A many-natured old man
Who: Miniyal and G'thon
Where: Their room
When: 12:59 on day 12, month 5, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
What: An entire conversation occurs on the floor. It is unusual enough to make note of. The conversation itself moves around as theirs often do. Paintings, the nature of reality, clients, and world events all come up at one point or another.
3/6/2007 - 3/8/2007
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 12:59 on day 12, month 5, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
Two things of small significance happened today. Little things that most people would brush off as nothing at all. The first thing happened shortly after breakfast and it was nothing at all. No books were selected and the writing case that often follows Miniyal out for the day was left in its spot by the door. She did. . .nothing. Did not even put on her shoes, instead choosing to allow bare feet to touch the carpet. It was not said she would be staying home, but she gave no indication that she was going anywhere.
The second thing of no significance is that while she has chosen to remain at home today she has not attempted to do anything. Other than take a book down from the shelf and then stretch out on the floor, yes, the floor, to read it. Her toes sometimes kick the floor as she lies on her stomach. As the morning disappeared into afternoon she just read. No conversation was offered or really taken up if he tried, but there was nothing in her mood, her actions, that said she might be upset. Just quiet. And thoughtful. Enough so that for the last half hour the page she reads has not changed. But she stares at it just the same, unaware of the time slipping by as the same words continued to be not seen by her eyes.
He is good at this. At waiting. He has some small experience in it. So Gans, today, waits.
He has his own indulgences, of course. He brings out his journal and, as she takes the floor for her own, he takes the desk. His writing-things, the ones not meant to tuck away into his pockets for travel, are meticulously kept and must be meticulously arranged before he can begin. He has to have tea, so there are times when he wanders back and forth across the room, pausing once in a while to smile down at the shape of his lover on the floor. When the soft beat of her toes thrums the rug he looks up automatically, no matter what he's in the middle of, and smiles more. But it cannot go entirely unnoticed that one sound, the sound of turning pages, is absent all day.
In time he has completed some reading and commenting upon essays; written something in his journal and put it away; prepared a short letter to his mother; and done everything else he can evidently think of to do that entails staying out of Miniyal's way. He has now options only of leaving to pretend to prepare for a class off in some classroom somewhere, or of pestering the woman on the floor. He winds up with the latter. She might think he's just going for tea again - but he stops beside her, then sinks to a knee, one pale palm reaching beside him for her back. Slender fingers work very light circles there while he looks over her shoulder at the book. "What are we reading?"
If she's followed every trek across the room he has made she has done so without giving it away. A tilt of her head and the book to give her an excuse to glance upwards and the like. None of it intended to show she is at all interested in anything but her book. Which she is not truly interested in at all by now. Still, her attention has remained fixed on the book and if it's not the words that hold her it must be thoughts those words bring to her mind. The touch to her back brings her out of whatever world she had slipped into and the book earns not another glance as instead she tips her head so she might look up and smile. "It is a book about the nature of reality. I was told last month that I had too little of an understanding of it or grasp on it and would benefit from counseling on the matter. However, upon doing more research it is quite clear I've no such trouble at all. Not that I truly thought I did, but the woman was insufferable and did not seem to understand the difference between a literal and figurative statement." Light reading, brought on by nothing at all.
"Some people are rather focused on the literal," muses Gans, his palm flattening against her back with very little pressure - a presence, a reminder, meant to be gentle. He keeps looking at the book for a moment after she's looked up, as though it really was the focus of his interest, but if he reads there are no telltale twitches of his gaze to give away the reading. "Whose nature of reality - or rather, what theory of it - are you using as basis for comparison?"
"Being too literal gets you in trouble." It is not the easiest way to converse while looking at someone, on your stomach with his hand on your back while he sits beside. But Miniyal makes no effort to move, no indication she is uncomfortable. She just lies there, content for now. "This is by, actually, a weaver. She has some very interesting ideas and makes a decent use of metaphor. She has written that reality is a tapestry of sorts with threads that can be pulled to arrange it to one's whim if they just learn how to do so. Perhaps someone reading this as a literal thing would think she needs assistance as well. I read another by a fisher. And I am on the trail of one by a Bitran in which reality is likened to a bad hand of cards. Have I bored you?" With the lying around most likely and not the conversation. Most likely.
She could put her head down. She could fold up her arms and stretch out, restful beneath the hand that now caresses her, slow-moving, since she hasn't objected to his touch. But if she won't do so, he'll just smile his one-sided smile at her and fix her in his warm, beloved's regard, and listen to her while she explains. "I believe that metaphor is a rather old one, perhaps older than this author. It is one worthy of attention, however." A pause. "No," she has not bored him, neither in her curious layabout day, nor in conversation. But Gans pauses only a moment more and adds, "I assume the fisher also uses metaphor. Have we not a single volume addressing the matter directly?"
It would be easier, sure, but it would be so passive. Although since she has spent the day lying about it's not entirely impossible she has not been looking for a day to just lie around and not worry about things. Contradictions, she's a bundle of them. "It is old, yes, but there are parts to it that are interesting. And, we might. But I know direct. I am trying to learn something less direct." Miniyal considers a moment and then smiles lightly. "You know where would have more. We should go to Harper and poke around a bit. For a few days. An early sort of anniversary present to ourselves." There is nothing meant, at all, in the timing of this suggestion. At all. "Also, most of the references I have found to those who do discuss it directly makes it sound very dull. As if the author's are much too convinced of their own importance and are just writing to make everyone else aware of it as well."
"I do not think we're going to be going somewhere for a few days just now, Miniyal. Perhaps for an afternoon." Correction, stern; compromise, affectionate. His voice manages each in instant alteration, smooth, untroubled, and smiling all the way through. -This- requires greater care: "You would consider this, then, our anniversary?" His eyes twinkle; his mouth twists. The nature of reality he sets aside, for this.
She likely did not expect him to go for it, but if there's anything she's learned it's that you don't know until you try. Besides, an afternoon is more than nothing. "An afternoon then. But I will have to know in advance so I might make an appointment to speak to Kazimir." Miniyal shakes her head at that and then does give up, stretching out under his hand so she can lay her head atop crossed arms. "As for, well. . .It was kind of hard. I had to think on it. Which date it should be. But it was the beginning. And the beginning should never be put aside for some other event that might seem to mean more. The twenty-fifth." Now, despite her surety of mere seconds ago a hint of worry creeps into her voice. "Unless you think there is a better date?"
"Sooner, better than later. And we cannot let Kazimir keep us too long." Gans' voice takes on a bit of a dry tone here, his palm sliding down along her spine, fingers splayed along one side of it and heel of his palm on the other, the arch of his hand curved over the bones so as not to bump them while he strokes her. "Our rider will probably be obliged to wait for us. I shall make some excuse to him, of course, but." Pale brows arch. For this topic, not the next one, which he allows of with some simple bemusement, "The twenty-fifth would be my preference. I could merely suggest alternatives if it were not yours." Teasing, for this, and his hand stops just above the curve of her rear to make this dry jest: "You were, after all, a bit shy about it at the time."
"Not too long. But I've something of his to return and it would be rude not to see to the returning while I am able. In case I am not able soon enough." The sigh is either for the thought she might be stuck away from Harper's so tempting archives for some time or a response to his hand moving on her back. Her face is partially concealed where it lays on her arms and hair does part of the rest of the job. So even if Miniyal's blush is not entirely visible it can be heard in her tone. "I was just. . .I can't. You are horrid!" Which is why her tone softens, of course. "I was just unsure. I didn't know what you were up to. What you wanted. I didn't get, you know, why me. I was shy, but I was not entirely unaware of what might come of it."
