A social call.
Mal: "Well, any friend of Inara's is a strictly businesslike relationship of mine."
-- Heart of Gold
R'vain comes by while Roa's in Boll.
The weyr is winding down for the night - most of it, at any rate. A certain percentage of the population is no doubt just warming up, but the lieutenant does not number amongst them. Ashwin's got a pocket full of winnings, and it's the hour before midnight when he returns home, hauling his jacket off as he enters, and bringing up one hand to scrub at his face as he gets it free of the sleeve. He pauses, to cast a brief glance towards the bed, and then continues his path towards the wardrobe, pulling the jacket the rest of the way off.
R'vain has been told not to visit this place. In this, as in so many things, the Weyrlingmaster disappoints.
He is, however, not legitimately /in/ the weyr. He lurks out on the ledge, the drape closed between himself and the space which Roa claims her own, private. He leans against the stone to one side of the entrance, one boot up behind the other knee with heel to the rock, and cleans his fingernails by means of a measly penknife. It must be the sounds within-- footsteps, perhaps more-- that ready R'vain to turn his head toward the drape and call out. "Y'back a'ready? Hardly had a chance t'settle in." The sass promised by what he's said already comes to fruition in his tone as he continues, grinning around the words. "I'd come in, but, y'know. Shouldn't. Maybe y'could come out?"
The sound of footsteps inside stops, although perhaps that's just because Ashwin's at the wardrobe. His jacket is hung up, movements slow, and the lieutenant pauses then to cast a long glance towards the outside. The curtain probably doesn't yield up much. "Got my jacket off, now," he observes, loud enough to be heard. Then more footsteps, as he crosses over so he can kick at one of the weights that hold the drape in place, and pull it aside enough to look out. R'vain's studied for a moment, and then, as he retreats, the way is left open.
R'vain glances up as the drape swings aside. He stands there with arms crossed-- the fingernail-cleaning apparently complete-- chin pointed along one shoulder, eyes ready to take in the appearance expected in the entry; grin ready, too. A moment after Ashwin retreats, the Weyrlingmaster pushes his shoulder into the drape, forcing it wide to accommodate his night-backed form. "Ain't s'posed t'be here," he points out; that grins. This does not, so much; it may almost be thought serious. "I think she'd be pissed, f'I came in." His arms unfold, paws finding pockets.
"She's not here," Ashwin points out evenly, back to the Weyrlingmaster as he crosses over to the hearth. It's neither confirmation nor contradiction, but it's all that's on offer. He drops to a crouch, finds the poker, and sets about coaxing life out of a fire that's been banked for several hours now.
"So Ruvoth says." R'vain puts his right elbow up on the wall, tugging his right hand out of the pocket so it can hang over his head, fingers drifting among the short spikes of his hair. His jacket lifts as his shoulder does, hanging in an ill-fit looseness. He's a big man; fifteen percent of his body weight is a noticeable quantity. Especially when it's missing. "Y'don't expect her back soon, d'you?"
Ashwin takes his time over sorting out the fire, pausing in his crouch to wait until the flames take. Then the poker goes back where it came from, and his hands brace on his knees so he can come slowly to his feet. "No," he confirms, stretching as he turns back to face the Weyrlingmaster. "Breeze'll put the fire out," he points out then, lifting his chin just enough that it constitutes an invitation to enter, rather than an instruction to shut the curtain behind him.
R'vain nods once, slowly. And he nods again, about the drape he's holding open-- then steps in, untucking his left hand so that he can reach back behind his hip and catch hold of a heavy fold. A jerk of his arm sends the drape closed, the weight sliding across the floor, and then he slips the hand-- wrapped, as it is-- into his pocket again. "Somethin' she said made me think y'thought I'd figure y'sent her." He rolls his tongue up over his teeth, swinging the right paw lonely in counterbalance to his stride as he prowls in, turning his gaze out on the room as he's done before: bed, wardrobe, chairs, table, desk... *tschk.* "Didn't. But she did try t'fix it. So y'know."
