still growing, so even the sizes were right — damn near thing. No one knew if his wings would work. Still won’t fly somewhere straight, if he can cheat it between or get there on foot. Every single meal through weyrlinghood, he’d get through his meat just like everyone else, and I’d hold my breath and hope— then hear it.” He does a disturbingly passable impression of Akleteyth horking up his breakfast, “which was bad enough — but then you’d hear it,” and there’s the punch line, the cringer, the dead-on sound of Kle eating breakfast the second time around. A’ster shudders, and presses his close-eyed face against his arm — still hooked over her legs — to give himself a moment to shudder away the memory. “He’s a tiny, uggo, freak of a dragon who works my ass off, and I’m not saying I wish he was any different, but prettyin’ him up is more lie than being polite.”

Such graphic descriptions, sounds and all, make Thys wince - even if she's grinning at the same time. "Ok. Alright. Fine, you win, he's a bit of a weirdo." She laughs, stroking her hand over his hair while he's leaning over like that. "Faranth but I got it easy with Rhenesath. No -" she mimics the sound he just made, of the puking food up - "and no -" and then again, but with the food going the other way, "and she's a pretty dragon, even if she's not as streamlined as Kouzevelth or as pretty as Kayeth." Because Rhen's really not pretty. She's not ugly, but she's plain. In every sense of the word, from brown-gold head to dusty tail and everything in between. "If we hadn't known she was gold, I would've said she was just a really, really big brown when she hatched. But I think it was either Nyalle or Th'ero who said it, so we knew." Thys shrugs her shoulders, giving a little bump of her knees to try and encourage A'ster to sit up straight again. "So let's hope that one of those silly little girls gets an Akleteyth-wannabe. Or maybe even ickier. I hope their dragons puke in their beds." She's not entirely serious of course, but she can't help but grin as she reaches across to put a finger under the brownrider's chin, tilting it up. "Is that why you both do more guard work than the S&R work? Because Akleteyth would rather stick on the ground?"

“Big ‘ol brood hen,” is A’ster’s fond comparison, and he makes a gesture like someone picking up a chunky-dunk full-feathered monster mama hen, and moves ‘her’ from one side of Thys to the other. His eyes half-lid as she tips his head up, so he’s looking through the damp-spiked fringe of his eyelashes as he answers. “It’s some of it,” he admits, re-settling himself a little so his chest is pressed against her legs, one arm still over her legs but the other dropped beside. “He and I both have the mindset, the temperament, and in my case the patterns already built in, and he’s — he’s good on the ground, big enough he can provide muscle if things get rough and small enough he can get in some kindsa places other dragons wouldn’t be able to get more than their head. That’s the other reason — we’ll get called in for S&R if there’s stuff like — rockslides, things where you’re needed on the ground but able to get away fast if things go bad. Stuff like storms, or grid searches from the air? He gets battered around too much, ends up being a hazard, or overextends himself to keep up and not let the crew down— it’s better on everyone, this way.”

"Better for everyone, and better for me, because I get to see you in your uniform more often." Thys waggles her eyebrows, reaching across to boop his nose. Boop. "I sometimes wish we could do more in Search and Rescue, but I'll be very honest - I would be in Haast, if I had the choice. If Rhenesath had been anything other than she is, I reckon I might've even been leading Haast by now." She shrugs softly, not too bothered by the fact that she's not where she could be. C'est la vie! "Th'ero sometimes lets me meddle with them, anyway. Like when they lost a damned shipment the other day. How can you even do that?!" Her brown eyes are rolled, lips pursed in frustration. "I probably could've been halfway to making myself a Master by now, too… oh. Oh, Ali - I just remembered something. Something from ages ago! I have something for you. At least I think I do… I don't remember ever giving it to you? Or maybe I did - I know where it'll be if I didn't. C'mon?" Are you ready to get out of the bath, is what she means to ask, as she drops her knees - a move that makes her wince and lean forward a little. "Ouch. I think you may have hit me a little harder than intended earlier." When she got that blow to her tummy that left her doubled up - which is explained, hopefully, when she stands up on the ledge, ready to get out, and there's a red potential bruise on her abdomen. "Huh." That's about all she says as she gently touches it, prodding to find out just how painful it is… and it isn't that bad. Not really. "Anyway. Are you coming?" She steps out of the bath and pads over to grab a couple of towels - two big, plush cosy ones, and one that she can wrap her head in to dry her hair.