His hand moves a little more, fingers spreading wider, the heel of his palm sliding a little lower. "I should hope not," Gans remarks, of being horrid, his voice far too droll. He pauses in stroking her so he can get down from one knee onto two, then onto his hip. "Do you get it now?" Able to lean closer, he slips his hand off of her back and onto the floor across her, drifting the other hand over to start up a new stroking pattern from her shoulder.
"About why? I mean, yea. Well, no. Not so much. But I try not to worry about it. You do. That's all that matters." Well, not entirely true, but Miniyal sometimes tries to not create trouble by thinking of things that will only bother her. He earns another sigh, this one definitely content as she relaxes under his touch and closes her eyes. There is, in her shoulders, the slightest amount of tension, but for now she is not going to bring up why. Soon enough, but the conversation is going to drift there slowly.
Or not at all. Because Gans says, "You don't have to get why. You just have to get that I do." And he doesn't say anything else. Instead the hand he's not leaning on slides across her shoulder to the space between her shoulder-blades, then upward, fingertips finding the back of her neck so they can spider-creep up, cool and smooth, into chestnut waves. He strokes them, her scalp beneath them, her neck and the tense muscles around it, and either waits, or is content, no difference.
"I would like to understand it all. But. . .but it's not necessary. There is plenty I do not understand. I trust you." Which is not just said because Miniyal must keep reminding herself of that fact. She's accepted this trust thing. It is what it is. Rather than say anything else about anything she is content to lie on the floor and do nothing at all. It is what she has been doing all day after all. No reason to stop now. Eventually there is more speaking, but it takes awhile for the words to come. "It's been nice, just being here. I don't do it enough. I shall have to try to change that." Ok, so it's not words of any meaning.
"Just being here," echoes Gans, thoughtful, curious - it is not, quite, a prompt. He combs long fingers through her hair from beneath and withdraws his hand, trailing it down the center of her back. "With me," he supposes, untroubled. He has to let a little space go by before he can say the next thing, the thing that might be too piercing if he didn't have prepared for it - and of course he does - a droll layer of wry bemusement for the intonation. "Have you been hiding?"
She smiles into her arm, if not losing that hint of tense muscles at least not letting it get worse. "With you." Miniyal repeats softly. "I feel like I should always be doing something and I have trouble making myself do nothing." Like stare at a book all day without reading it. His question bears something thinking on before she can answer it. "No. Not hiding. Looking for something. I've been practicing. Talking to people. I've met several new people and I talked to Roa and it's. . .it's not that it is easier it's that I've at least stopped waiting to hear it." Because the little voice, having disappeared has lost gender pronoun status. "I don't think it is coming back. It's been quiet before, but never this long. Never when I've had to. . .to think of how to say something." /Now/ she tenses up more.
Gans' fingers arch; their tips play a drilling little line down along his lover's spine. "Is that - bad?" Oops, perhaps that question was a bit leading, a bit abrupt, a bit... incredulous. "Ah. It's good you've been meeting new people. Have any of them been enjoyable company?" Just a little pause, and then this is a tease, most evidenced as such by the flattening of his palm upon her, a reassurance. "Candidates?"
"It is not bad. It is just not something I never expected. But I have you now and you've made it quiet. And even if it tries to come back I won't ever listen to it." Miniyal may, of course, be a bit too optimistic about this, but hey. "People don't seem to know what to make of me. They ask what I do and I've no quick answer like cook or laundress or anything. They probably think I am weird." Ah, well, so be it her tone implies. "Candidates, yes. And Caucus students. They are the new people here in the majority. Although I swear, in the winter they whine about the cold and now they whine about the rain. It's like they've no appreciation for anything." Says the woman who turned up one day soaked to the bone and waved it away with 'there was a party in the bowl in the middle of a downpour.'
A party she didn't even have much interest in taking part in. Gans smiles; she'll know it from his voice. "We could make up a quick answer for you." His hand starts moving again, stroking muscles that may have been tense, or may think about being tense soon, or that have been tense at any point in the past. Muscles his fingertips, by now, know. "Weather expert, for example."
In truth, she has little interest in any party, and yet these days she does not run from them. "Weather expert. What if they ask me something I've no answer for?" Miniyal allows the silence to stretch for just a moment before she waves that statement away with just a soft laugh. "Well, admittedly that is not possible as I've answer for everything." Of course she does. Whatever tension or residual tension might have been forming in those muscles is leaking away. Maybe she'll not bring it up what she thinks she must. Excuses are easy to come by as it was pointed out to her and she has a good excuse for not bringing it up now. She feels much too good. Which is why she doesn't quite form any of the hundreds of thoughts in her head into spoken words just yet.
"You do indeed," murmurs Gans, in that voice that approaches a purr, approving and delighted and teasing all at once. He leans deeper over her, the arm across her bending deep at the elbow so he can bow his head and breathe a kiss, barely, into her hair. "It's been wonderful to have you here today," he notes then, before straightening and adding, "even as much as I do encourage you to meet people and - get to know them." In the pause, the strange little pause there, his hand on her back pauses too; when it starts moving again, its efforts are more directed, taking better care to stroke out remaining tense spots and seek new ones.
The strange little pause is nearly missed entirely. There are more important things to do like wrap up her fragile little ego (hahaha) in his praise and let it warm her as much as his hand on her does. Eventually when that grows old, not that it ever does, but she can carry the feeling around for later when she might need it, Miniyal manages another sentence to contribute. "Do you think I do not?" Her tone is puzzled in some small way. "Get to know people I mean. I do try, but it takes so long." How annoying of people to be like that! "Look at you. A whole turn and I've still got plenty to discover."
"I am old," points out Gans, "or at the very least, many-natured." His voice is so wry. He means no harm. He is, in fact, harmless. Entirely. Self-deprecating and sweet. His hand moves upon her, and he laughs a little before adding, "But any person is difficult to get to know. The general idea is that if you get to know them a little, you can discern whether getting to know them more deeply is worth all of that time expended. You have to sample first, and that's the part I'm pleased to see you do, I suppose."
Harmless. He is harmless the way Miniyal is not sneaky. Not entirely true since she believes him to be, if not harmless, than mostly harmless. And her sneakiness is quite well known to her. "You are old." She agrees with him so innocently other than having to turn her head a fraction to suppress a giggle. Her mood fades in an ever so tiny fashion with two little words. Three syllables and she can't help but feel muscles tighten again in new anxiety. "You suppose? Do you think I am doing something wrong?" It can be dizzying, the mood swings, from up to down. The slightest thing does set them off.
"No," says Gans. He will let her swing, if she chooses, but for this there is no need to push, no need to pull, no need to go flying along. He does offer, between strokes of his cool palm, a little self-awareness she might like to have: "I meant to soften what was starting to sound like me approving of your taking direction - when as far as I know I have not offered any direction, and I do not 'approve' so much as - well, I am pleased, Miniyal. You are a delight, and as much as I might like to keep you all to myself, your skills and talents deserve larger venues."
"I'm sorry," the words muffled somewhat by hair that is left to conceal her face. Silence follows the apology for mere seconds before she does move just enough to push some of her hair off her face at least. "I do not mean to sound. . .that is, I don't. I am not one of those people who requires- I mean, I don't expect." How exactly does Miniyal say she does not seek his approval when that is what she does? His and anyone else's. Simply by not finishing a single sentence at all.
Sometimes, Gans is a mindreader. Sometimes she gives that much away, with her words, her actions; with even the twitches of her skin, her muscles, her body beneath his hands. Today he is not quite that talented, and suffers in smiling, dumb silence for a moment, stroking her, before he decides his best course to steer through the stammering is to say, "I mean only to emphasize that I would not try to direct you, my dear. I think you fully capable of directing yourself, and doing well at it." There.