Ashwin takes that in with a silent nod, rolling his sleeves up now he's done with the fire. "Folks visit folks, told her so. Drop by." His shoulders lift in a shrug, to profess his bafflement at the questioning of this logic. "It's what they do." The words are mild, though. No professing of any lack of domestic bliss to be found here. "Don't reckon you're by to see me, though. Or leastways to hear about me."
"I asked y'about her," allows R'vain. His swagger pauses a number of steps inside, and there he stuffs the right hand into its pocket so both elbows can swing out, super-casual. His boots move slowly, shuffling against each other and the floor, as he turns in place. Scoping. "Y'answered me. Could ask 'nother question, but she'd hate it. I can wait. Ask 'er m'self."
There's not so much to scope, but there are, perhaps, a few absences. Roa is properly gone, her boots and her clothes missing from sight, Tialith's harness gone from the pegs. The place is, perhaps, not quite as clean as it was when she inhabited it, Ashwin's clothes dumped over the back of chairs. "I thought I was the one whose balls she had," he murmurs, one hand coming up to scratch at the stubble along his jaw - this, too, something new since she left.
R'vain can't help, at that, a grin, broad and toothy and hardly carnivorous at all; it might be better described as disarmed. He slings the right hand up out of his pocket again and raises it over his head, elbow high, paw swinging up and down over the back of his head, scrubbing idly at his hair. "S'two ways I can do this," he replies, instead of a direct retort, and drops his arm to his side so he can turn-- the bruised side of his face more evident as he does so-- toward the chair he leaned over on his last visit here, and stalk down that upholstered prey. "I can ask you, or I can wait, and ask her. If I respected her, what'd I do, y'figure?"
Ashwin's expression doesn't twitch one way or the other, although his pale eyes follow the other man's movements, and come finally to settle on his bruised face. "Is respecting her your aim in particular, or do you just ask the question out of interest?" One brow edges up slightly, but that's the limit of the lieutenant's demonstrated curiosity in the matter.
"I ask th'question because y'seemed t'have a mind t'talk me into askin' th'other one." R'vain approaches his prey, his steps heavy and loud. The chair, immobile, holds its helpless ground and the Weyrlingmaster pauses inches away from it to stare down at the seat, shoulders rippling out a thoughtless shrug. "I'll ask y'this instead. She a'right when she left?"
"She was fine," Ashwin murmurs in response, offering the Weyrlingmaster a brief glimpse of his own, unbruised profile as he glances across to the desk. "Wrote me," he elaborates after that. "Still fine now. She's in Boll." The news is delivered as though it's of little consequence, and perhaps to the lieutenant, the specifics of her location are not what's important. "She didn't tell you she was off?"
"Tialith told Ruvoth." The chair escapes the predator's gaze for a moment and R'vain swings up his head, brows slinging low over the emerald stare that seeks out Ashwin, now, directly. His tongue slides again over his upper teeth, soundlessly this time; his upper lip bulges in a faux sneer as his mouth moves. "I figure they said their own g'byes. I didn't get a chance m'self."
"Mmm," Ashwin agrees, either aware of this, unsurprised, or simply unexpressive. He's still studying the desk, the only part of the weyr that's tidier than usual, in the weyrwoman's absence. But he has nothing more to add than this vague acknowledgment, eventually lifting his head and turning it so he can return the emerald stare with his own pale one, gaze shuttered over in favour of a polite expression.
"Shame." R'vain's head sinks and his gaze takes in the chair again, but as before he declines, so far, to seat himself. He does bother to angle around a little, feet shuffling, so he's half-facing the desk himself-- or would be, if his head was up, which it isn't. "I pay better 'ttention here, y'know. She coulda told me coupla days before, if she knew. She didn't."
"Could have," Ashwin concedes mildly. "You know her, though. Impatient." There's a brief gleam behind those shuttered grey eyes, as he applies this label to his lover, that invites the other man to share his fleeting amusement at the descriptor. "Said I'd write back. There something you want in there?"