A’ster opens his mouth to say something cheeky — it’s there in his expression — and then closes it with a frown instead, and shakes his head. “I’ve always thought it’s too bad they still don’t let you pick,” he answers, but not so much that he’s trying to drive the conversation that direction — good, because he really doesn’t have the chance to. He’s scrambling backward so he doesn’t get dunked when she moves,and catches the wince — would have, even if she hadn’t mentioned it. “I wasn’t going easy on you,” he says, unapologetic for all that he offers a wince of sympathy when she’s out of the water and he can see the mark. “Might need to adjust you padding — or you could get better, faster.” Now that is cheeky, and he knows he deserves whatever retaliation she’ll chose to serve out. Which is why he follows up with, “But I’ve got something for it, if you don’t mind smelling like the barracks after training day for a bit.” He towels off legs first, scrubbing up to knees and thighs before switching his direction of attack: hopefully she’s looking, ‘cause he’s giving her a bit of a show in the flex and extend of his arms as he scrubs the towel over his hair, not to mention the rest of what it isn’t hiding; then arms, and chest, and he’s grinning when he wraps it around his waist and neatly tucks it in place. (Good hipbones, too.) “I’m casually certain I’d have remembered you giving me a gift — I do remember directing some business your way?” The junior weyrwoman has several very effusive fans amongst the older-lady set in Breakwater, all of whom believe in having at least one Good Piece that can be worn in the rare event of visiting dignitaries, or passed on in the case — as there so often are — of Accident At Sea. (There’s also at least one sister who has, in the eight years he’s been in Fort and casually friends with the jewelry-making weyrwoman, gotten very good at budgeting and saving her marks just so, able to make a commission once every turn, turn and a half; A’ster knows, A’ster could help, but A’ster would never dream of insulting her pride or prudence. “You’ve got me all excited now, though.”

The retaliation A'ster gets is a towel flicked at his calves, but Thys doesn't quite know how to do it so that it'll hurt. It's just symbolic, really. "Train me more, and I'll get better, faster… that's on the teacher, you know." She waves off the offered salve as she hides the bruise with a towel wrapped around herself, and she's adjusting the one on her head when she gets a front-row seat to the A'ster flex-show. Hello there. Thys isn't shy in watching. While he takes the time to dry bits off, she doesn't bother, and, avoiding the muddy puddle caused by her boots, she wet-padfoots her way to the corridor, signalling for A'ster to follow her down it towards the fire-warmed living room. The goldrider makes a beeline for one of the over-stuffed shelves near the fire - and rummages around amongst all the twee, kitsch and random objects on it to pull out a little wooden box. That's then carried over to the sofa, where she flumps down into a cross-legged pose, clearly comfortable enough around the brownrider to just be herself without the need for proper posture and all that nonsense she holds in such high regards when in other company. Shielding the box, she rummages inside of it, finds what she's looking for, and holds it out for A'ster in a closed fist. "Do you want it?"

/Well. A’ster follows, because who would he be if he didn’t, curiosity bright in his face in a way that makes him seem younger. He doesn’t — he doesn’t — skip, but there’s a step-sidestep move around a puddle that almost counts. He stands, watches her get the box and sit, watches her open it — and flops himself down at her feet as she finds her prize, and sets his chin on her towel-covered knee so he can grin up at her. Even this close, he’s clearly and somewhat deliberately not trying to sneak a peek. “Only,” he opens with, eyes still bright and expression that’s obnoxiously edging into fond, “if you promise you won’t try to hit me with the box if I get excited and hug you.” He doesn’t actually wait for the promise, but holds out one hand up by his head, and, laughing, just adds, “Yes, of course.”

"Wait then…" Is the response to her not hitting him with the box. Thys leans over him to set it on the little coffee table that's between the sofa and the fire, then she drops her little surprise into his hand with a squeeze that'll press it into his palm. It might even hurt; there are a couple of sorta-sharp bits. "You don't have to like it, you don't even have to keep it, but I made this, Faranth, turns ago. And it's just sat here in this box for that long because I forgot about it, but I happened to spot it the other day when I was looking for something else… and then I forgot about it again." She frowns, then laughs and shrugs it off. Work is busy and pulls her away from things too quickly, sometimes. "Anyway. Happy Turnday or Turnover or happy day off even. Whatever." Then her hand is gently pulled away and she ruffles his wet hair, getting up to pad past him so she can stoke the fire. Maybe she doesn't want to see his reaction? Or - more likely - she just wants a cup of tea, as she sets the kettle in place over the flames. "Oh, and by the way… I poured you a whisky earlier. It's on the kitchen counter."

“It’s quiet for a moment in the land of A’ster, who can still very clearly recall a mostly-teasing conversation Alister had with a newly-familiar (to him) junior weyrwoman; a joke about fish-themed jewelry and resulting fame in his home hold. It never took the fish to do it, though, and the conversation — much like the pin, apparently — was quickly forgotten. Then the quiet is broken with a bark of a laugh and a, “Fish,” that’s torn between horror and delight. He closes his hand around it, tight enough the sharper edges dig but sure he won’t lost it. He has to lunge for and clutch the toweled in place, getting to his feet, and he makes quick work of crossing to her — then has a moment where he considers his options. Then, being able to hug her wins over not doing it naked, and he abandons his hold on the towel so he can fling his arms around her shoulders. It’s clearly not strategic: it’s from the side, the angle is a little off, and he’s grinning like an idiot. Which he realizes, ducks his head into not quite the back of her neck, kisses it, then tucks his head again and /laughs/. “It’s perfect. You gotta keep it here until I come by again, though, without muddy pants.”