It works well enough, what he says. It looked for a moment as if she might have broken contact and been forced to resort to pacing and the like, but instead she just lets out the softest of sighs. "I know you would not. I do not-." Sometimes one just has to get it over with, yes? So in the middle of an entirely different conversation she speaks what she's been meaning to for long enough. "He said he would send me one of his paintings sometime. Along with his letters. I just am not sure what I will do with it when I receive it." There. Now she does sit up, one hand brushing her hair off her face, watching him with a combination of concern and a worry that borders more on fear. Fear that she's ruined the day entirely. Even if she was so very careful like always to not use the name of the last weyrleader.
His hand pauses on her back when she changes tack - but when she brushes back her hair and starts to move beside him, Gans takes the physical cue better than the verbal one. His arm reached over her withdraws and he, too, sits upright, adjusting from his hip to his seat. Maybe it takes him a moment to figure out who paints, and sends letters. Or would. Because it's not as though Miniyal's told him a lot about her confidante, her Igenite friend, in the time that relationship's been tended. But in a little time the almost-blank expression - Gans never wears a truly blank expression, not since the weeks after Hirth's last trip between, anyway, but the instructor's lover would know by looking when the twinkle in his eyes and the smirk on his mouth are just leftovers from whatever he felt or thought last, waiting in idleness for the next spark - gives way to something more like understanding. "Ah," he says, and does not sound wholly displeased. "Ah," again, almost tickled. "Should I ask if you commissioned him, or if he intends to send it as a gift only - ?" ...this could almost be teasing.
"I just told him I would like one. I never even got to see what he was doing here. But before he left I asked if he might send me something painted from Igen." She is still tense over this, not quite sure how much to say or not to say. Miniyal is not really so good at dancing around things. "I've not really, well. I should have said something sooner, but I don't want to-" Mention him. Hurt the man she sits beside, inches closer to until she can press against him. "I'm sorry, Gans." When in doubt, apologise. For. . .whatever.
He's quite silent while she fumbles around to the details she feels too pertinent to let go unsaid, but as she inches closer he splits out his arm away from his side so that by the time she's pressed up against him he can rest the easy bend of his elbow behind her, his hand flattening to her other side with long, thoughtful fingers loosely arched along stray bends in the rumple of her shirt. "No need," says Gans, easily, swiftly, to her apology, and a lift and fall of his free hand serves almost as dismissal; he seems thoughtful still, however, and gazes off toward the bookshelf for a long moment before returning his gaze to Miniyal. "I imagine where you'll put it depends most on the composition, the size, and how much you like it. Igen is - well, if he's using the landscape as a subject - it will probably be warm colors. That will make it easier, I suppose." Because their furniture and rugs and so forth are mostly warmish, or organic? Perhaps? In any case, yes, Gans has sort of slipped right past all possibility that Igen as a painting topic would offer any challenges other than palette and the practical matters of hanging.
It was, perhaps, not so much the topic of the painting as the painter who did it that concerned her. When his arm goes around her she takes immediate action and curls up against his side with one arm stretched out across him so her hand might curve around his waist. "I'm sure it will be awhile before it appears. I'm not anticipating it any time soon." Miniyal lifts her head to look around the room and then worries at her lower lip for a second or four. "Likely not before we might have to move." If there were a few more qualifies in that little statement it could mean nothing at all. But she's not dumb enough to consider things /might/ change when those pesky eggs hatch. "Do you think. . .I have some information for someone I was thinking of using to approach them as a possible client, but do you think it's wise to look for new ones with things so up in the air? Of course, one of the ones I have is being a pain and likely considers himself not to be one. Some people are so clueless."
"Move," Gans repeats. And then he looks around too, which makes him rather distracted-seeming - one brow propped, eyes suddenly thoughtfully open, mouth prim - while she asks another question. Asks, states, amends. Her words seem to wash over him while, from a vantage uncommon for him only a few feet above the floor, the ethics instructor considers their small but adequate quarters, those his remaining title afford him. "You think he might be a turn and more in - well, I suppose some artists do take such time. I must confess I had no idea he painted. At all."
"Artists are temperamental, aren't they?" Said with some small amusement in her tone. "I am not really sure how long. He had started not too long ago, I believe. Around the time of Tialith's flight." When he was no longer weyrleader. Sometimes Miniyal is not sure how much to say or not say. So she just speaks around something. "I like our room. I do not like to think of moving. It's not even there's overly much to bring." Eyes closing she wraps her other arm around his back now so she might have a full embrace. "I feel safe here." Her movement to seal that embrace and to lean as much as she will against him corrects that statement better than words might ever have. She feels safe with him.
"And I will be here for you, or where ever I must be, in time." Gans turns toward her a little and leans down his head to breathe another of those warm little kisses into her hair, contrast to his cool touches, his dry smiles. For a while he is content to sit there with her, looking upon their room, their few things (and many books) and think less of those futures that may or might not include moving, and think instead of the moment, her against his side, in his embrace. But in a while, a gentle murmur proves earlier attention that was not betrayed by his distracted expression and single-minded conversation. "I think, with things as they are, you might be best to consider how it would go with any individual client, were you to approach them from a significantly different angle in a few sevens. If you think it would be all right, then by all means, approach now; otherwise, you might wait and see."
There is some consideration on her part for where they sit. On the floor. Tsk. However, since she has spent the day idling away the hours on the floor she is not going to say anything. What she does do is stretch against him and then pull away so she might stretch out on the floor once more, this time on her side with one elbow propping her up. "You have a point. Well, I was thinking I might just go drop this little information and see what comes of it. If the person seems interested in hearing anything else. Some people are silly enough to think they could not benefit from my help. I know. It makes no sense to me either." Here Miniyal grins, because she doesn't entirely believe that. Entirely. Really though, people should know how great she is.
Gans, without Miniyal to keep his arm occupied, flattens a palm to the floor and leans over onto his hip again, perhaps more easy that way. Old bones and all. "Information from any quarter," offers the former weyrleader, an introduction to a topic he won't delve any deeper into today - but something he's said before, and that bears the sound of recitation now, however droll. "Do you think your potential client clever enough to understand you provide information for a reason other than passer-by interest?"
She should be more considerate for his old bones. Maybe that's why Miniyal offers, "We can move?" Considerate. "Or you can lie here beside me. Then I wouldn't have to always be looking up at you." If she rarely will joke about the age difference the height difference makes a fine substitute. "I think it's possible this person might. But not all of my clients have quite figured out /all/ my reasons yet for doing this. Which is just as well. Honestly, I've not figured them all out yet. It's been fun though. Doing this. At least it is not boring yet and it's been more than a couple of weeks." So, there. Ha!
"I should be more considerate of your neck," murmurs Gans, perhaps unconscious in his parallel of her train of thought. His own words are wryly spoken, as he leans off of his hip onto his elbow alongside her, stretching out his legs a little more creakily than he might readily allow other people to see. "Should I ask what the reasons you -do- know are, or am I, too, meant to discover them through slow progression?"
"Oh, I could be persuaded to share some few of them I think." It only takes one word to make a sentence come out sounding indecent. Just one and Miniyal's gotten quite adept at doing just that. "As for my neck, you're often enough considerate of it." Which she means entirely innocently, of course, and sounds just exactly like she does. "I'll give you the first one for free, though. Reasons. Not necks." Now she's just being silly, but it's better than sinking into some sort of worry induced depression. "Because I can."