Green eyes do not find the gleam in pale grey ones, but R'vain splits a bit of a grin, short-lived, nonetheless. He shakes his head a negative, but says, "Tell 'er I asked after 'er, s'all, if y'got a good spot t'put it in." He unpockets the good hand and swings it out to the top of the seatback. This he uses as a pivot point of sorts, anchoring his upper body while the lower stalks a slow circle around the chair. "I'll get t'th'rest when she comes back."
"Right," Ashwin agrees, chatty as ever. The fire cracks abruptly, and draws his gaze, the sharp sound only playing up the silence that's fallen in the wake of the Weyrlingmaster's words. "Will do." Not much help in the conversational stakes, this quiet man, whose gaze is once more on his visitor, calloused fingers once more running over the new-grown stubble along his jawline.
The circle R'vain's prowling around that chair pauses and he glances up, maybe gauging the probability of additional reply. He determines, evidently, that the numbers are not in favor of any such thing, and walks on around. "D'ven been by?"
Ashwin's gaze follows R'vain now, and he tilts his head sideways to continue tracking the Weyrlingmaster's progress. "No, just you," he replies quietly, excluding the possibility of others. One hand comes up to wrap around the hilt of one of the knives at his belt, fingers gently curling there.
"Funny." His paw slips off the chair as if he's launching off the other side, a satellite breaking orbit; his paces take him toward the drape he entered through and the ledge beyond. "Don't think he will be, then." Advisement of a sort, meant to be helpful, or else a judgment; maybe both. R'vain keeps walking, his course decided, and when he gets to the drape he shoulders through rather than moving the weight first, leaving it to slide back into place by means of gravity.
Ashwin nods acknowledgment of that advice, but no more. Pale eyes settle on the Weyrlingmaster's back, and rest there until the man's well out of sight. Only then does the lieutenant allow a faint frown to cross his face, as he turns away from the entranceway.
-- Heart of Gold
R'vain comes by while Roa's in Boll.
The weyr is winding down for the night - most of it, at any rate. A certain percentage of the population is no doubt just warming up, but the lieutenant does not number amongst them. Ashwin's got a pocket full of winnings, and it's the hour before midnight when he returns home, hauling his jacket off as he enters, and bringing up one hand to scrub at his face as he gets it free of the sleeve. He pauses, to cast a brief glance towards the bed, and then continues his path towards the wardrobe, pulling the jacket the rest of the way off.
R'vain has been told not to visit this place. In this, as in so many things, the Weyrlingmaster disappoints.
He is, however, not legitimately /in/ the weyr. He lurks out on the ledge, the drape closed between himself and the space which Roa claims her own, private. He leans against the stone to one side of the entrance, one boot up behind the other knee with heel to the rock, and cleans his fingernails by means of a measly penknife. It must be the sounds within-- footsteps, perhaps more-- that ready R'vain to turn his head toward the drape and call out. "Y'back a'ready? Hardly had a chance t'settle in." The sass promised by what he's said already comes to fruition in his tone as he continues, grinning around the words. "I'd come in, but, y'know. Shouldn't. Maybe y'could come out?"
The sound of footsteps inside stops, although perhaps that's just because Ashwin's at the wardrobe. His jacket is hung up, movements slow, and the lieutenant pauses then to cast a long glance towards the outside. The curtain probably doesn't yield up much. "Got my jacket off, now," he observes, loud enough to be heard. Then more footsteps, as he crosses over so he can kick at one of the weights that hold the drape in place, and pull it aside enough to look out. R'vain's studied for a moment, and then, as he retreats, the way is left open.