Well, that was a better reaction than expected. Thys laughs when he hugs her, reaching around to give his bicep a squeeze. She doesn't hug back properly; still not her thing! "Glad you like it," and she truly is, as there's a hint of relief in her voice. "And shit, I forgot about the muddy clothes… I honestly didn't think I'd find you naked in here." It's sort of a non-predicament, really, but she pulls a face anyway as she wriggles around in his hold to face him. "Would you like to borrow my robe? It's… well, it might just about fit. It's a big wide on the shoulders for me." It's also made of a towelling fabric that's purple, if he's seen it before. Thys is visually trying to measure his breadth up with her own, and she doesn't seem too sure about the compatibility. "Or we can just send down for someone to bring up new clothes for you." The teapot whistles to announce it's boiled, and Thys pulls away with a grin. "Would you like some tea? I can fix us something to eat too, if you're hungry. I am. I could eat a runner with a side of… something. Cheese. I dunno. I'm just hungry."

“I didn’t think about it until I got here, and stomped up the stairs — I would have stopped first, but I wasn’t really — stopping. Then it was just rude—” They’ve been over this. He is favorably inclined to her wiggling, but doesn’t take any advantage because he’s too busy watching — and then laughing. “I figured I’d set them out where they’d dry, then beat the dry dirt out of ‘em before I went home. She pulls away to take care of the kettle, and he makes an involuntary noise of protest that happens to work well enough with his next words that it might —not get caught. “If you send down to have someone bring something up, there’s tomorrow’s clean uniform waiting in my weyr, and you should have them bring food, too — fighting’s work, even with punches pulled. You stick with this the way you say you want? Gonna want to eat everything in sight for a while. You’ll put on weight, too,” he adds, with a furrowy little frown that clearly says he’s had to explain this before, but not understanding why. “Here,” he reaches out, curves a hand around her bicep, “here,” her waist, with a slide-over to span his hand over her core, “here” he moves that hand for the same kind of splay-fingered reach as he grasps her thigh, just a bit bent at the knees so he can make the reach. “It’s going to be muscle. Probably going to make your ass look amazing,” and he does NOT grab her ass, “because it’s already pretty great.”

Thys watches his hands as they show where she's going to bulk up - in theory - and she smirks when he gets to the latter feature. "You're wrong," she says, swatting at his arm. "It's already amazing." Teasing, of course. She gives his chin a playful squeeze, then pats his cheek. "I've already got quite the appetite. Perhaps I ought to stop now, while I'm ahead? Or Jajen will forever be making porcine jokes about me." An eye-roll for the world's most annoying goldrider. "I really hope there is no gold egg out there right now. Can you imagine if Leimna got one? Or that Sygni? She seems slightly better, but… no. One Jajen is enough. Faranth's luck we don't end up with a second." Because that would be too cruel, universe. Too cruel. Thys adjusts her towel so it's tied a little tighter around her chest, then gives A'ster a little push towards the sofa. There's a damp spot where she sat earlier, fresh from the bath. "Sit down. I'll get tea, I'll get us something to eat now, and I'll maybe even sort out your clothes for you. Maybe. When I get tired of seeing you without them." Away she pads to the kitchen, where it's still very easy to continue their conversation given that it's literally just a L-shaped counter top that she has to work behind.

“A’ster turns his head JUST fast enough to catch the tips of her fingers in what ends up being the ghost of a kiss. “Yeah, it is, but was trying to imply that you can improve on perfection.” Charmer. “Personally, I think you should keep going, and if she keeps making comments you can shut her down by being able to crush a watermelon with your thighs. As like a, threat. Maintaining eye contact” He trails off for a second, then half-whispers, “Oh no, that’s hot,” to himself, and probably tries to think about — baseball, or something. Not for very long, though — not because it works, but because he doesn’t really care. It just seems a little rude, He recovers his abandoned towel, folds it so the dry-est … dry-ish-est … parts are out, then puts it on the couch — also to be polite. Bare asses on someone else’s couch, his mother would never forgive him. He gives up, goes all in, and says: “Seriously, though? I am definitely all for you being able to crush produce between your thighs. Or choke a man to death.” Good thing Thys enjoys the naked A’ster show, or he’d be way more self-conscious right now.

"Mmhrm, I'm sure you would," comes Thys' absent reply from the kitchen, because really. As if it's going to happen. She clatters about fixing something to eat - sandwiches, since she cannot cook to save her life, and even the bread is cut badly and probably is a bit stale - and then spoons tea out into mugs. At least that part she's good at. When all's done, she's got a tray full of good (ish, in the case of the sandwiches) things that she can set down in front of them on the sofa, along with the kettle lifted carefully from the fire. "We'll set up a training schedule later. I'm so doing this, Ali. Do you take sweetner?" And that's about it, really - there's tea, and talk, and bad sandwiches, and eventually someone will turn up with his uniform. Or he'll leave in her robe. Whichever is more amusing.

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