Gans laughs, one of his rare real laughs, as subdued as any of the false ones or suppressed ones, but neither repressed to a chuckle nor presented for designed purpose. "Tell me, then," requests he, adjusting so his torso, at least, basically parallels hers; he reaches out his free hand and strokes back a lock of her hair that he imagines to be out of place. Or just asking to be touched.
It's not that often she makes him laugh this way so the moment is savored. And he touches her hair and that moment must be allowed to linger as well. Distracted by all of it, Miniyal therefore has no quick answer. When she finds her slow one she gives it. "Because it gets people used to listening to me. It makes the right connections to be able to change things." The easy answers come first. The simple ones. "Because for the first time ever I feel like I'm doing something really important. Something I'm good at that no one else has helped me with. This needs to be done and no one can do it like I can."
"Very good," says Gans, some trace of his laughter coloring these words with a gentle air that strips them of that grand, superior approval to which he can, admittedly, be given. He strokes back more of her hair, watching his hand as it moves, watching her hair try to fall back into place with the reach of gravity and move again with his fingercombing. "I love seeing you succeed."
Approval! Combined with his fingers in her hair, Miniyal cannot help but let her eyes flutter somewhat as she leans into his touch. It's a small movement that brings here only an inch or so closer to him, but the move does happen. "I couldn't have done this without you. I couldn't have. . .started this. I never would have even thought I could do it. Not before you. You've really helped me so much."
"Now you're flattering me," replies Gans, but doesn't tell her to stop, of course. He leans closer too, even adjusting the elbow he's leaning on so he can get a little nearer, his head bending down, his eyes downcast, watching her. "I think it would be fair," he says in a little time, voice more serious for this if no less warm, "to say you have helped me a great deal, too."
"But you're not flat." Teasing, unable to keep herself from doing it. Sometimes, so very rarely, the serious goes away and she is left with nothing but silly. Her hand finds his hip and rests there, fingers curving around it and then not moving. "I hope so. I want to be able to help you for a long time to come. Even if it still doesn't seem like I do as much for you as you do for me. I've been-" Something. Her gaze drops down to that small space between them. "Happy." As if she should be embarrassed about that.
Another laugh, briefer, but maybe even more delighted than the first; it feathers out those fine lines from the corners of his eyes, and makes his smile even try to twitch helplessly at the unwilling left corner of his mouth. "I am not," flat. His hand slips around through her hair to the back of her head while she speaks, stroking still, then withdraws so he can lean in while she's looking down. "Very good," he says, very softly, knowingly mimicking himself from earlier. "So have I." He's in her way, really, leaning this close. He waits for her to notice, so he can kiss her when she moves her head. Kissing ambush.
Ambushed! And in her own home! It's such a tragedy. She objects, of course, does Miniyal. In quite obvious ways like a tightening of her fingers around where they rest on his hip and the way she forces that kiss to linger and almost turn into something else. But only almost. Before she might get too wrapped up in ideas that have nothing at all to do with conversing any longer she does lean back just enough to end the kiss. Some other thought has been weighing on her for some small time and since she has given all the others breath this one too comes out finally. "Nothing will be done, will it? About S'lien." All serious again there is a certain weariness in her tone that has not been present yet.
Gans allows a little murmur to regret the ending of that kiss, though the note savors it, too, cherishing already its recent memory. He is calm, pleased, as relaxed as he gets there on the floor beside her, and smiles the least, easiest little smile while she speaks - then shakes his head to what she's said. The motion's awkward, from the bend of his palm beneath his temple. "I doubt there will be a trial, Miniyal. But I doubt Kazimir will neglect this - " There's a word here, one that pauses, poised, on the former weyrleader's lips, and is denied. He selects instead, after a moment, "- injustice."
"It's not right." Indignation now for this whole mess and what it means. Miniyal frowns now, the memory of the kiss not enough to keep her lips from turning down. "It'll be swept away like it never happened. It's not. . .people in positions of authority have an obligation to everyone. To do what's right. And no one will even know what happened. Everything we all did. All the risks people took and dragging up everything all over for her. For almost nothing." Not quite nothing. If only because she knows better than to make such a statement he will just correct her on.
Is it worse, then, to be tested upon the statement she did make? No matter: she chose, and Gans obliges her choice. "Almost?"
Fine, he wins again! If it frustrates her to never be able to make a statement that is not called into question there is no indication of that fact. She does have to think on it. It's never wise to commit to an answer too quickly so Miniyal distracts herself with a slow sliding of her hand from his hip to his waist where she winds up draping her arm. "Almost. I mean, it was stupid to think something would change. But we tried. And next time it might be easier. Nothing you try is ever worth nothing I think. It's. . .sometimes all you can do is try. Make the best attempt you can and hope it works and if not. . .do it differently next time until you get it right."
Gans nods for these things, the things that make her statement require 'almost.' His smile remains; it increases a little for the slide of her hand, and relaxes again as she speaks of the future. "You think, then, nothing will happen to S'lien? Nothing will happen at Telgar? Nothing new?" A pause. "What's your timeframe of expectation, my dear?"
"I am not patient like you." In case he has forgotten that. Her patience is selective and does not encompass everything, but only that which she allows it to. Miniyal frowns again, thoughtful. "I think nothing that will have any real impact on him. There is only so much that can be done, after all. I just. . .I don't know. Unless the people at Telgar know what he did then why should they wish something to change? And if they don't wish it to than no matter what any of us on the outside want there is nothing to be done, is there? He should pay now for what he did. Not next turn or the one after or five after that. Delayed justice is sometimes worse than none at all."
"And why should the people at Telgar not know?" Gans lets his hand fall out of her hair to her shoulder, then down her arm toward himself, then reaches past her arm from the elbow so he can stroke the curves of her side; but his gaze stays on her face, for once not following his touch.
"Who will tell them? In a way that it will not be seen as just some political move to try to discredit S'lien." Miniyal's frown softens some at the touch, but doesn't entirely disappear. "People too easily forgive those they admire. Look how long E'sere got away with what he did here. Because no one could believe he did it. There are still people who feel he was not responsible. That it was all some political machination to insure he was never given a chance to be in power here. Even a trial didn't change minds."
"They could tell each other," supposes Gans, "given that they had the information." And then he raises his hand swiftly from her side to reach for her lips with a single cool fingertip, one brow quirking high, eyes bright with mischief and droll, affectionate bemusement. "Not you, my dear, not unless a little waiting does prove action not to be forthcoming. But have a little faith in the Harper, won't you?"
It is not truly in her nature to just agree to such things. To waiting. To trusting someone else to do something she is nearly always sure she could to better. It's not just right sometimes for Miniyal to step aside. "A little. I'll give him a little. And I will wait, but I won't wait forever. Just. . .for a time." An undisclosed amount of time. Most likely because she has no real idea herself of how long she will be able to wait. Not willing to wait, but able to wait.
"Try," urges Gans, his finger coming at last to rest on her lower lip, tapping once, then slipping away in the tiniest caress. He leans a little closer, now sliding that hand up the side of her face toward her hair. "I'm sure you have enough other things to think about."
There is a smile for his words. One that begins as a smile, plain enough, but turns into something more teasing and sly when he moves for her hair again. "No, nothing come to mind. Is there something I should be thinking about?" Eyes wide, she peers at him all innocently. Ok, not so much innocently but with a suppressed desire that only barely registers in her near whispered words. "Did you want to give me something to think about?"
"Something," Gans agrees, spreading long fingers again through her locks, though still her gaze stays with her face. "To think about." A little more leaning and he can tilt his face near hers, find her lips with his, and rather than kiss speak against them: "Something to entirely occupy your fretful mind." But then the kiss promised becomes too important to delay, and whatever she might be intended to give such attention she'll have to infer from action.