R'vain glances up as the drape swings aside. He stands there with arms crossed-- the fingernail-cleaning apparently complete-- chin pointed along one shoulder, eyes ready to take in the appearance expected in the entry; grin ready, too. A moment after Ashwin retreats, the Weyrlingmaster pushes his shoulder into the drape, forcing it wide to accommodate his night-backed form. "Ain't s'posed t'be here," he points out; that grins. This does not, so much; it may almost be thought serious. "I think she'd be pissed, f'I came in." His arms unfold, paws finding pockets.
"She's not here," Ashwin points out evenly, back to the Weyrlingmaster as he crosses over to the hearth. It's neither confirmation nor contradiction, but it's all that's on offer. He drops to a crouch, finds the poker, and sets about coaxing life out of a fire that's been banked for several hours now.
"So Ruvoth says." R'vain puts his right elbow up on the wall, tugging his right hand out of the pocket so it can hang over his head, fingers drifting among the short spikes of his hair. His jacket lifts as his shoulder does, hanging in an ill-fit looseness. He's a big man; fifteen percent of his body weight is a noticeable quantity. Especially when it's missing. "Y'don't expect her back soon, d'you?"
Ashwin takes his time over sorting out the fire, pausing in his crouch to wait until the flames take. Then the poker goes back where it came from, and his hands brace on his knees so he can come slowly to his feet. "No," he confirms, stretching as he turns back to face the Weyrlingmaster. "Breeze'll put the fire out," he points out then, lifting his chin just enough that it constitutes an invitation to enter, rather than an instruction to shut the curtain behind him.
R'vain nods once, slowly. And he nods again, about the drape he's holding open-- then steps in, untucking his left hand so that he can reach back behind his hip and catch hold of a heavy fold. A jerk of his arm sends the drape closed, the weight sliding across the floor, and then he slips the hand-- wrapped, as it is-- into his pocket again. "Somethin' she said made me think y'thought I'd figure y'sent her." He rolls his tongue up over his teeth, swinging the right paw lonely in counterbalance to his stride as he prowls in, turning his gaze out on the room as he's done before: bed, wardrobe, chairs, table, desk... *tschk.* "Didn't. But she did try t'fix it. So y'know."
Ashwin takes that in with a silent nod, rolling his sleeves up now he's done with the fire. "Folks visit folks, told her so. Drop by." His shoulders lift in a shrug, to profess his bafflement at the questioning of this logic. "It's what they do." The words are mild, though. No professing of any lack of domestic bliss to be found here. "Don't reckon you're by to see me, though. Or leastways to hear about me."
"I asked y'about her," allows R'vain. His swagger pauses a number of steps inside, and there he stuffs the right hand into its pocket so both elbows can swing out, super-casual. His boots move slowly, shuffling against each other and the floor, as he turns in place. Scoping. "Y'answered me. Could ask 'nother question, but she'd hate it. I can wait. Ask 'er m'self."
There's not so much to scope, but there are, perhaps, a few absences. Roa is properly gone, her boots and her clothes missing from sight, Tialith's harness gone from the pegs. The place is, perhaps, not quite as clean as it was when she inhabited it, Ashwin's clothes dumped over the back of chairs. "I thought I was the one whose balls she had," he murmurs, one hand coming up to scratch at the stubble along his jaw - this, too, something new since she left.
R'vain can't help, at that, a grin, broad and toothy and hardly carnivorous at all; it might be better described as disarmed. He slings the right hand up out of his pocket again and raises it over his head, elbow high, paw swinging up and down over the back of his head, scrubbing idly at his hair. "S'two ways I can do this," he replies, instead of a direct retort, and drops his arm to his side so he can turn-- the bruised side of his face more evident as he does so-- toward the chair he leaned over on his last visit here, and stalk down that upholstered prey. "I can ask you, or I can wait, and ask her. If I respected her, what'd I do, y'figure?"
Ashwin's expression doesn't twitch one way or the other, although his pale eyes follow the other man's movements, and come finally to settle on his bruised face. "Is respecting her your aim in particular, or do you just ask the question out of interest?" One brow edges up slightly, but that's the limit of the lieutenant's demonstrated curiosity in the matter.