Where: Their room
When: 12:59 on day 12, month 5, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
What: An entire conversation occurs on the floor. It is unusual enough to make note of. The conversation itself moves around as theirs often do. Paintings, the nature of reality, clients, and world events all come up at one point or another.
3/6/2007 - 3/8/2007
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 12:59 on day 12, month 5, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
Two things of small significance happened today. Little things that most people would brush off as nothing at all. The first thing happened shortly after breakfast and it was nothing at all. No books were selected and the writing case that often follows Miniyal out for the day was left in its spot by the door. She did. . .nothing. Did not even put on her shoes, instead choosing to allow bare feet to touch the carpet. It was not said she would be staying home, but she gave no indication that she was going anywhere.
The second thing of no significance is that while she has chosen to remain at home today she has not attempted to do anything. Other than take a book down from the shelf and then stretch out on the floor, yes, the floor, to read it. Her toes sometimes kick the floor as she lies on her stomach. As the morning disappeared into afternoon she just read. No conversation was offered or really taken up if he tried, but there was nothing in her mood, her actions, that said she might be upset. Just quiet. And thoughtful. Enough so that for the last half hour the page she reads has not changed. But she stares at it just the same, unaware of the time slipping by as the same words continued to be not seen by her eyes.
He is good at this. At waiting. He has some small experience in it. So Gans, today, waits.
He has his own indulgences, of course. He brings out his journal and, as she takes the floor for her own, he takes the desk. His writing-things, the ones not meant to tuck away into his pockets for travel, are meticulously kept and must be meticulously arranged before he can begin. He has to have tea, so there are times when he wanders back and forth across the room, pausing once in a while to smile down at the shape of his lover on the floor. When the soft beat of her toes thrums the rug he looks up automatically, no matter what he's in the middle of, and smiles more. But it cannot go entirely unnoticed that one sound, the sound of turning pages, is absent all day.
In time he has completed some reading and commenting upon essays; written something in his journal and put it away; prepared a short letter to his mother; and done everything else he can evidently think of to do that entails staying out of Miniyal's way. He has now options only of leaving to pretend to prepare for a class off in some classroom somewhere, or of pestering the woman on the floor. He winds up with the latter. She might think he's just going for tea again - but he stops beside her, then sinks to a knee, one pale palm reaching beside him for her back. Slender fingers work very light circles there while he looks over her shoulder at the book. "What are we reading?"
If she's followed every trek across the room he has made she has done so without giving it away. A tilt of her head and the book to give her an excuse to glance upwards and the like. None of it intended to show she is at all interested in anything but her book. Which she is not truly interested in at all by now. Still, her attention has remained fixed on the book and if it's not the words that hold her it must be thoughts those words bring to her mind. The touch to her back brings her out of whatever world she had slipped into and the book earns not another glance as instead she tips her head so she might look up and smile. "It is a book about the nature of reality. I was told last month that I had too little of an understanding of it or grasp on it and would benefit from counseling on the matter. However, upon doing more research it is quite clear I've no such trouble at all. Not that I truly thought I did, but the woman was insufferable and did not seem to understand the difference between a literal and figurative statement." Light reading, brought on by nothing at all.
"Some people are rather focused on the literal," muses Gans, his palm flattening against her back with very little pressure - a presence, a reminder, meant to be gentle. He keeps looking at the book for a moment after she's looked up, as though it really was the focus of his interest, but if he reads there are no telltale twitches of his gaze to give away the reading. "Whose nature of reality - or rather, what theory of it - are you using as basis for comparison?"
"Being too literal gets you in trouble." It is not the easiest way to converse while looking at someone, on your stomach with his hand on your back while he sits beside. But Miniyal makes no effort to move, no indication she is uncomfortable. She just lies there, content for now. "This is by, actually, a weaver. She has some very interesting ideas and makes a decent use of metaphor. She has written that reality is a tapestry of sorts with threads that can be pulled to arrange it to one's whim if they just learn how to do so. Perhaps someone reading this as a literal thing would think she needs assistance as well. I read another by a fisher. And I am on the trail of one by a Bitran in which reality is likened to a bad hand of cards. Have I bored you?" With the lying around most likely and not the conversation. Most likely.
She could put her head down. She could fold up her arms and stretch out, restful beneath the hand that now caresses her, slow-moving, since she hasn't objected to his touch. But if she won't do so, he'll just smile his one-sided smile at her and fix her in his warm, beloved's regard, and listen to her while she explains. "I believe that metaphor is a rather old one, perhaps older than this author. It is one worthy of attention, however." A pause. "No," she has not bored him, neither in her curious layabout day, nor in conversation. But Gans pauses only a moment more and adds, "I assume the fisher also uses metaphor. Have we not a single volume addressing the matter directly?"
It would be easier, sure, but it would be so passive. Although since she has spent the day lying about it's not entirely impossible she has not been looking for a day to just lie around and not worry about things. Contradictions, she's a bundle of them. "It is old, yes, but there are parts to it that are interesting. And, we might. But I know direct. I am trying to learn something less direct." Miniyal considers a moment and then smiles lightly. "You know where would have more. We should go to Harper and poke around a bit. For a few days. An early sort of anniversary present to ourselves." There is nothing meant, at all, in the timing of this suggestion. At all. "Also, most of the references I have found to those who do discuss it directly makes it sound very dull. As if the author's are much too convinced of their own importance and are just writing to make everyone else aware of it as well."
"I do not think we're going to be going somewhere for a few days just now, Miniyal. Perhaps for an afternoon." Correction, stern; compromise, affectionate. His voice manages each in instant alteration, smooth, untroubled, and smiling all the way through. -This- requires greater care: "You would consider this, then, our anniversary?" His eyes twinkle; his mouth twists. The nature of reality he sets aside, for this.
She likely did not expect him to go for it, but if there's anything she's learned it's that you don't know until you try. Besides, an afternoon is more than nothing. "An afternoon then. But I will have to know in advance so I might make an appointment to speak to Kazimir." Miniyal shakes her head at that and then does give up, stretching out under his hand so she can lay her head atop crossed arms. "As for, well. . .It was kind of hard. I had to think on it. Which date it should be. But it was the beginning. And the beginning should never be put aside for some other event that might seem to mean more. The twenty-fifth." Now, despite her surety of mere seconds ago a hint of worry creeps into her voice. "Unless you think there is a better date?"
"Sooner, better than later. And we cannot let Kazimir keep us too long." Gans' voice takes on a bit of a dry tone here, his palm sliding down along her spine, fingers splayed along one side of it and heel of his palm on the other, the arch of his hand curved over the bones so as not to bump them while he strokes her. "Our rider will probably be obliged to wait for us. I shall make some excuse to him, of course, but." Pale brows arch. For this topic, not the next one, which he allows of with some simple bemusement, "The twenty-fifth would be my preference. I could merely suggest alternatives if it were not yours." Teasing, for this, and his hand stops just above the curve of her rear to make this dry jest: "You were, after all, a bit shy about it at the time."
"Not too long. But I've something of his to return and it would be rude not to see to the returning while I am able. In case I am not able soon enough." The sigh is either for the thought she might be stuck away from Harper's so tempting archives for some time or a response to his hand moving on her back. Her face is partially concealed where it lays on her arms and hair does part of the rest of the job. So even if Miniyal's blush is not entirely visible it can be heard in her tone. "I was just. . .I can't. You are horrid!" Which is why her tone softens, of course. "I was just unsure. I didn't know what you were up to. What you wanted. I didn't get, you know, why me. I was shy, but I was not entirely unaware of what might come of it."
His hand moves a little more, fingers spreading wider, the heel of his palm sliding a little lower. "I should hope not," Gans remarks, of being horrid, his voice far too droll. He pauses in stroking her so he can get down from one knee onto two, then onto his hip. "Do you get it now?" Able to lean closer, he slips his hand off of her back and onto the floor across her, drifting the other hand over to start up a new stroking pattern from her shoulder.
"About why? I mean, yea. Well, no. Not so much. But I try not to worry about it. You do. That's all that matters." Well, not entirely true, but Miniyal sometimes tries to not create trouble by thinking of things that will only bother her. He earns another sigh, this one definitely content as she relaxes under his touch and closes her eyes. There is, in her shoulders, the slightest amount of tension, but for now she is not going to bring up why. Soon enough, but the conversation is going to drift there slowly.
Or not at all. Because Gans says, "You don't have to get why. You just have to get that I do." And he doesn't say anything else. Instead the hand he's not leaning on slides across her shoulder to the space between her shoulder-blades, then upward, fingertips finding the back of her neck so they can spider-creep up, cool and smooth, into chestnut waves. He strokes them, her scalp beneath them, her neck and the tense muscles around it, and either waits, or is content, no difference.
"I would like to understand it all. But. . .but it's not necessary. There is plenty I do not understand. I trust you." Which is not just said because Miniyal must keep reminding herself of that fact. She's accepted this trust thing. It is what it is. Rather than say anything else about anything she is content to lie on the floor and do nothing at all. It is what she has been doing all day after all. No reason to stop now. Eventually there is more speaking, but it takes awhile for the words to come. "It's been nice, just being here. I don't do it enough. I shall have to try to change that." Ok, so it's not words of any meaning.
"Just being here," echoes Gans, thoughtful, curious - it is not, quite, a prompt. He combs long fingers through her hair from beneath and withdraws his hand, trailing it down the center of her back. "With me," he supposes, untroubled. He has to let a little space go by before he can say the next thing, the thing that might be too piercing if he didn't have prepared for it - and of course he does - a droll layer of wry bemusement for the intonation. "Have you been hiding?"
She smiles into her arm, if not losing that hint of tense muscles at least not letting it get worse. "With you." Miniyal repeats softly. "I feel like I should always be doing something and I have trouble making myself do nothing." Like stare at a book all day without reading it. His question bears something thinking on before she can answer it. "No. Not hiding. Looking for something. I've been practicing. Talking to people. I've met several new people and I talked to Roa and it's. . .it's not that it is easier it's that I've at least stopped waiting to hear it." Because the little voice, having disappeared has lost gender pronoun status. "I don't think it is coming back. It's been quiet before, but never this long. Never when I've had to. . .to think of how to say something." /Now/ she tenses up more.
Gans' fingers arch; their tips play a drilling little line down along his lover's spine. "Is that - bad?" Oops, perhaps that question was a bit leading, a bit abrupt, a bit... incredulous. "Ah. It's good you've been meeting new people. Have any of them been enjoyable company?" Just a little pause, and then this is a tease, most evidenced as such by the flattening of his palm upon her, a reassurance. "Candidates?"
"It is not bad. It is just not something I never expected. But I have you now and you've made it quiet. And even if it tries to come back I won't ever listen to it." Miniyal may, of course, be a bit too optimistic about this, but hey. "People don't seem to know what to make of me. They ask what I do and I've no quick answer like cook or laundress or anything. They probably think I am weird." Ah, well, so be it her tone implies. "Candidates, yes. And Caucus students. They are the new people here in the majority. Although I swear, in the winter they whine about the cold and now they whine about the rain. It's like they've no appreciation for anything." Says the woman who turned up one day soaked to the bone and waved it away with 'there was a party in the bowl in the middle of a downpour.'
A party she didn't even have much interest in taking part in. Gans smiles; she'll know it from his voice. "We could make up a quick answer for you." His hand starts moving again, stroking muscles that may have been tense, or may think about being tense soon, or that have been tense at any point in the past. Muscles his fingertips, by now, know. "Weather expert, for example."
In truth, she has little interest in any party, and yet these days she does not run from them. "Weather expert. What if they ask me something I've no answer for?" Miniyal allows the silence to stretch for just a moment before she waves that statement away with just a soft laugh. "Well, admittedly that is not possible as I've answer for everything." Of course she does. Whatever tension or residual tension might have been forming in those muscles is leaking away. Maybe she'll not bring it up what she thinks she must. Excuses are easy to come by as it was pointed out to her and she has a good excuse for not bringing it up now. She feels much too good. Which is why she doesn't quite form any of the hundreds of thoughts in her head into spoken words just yet.
"You do indeed," murmurs Gans, in that voice that approaches a purr, approving and delighted and teasing all at once. He leans deeper over her, the arm across her bending deep at the elbow so he can bow his head and breathe a kiss, barely, into her hair. "It's been wonderful to have you here today," he notes then, before straightening and adding, "even as much as I do encourage you to meet people and - get to know them." In the pause, the strange little pause there, his hand on her back pauses too; when it starts moving again, its efforts are more directed, taking better care to stroke out remaining tense spots and seek new ones.
The strange little pause is nearly missed entirely. There are more important things to do like wrap up her fragile little ego (hahaha) in his praise and let it warm her as much as his hand on her does. Eventually when that grows old, not that it ever does, but she can carry the feeling around for later when she might need it, Miniyal manages another sentence to contribute. "Do you think I do not?" Her tone is puzzled in some small way. "Get to know people I mean. I do try, but it takes so long." How annoying of people to be like that! "Look at you. A whole turn and I've still got plenty to discover."
"I am old," points out Gans, "or at the very least, many-natured." His voice is so wry. He means no harm. He is, in fact, harmless. Entirely. Self-deprecating and sweet. His hand moves upon her, and he laughs a little before adding, "But any person is difficult to get to know. The general idea is that if you get to know them a little, you can discern whether getting to know them more deeply is worth all of that time expended. You have to sample first, and that's the part I'm pleased to see you do, I suppose."
Harmless. He is harmless the way Miniyal is not sneaky. Not entirely true since she believes him to be, if not harmless, than mostly harmless. And her sneakiness is quite well known to her. "You are old." She agrees with him so innocently other than having to turn her head a fraction to suppress a giggle. Her mood fades in an ever so tiny fashion with two little words. Three syllables and she can't help but feel muscles tighten again in new anxiety. "You suppose? Do you think I am doing something wrong?" It can be dizzying, the mood swings, from up to down. The slightest thing does set them off.
"No," says Gans. He will let her swing, if she chooses, but for this there is no need to push, no need to pull, no need to go flying along. He does offer, between strokes of his cool palm, a little self-awareness she might like to have: "I meant to soften what was starting to sound like me approving of your taking direction - when as far as I know I have not offered any direction, and I do not 'approve' so much as - well, I am pleased, Miniyal. You are a delight, and as much as I might like to keep you all to myself, your skills and talents deserve larger venues."
"I'm sorry," the words muffled somewhat by hair that is left to conceal her face. Silence follows the apology for mere seconds before she does move just enough to push some of her hair off her face at least. "I do not mean to sound. . .that is, I don't. I am not one of those people who requires- I mean, I don't expect." How exactly does Miniyal say she does not seek his approval when that is what she does? His and anyone else's. Simply by not finishing a single sentence at all.
Sometimes, Gans is a mindreader. Sometimes she gives that much away, with her words, her actions; with even the twitches of her skin, her muscles, her body beneath his hands. Today he is not quite that talented, and suffers in smiling, dumb silence for a moment, stroking her, before he decides his best course to steer through the stammering is to say, "I mean only to emphasize that I would not try to direct you, my dear. I think you fully capable of directing yourself, and doing well at it." There.