"I ask th'question because y'seemed t'have a mind t'talk me into askin' th'other one." R'vain approaches his prey, his steps heavy and loud. The chair, immobile, holds its helpless ground and the Weyrlingmaster pauses inches away from it to stare down at the seat, shoulders rippling out a thoughtless shrug. "I'll ask y'this instead. She a'right when she left?"
"She was fine," Ashwin murmurs in response, offering the Weyrlingmaster a brief glimpse of his own, unbruised profile as he glances across to the desk. "Wrote me," he elaborates after that. "Still fine now. She's in Boll." The news is delivered as though it's of little consequence, and perhaps to the lieutenant, the specifics of her location are not what's important. "She didn't tell you she was off?"
"Tialith told Ruvoth." The chair escapes the predator's gaze for a moment and R'vain swings up his head, brows slinging low over the emerald stare that seeks out Ashwin, now, directly. His tongue slides again over his upper teeth, soundlessly this time; his upper lip bulges in a faux sneer as his mouth moves. "I figure they said their own g'byes. I didn't get a chance m'self."
"Mmm," Ashwin agrees, either aware of this, unsurprised, or simply unexpressive. He's still studying the desk, the only part of the weyr that's tidier than usual, in the weyrwoman's absence. But he has nothing more to add than this vague acknowledgment, eventually lifting his head and turning it so he can return the emerald stare with his own pale one, gaze shuttered over in favour of a polite expression.
"Shame." R'vain's head sinks and his gaze takes in the chair again, but as before he declines, so far, to seat himself. He does bother to angle around a little, feet shuffling, so he's half-facing the desk himself-- or would be, if his head was up, which it isn't. "I pay better 'ttention here, y'know. She coulda told me coupla days before, if she knew. She didn't."
"Could have," Ashwin concedes mildly. "You know her, though. Impatient." There's a brief gleam behind those shuttered grey eyes, as he applies this label to his lover, that invites the other man to share his fleeting amusement at the descriptor. "Said I'd write back. There something you want in there?"
Green eyes do not find the gleam in pale grey ones, but R'vain splits a bit of a grin, short-lived, nonetheless. He shakes his head a negative, but says, "Tell 'er I asked after 'er, s'all, if y'got a good spot t'put it in." He unpockets the good hand and swings it out to the top of the seatback. This he uses as a pivot point of sorts, anchoring his upper body while the lower stalks a slow circle around the chair. "I'll get t'th'rest when she comes back."
"Right," Ashwin agrees, chatty as ever. The fire cracks abruptly, and draws his gaze, the sharp sound only playing up the silence that's fallen in the wake of the Weyrlingmaster's words. "Will do." Not much help in the conversational stakes, this quiet man, whose gaze is once more on his visitor, calloused fingers once more running over the new-grown stubble along his jawline.
The circle R'vain's prowling around that chair pauses and he glances up, maybe gauging the probability of additional reply. He determines, evidently, that the numbers are not in favor of any such thing, and walks on around. "D'ven been by?"
Ashwin's gaze follows R'vain now, and he tilts his head sideways to continue tracking the Weyrlingmaster's progress. "No, just you," he replies quietly, excluding the possibility of others. One hand comes up to wrap around the hilt of one of the knives at his belt, fingers gently curling there.
"Funny." His paw slips off the chair as if he's launching off the other side, a satellite breaking orbit; his paces take him toward the drape he entered through and the ledge beyond. "Don't think he will be, then." Advisement of a sort, meant to be helpful, or else a judgment; maybe both. R'vain keeps walking, his course decided, and when he gets to the drape he shoulders through rather than moving the weight first, leaving it to slide back into place by means of gravity.
Ashwin nods acknowledgment of that advice, but no more. Pale eyes settle on the Weyrlingmaster's back, and rest there until the man's well out of sight. Only then does the lieutenant allow a faint frown to cross his face, as he turns away from the entranceway.