It works well enough, what he says. It looked for a moment as if she might have broken contact and been forced to resort to pacing and the like, but instead she just lets out the softest of sighs. "I know you would not. I do not-." Sometimes one just has to get it over with, yes? So in the middle of an entirely different conversation she speaks what she's been meaning to for long enough. "He said he would send me one of his paintings sometime. Along with his letters. I just am not sure what I will do with it when I receive it." There. Now she does sit up, one hand brushing her hair off her face, watching him with a combination of concern and a worry that borders more on fear. Fear that she's ruined the day entirely. Even if she was so very careful like always to not use the name of the last weyrleader.
His hand pauses on her back when she changes tack - but when she brushes back her hair and starts to move beside him, Gans takes the physical cue better than the verbal one. His arm reached over her withdraws and he, too, sits upright, adjusting from his hip to his seat. Maybe it takes him a moment to figure out who paints, and sends letters. Or would. Because it's not as though Miniyal's told him a lot about her confidante, her Igenite friend, in the time that relationship's been tended. But in a little time the almost-blank expression - Gans never wears a truly blank expression, not since the weeks after Hirth's last trip between, anyway, but the instructor's lover would know by looking when the twinkle in his eyes and the smirk on his mouth are just leftovers from whatever he felt or thought last, waiting in idleness for the next spark - gives way to something more like understanding. "Ah," he says, and does not sound wholly displeased. "Ah," again, almost tickled. "Should I ask if you commissioned him, or if he intends to send it as a gift only - ?" ...this could almost be teasing.
"I just told him I would like one. I never even got to see what he was doing here. But before he left I asked if he might send me something painted from Igen." She is still tense over this, not quite sure how much to say or not to say. Miniyal is not really so good at dancing around things. "I've not really, well. I should have said something sooner, but I don't want to-" Mention him. Hurt the man she sits beside, inches closer to until she can press against him. "I'm sorry, Gans." When in doubt, apologise. For. . .whatever.
He's quite silent while she fumbles around to the details she feels too pertinent to let go unsaid, but as she inches closer he splits out his arm away from his side so that by the time she's pressed up against him he can rest the easy bend of his elbow behind her, his hand flattening to her other side with long, thoughtful fingers loosely arched along stray bends in the rumple of her shirt. "No need," says Gans, easily, swiftly, to her apology, and a lift and fall of his free hand serves almost as dismissal; he seems thoughtful still, however, and gazes off toward the bookshelf for a long moment before returning his gaze to Miniyal. "I imagine where you'll put it depends most on the composition, the size, and how much you like it. Igen is - well, if he's using the landscape as a subject - it will probably be warm colors. That will make it easier, I suppose." Because their furniture and rugs and so forth are mostly warmish, or organic? Perhaps? In any case, yes, Gans has sort of slipped right past all possibility that Igen as a painting topic would offer any challenges other than palette and the practical matters of hanging.
It was, perhaps, not so much the topic of the painting as the painter who did it that concerned her. When his arm goes around her she takes immediate action and curls up against his side with one arm stretched out across him so her hand might curve around his waist. "I'm sure it will be awhile before it appears. I'm not anticipating it any time soon." Miniyal lifts her head to look around the room and then worries at her lower lip for a second or four. "Likely not before we might have to move." If there were a few more qualifies in that little statement it could mean nothing at all. But she's not dumb enough to consider things /might/ change when those pesky eggs hatch. "Do you think. . .I have some information for someone I was thinking of using to approach them as a possible client, but do you think it's wise to look for new ones with things so up in the air? Of course, one of the ones I have is being a pain and likely considers himself not to be one. Some people are so clueless."
"Move," Gans repeats. And then he looks around too, which makes him rather distracted-seeming - one brow propped, eyes suddenly thoughtfully open, mouth prim - while she asks another question. Asks, states, amends. Her words seem to wash over him while, from a vantage uncommon for him only a few feet above the floor, the ethics instructor considers their small but adequate quarters, those his remaining title afford him. "You think he might be a turn and more in - well, I suppose some artists do take such time. I must confess I had no idea he painted. At all."
"Artists are temperamental, aren't they?" Said with some small amusement in her tone. "I am not really sure how long. He had started not too long ago, I believe. Around the time of Tialith's flight." When he was no longer weyrleader. Sometimes Miniyal is not sure how much to say or not say. So she just speaks around something. "I like our room. I do not like to think of moving. It's not even there's overly much to bring." Eyes closing she wraps her other arm around his back now so she might have a full embrace. "I feel safe here." Her movement to seal that embrace and to lean as much as she will against him corrects that statement better than words might ever have. She feels safe with him.
"And I will be here for you, or where ever I must be, in time." Gans turns toward her a little and leans down his head to breathe another of those warm little kisses into her hair, contrast to his cool touches, his dry smiles. For a while he is content to sit there with her, looking upon their room, their few things (and many books) and think less of those futures that may or might not include moving, and think instead of the moment, her against his side, in his embrace. But in a while, a gentle murmur proves earlier attention that was not betrayed by his distracted expression and single-minded conversation. "I think, with things as they are, you might be best to consider how it would go with any individual client, were you to approach them from a significantly different angle in a few sevens. If you think it would be all right, then by all means, approach now; otherwise, you might wait and see."
There is some consideration on her part for where they sit. On the floor. Tsk. However, since she has spent the day idling away the hours on the floor she is not going to say anything. What she does do is stretch against him and then pull away so she might stretch out on the floor once more, this time on her side with one elbow propping her up. "You have a point. Well, I was thinking I might just go drop this little information and see what comes of it. If the person seems interested in hearing anything else. Some people are silly enough to think they could not benefit from my help. I know. It makes no sense to me either." Here Miniyal grins, because she doesn't entirely believe that. Entirely. Really though, people should know how great she is.
Gans, without Miniyal to keep his arm occupied, flattens a palm to the floor and leans over onto his hip again, perhaps more easy that way. Old bones and all. "Information from any quarter," offers the former weyrleader, an introduction to a topic he won't delve any deeper into today - but something he's said before, and that bears the sound of recitation now, however droll. "Do you think your potential client clever enough to understand you provide information for a reason other than passer-by interest?"
She should be more considerate for his old bones. Maybe that's why Miniyal offers, "We can move?" Considerate. "Or you can lie here beside me. Then I wouldn't have to always be looking up at you." If she rarely will joke about the age difference the height difference makes a fine substitute. "I think it's possible this person might. But not all of my clients have quite figured out /all/ my reasons yet for doing this. Which is just as well. Honestly, I've not figured them all out yet. It's been fun though. Doing this. At least it is not boring yet and it's been more than a couple of weeks." So, there. Ha!
"I should be more considerate of your neck," murmurs Gans, perhaps unconscious in his parallel of her train of thought. His own words are wryly spoken, as he leans off of his hip onto his elbow alongside her, stretching out his legs a little more creakily than he might readily allow other people to see. "Should I ask what the reasons you -do- know are, or am I, too, meant to discover them through slow progression?"
"Oh, I could be persuaded to share some few of them I think." It only takes one word to make a sentence come out sounding indecent. Just one and Miniyal's gotten quite adept at doing just that. "As for my neck, you're often enough considerate of it." Which she means entirely innocently, of course, and sounds just exactly like she does. "I'll give you the first one for free, though. Reasons. Not necks." Now she's just being silly, but it's better than sinking into some sort of worry induced depression. "Because I can."
Gans laughs, one of his rare real laughs, as subdued as any of the false ones or suppressed ones, but neither repressed to a chuckle nor presented for designed purpose. "Tell me, then," requests he, adjusting so his torso, at least, basically parallels hers; he reaches out his free hand and strokes back a lock of her hair that he imagines to be out of place. Or just asking to be touched.
It's not that often she makes him laugh this way so the moment is savored. And he touches her hair and that moment must be allowed to linger as well. Distracted by all of it, Miniyal therefore has no quick answer. When she finds her slow one she gives it. "Because it gets people used to listening to me. It makes the right connections to be able to change things." The easy answers come first. The simple ones. "Because for the first time ever I feel like I'm doing something really important. Something I'm good at that no one else has helped me with. This needs to be done and no one can do it like I can."
"Very good," says Gans, some trace of his laughter coloring these words with a gentle air that strips them of that grand, superior approval to which he can, admittedly, be given. He strokes back more of her hair, watching his hand as it moves, watching her hair try to fall back into place with the reach of gravity and move again with his fingercombing. "I love seeing you succeed."
Approval! Combined with his fingers in her hair, Miniyal cannot help but let her eyes flutter somewhat as she leans into his touch. It's a small movement that brings here only an inch or so closer to him, but the move does happen. "I couldn't have done this without you. I couldn't have. . .started this. I never would have even thought I could do it. Not before you. You've really helped me so much."
"Now you're flattering me," replies Gans, but doesn't tell her to stop, of course. He leans closer too, even adjusting the elbow he's leaning on so he can get a little nearer, his head bending down, his eyes downcast, watching her. "I think it would be fair," he says in a little time, voice more serious for this if no less warm, "to say you have helped me a great deal, too."
"But you're not flat." Teasing, unable to keep herself from doing it. Sometimes, so very rarely, the serious goes away and she is left with nothing but silly. Her hand finds his hip and rests there, fingers curving around it and then not moving. "I hope so. I want to be able to help you for a long time to come. Even if it still doesn't seem like I do as much for you as you do for me. I've been-" Something. Her gaze drops down to that small space between them. "Happy." As if she should be embarrassed about that.
Another laugh, briefer, but maybe even more delighted than the first; it feathers out those fine lines from the corners of his eyes, and makes his smile even try to twitch helplessly at the unwilling left corner of his mouth. "I am not," flat. His hand slips around through her hair to the back of her head while she speaks, stroking still, then withdraws so he can lean in while she's looking down. "Very good," he says, very softly, knowingly mimicking himself from earlier. "So have I." He's in her way, really, leaning this close. He waits for her to notice, so he can kiss her when she moves her head. Kissing ambush.
Ambushed! And in her own home! It's such a tragedy. She objects, of course, does Miniyal. In quite obvious ways like a tightening of her fingers around where they rest on his hip and the way she forces that kiss to linger and almost turn into something else. But only almost. Before she might get too wrapped up in ideas that have nothing at all to do with conversing any longer she does lean back just enough to end the kiss. Some other thought has been weighing on her for some small time and since she has given all the others breath this one too comes out finally. "Nothing will be done, will it? About S'lien." All serious again there is a certain weariness in her tone that has not been present yet.
Gans allows a little murmur to regret the ending of that kiss, though the note savors it, too, cherishing already its recent memory. He is calm, pleased, as relaxed as he gets there on the floor beside her, and smiles the least, easiest little smile while she speaks - then shakes his head to what she's said. The motion's awkward, from the bend of his palm beneath his temple. "I doubt there will be a trial, Miniyal. But I doubt Kazimir will neglect this - " There's a word here, one that pauses, poised, on the former weyrleader's lips, and is denied. He selects instead, after a moment, "- injustice."
"It's not right." Indignation now for this whole mess and what it means. Miniyal frowns now, the memory of the kiss not enough to keep her lips from turning down. "It'll be swept away like it never happened. It's not. . .people in positions of authority have an obligation to everyone. To do what's right. And no one will even know what happened. Everything we all did. All the risks people took and dragging up everything all over for her. For almost nothing." Not quite nothing. If only because she knows better than to make such a statement he will just correct her on.
Is it worse, then, to be tested upon the statement she did make? No matter: she chose, and Gans obliges her choice. "Almost?"
Fine, he wins again! If it frustrates her to never be able to make a statement that is not called into question there is no indication of that fact. She does have to think on it. It's never wise to commit to an answer too quickly so Miniyal distracts herself with a slow sliding of her hand from his hip to his waist where she winds up draping her arm. "Almost. I mean, it was stupid to think something would change. But we tried. And next time it might be easier. Nothing you try is ever worth nothing I think. It's. . .sometimes all you can do is try. Make the best attempt you can and hope it works and if not. . .do it differently next time until you get it right."
Gans nods for these things, the things that make her statement require 'almost.' His smile remains; it increases a little for the slide of her hand, and relaxes again as she speaks of the future. "You think, then, nothing will happen to S'lien? Nothing will happen at Telgar? Nothing new?" A pause. "What's your timeframe of expectation, my dear?"
"I am not patient like you." In case he has forgotten that. Her patience is selective and does not encompass everything, but only that which she allows it to. Miniyal frowns again, thoughtful. "I think nothing that will have any real impact on him. There is only so much that can be done, after all. I just. . .I don't know. Unless the people at Telgar know what he did then why should they wish something to change? And if they don't wish it to than no matter what any of us on the outside want there is nothing to be done, is there? He should pay now for what he did. Not next turn or the one after or five after that. Delayed justice is sometimes worse than none at all."
"And why should the people at Telgar not know?" Gans lets his hand fall out of her hair to her shoulder, then down her arm toward himself, then reaches past her arm from the elbow so he can stroke the curves of her side; but his gaze stays on her face, for once not following his touch.
"Who will tell them? In a way that it will not be seen as just some political move to try to discredit S'lien." Miniyal's frown softens some at the touch, but doesn't entirely disappear. "People too easily forgive those they admire. Look how long E'sere got away with what he did here. Because no one could believe he did it. There are still people who feel he was not responsible. That it was all some political machination to insure he was never given a chance to be in power here. Even a trial didn't change minds."
"They could tell each other," supposes Gans, "given that they had the information." And then he raises his hand swiftly from her side to reach for her lips with a single cool fingertip, one brow quirking high, eyes bright with mischief and droll, affectionate bemusement. "Not you, my dear, not unless a little waiting does prove action not to be forthcoming. But have a little faith in the Harper, won't you?"
It is not truly in her nature to just agree to such things. To waiting. To trusting someone else to do something she is nearly always sure she could to better. It's not just right sometimes for Miniyal to step aside. "A little. I'll give him a little. And I will wait, but I won't wait forever. Just. . .for a time." An undisclosed amount of time. Most likely because she has no real idea herself of how long she will be able to wait. Not willing to wait, but able to wait.
"Try," urges Gans, his finger coming at last to rest on her lower lip, tapping once, then slipping away in the tiniest caress. He leans a little closer, now sliding that hand up the side of her face toward her hair. "I'm sure you have enough other things to think about."
There is a smile for his words. One that begins as a smile, plain enough, but turns into something more teasing and sly when he moves for her hair again. "No, nothing come to mind. Is there something I should be thinking about?" Eyes wide, she peers at him all innocently. Ok, not so much innocently but with a suppressed desire that only barely registers in her near whispered words. "Did you want to give me something to think about?"
"Something," Gans agrees, spreading long fingers again through her locks, though still her gaze stays with her face. "To think about." A little more leaning and he can tilt his face near hers, find her lips with his, and rather than kiss speak against them: "Something to entirely occupy your fretful mind." But then the kiss promised becomes too important to delay, and whatever she might be intended to give such attention she'll have to infer from action.