Chase and Rosie

Ow.

2006-12-06T12:09:27Z

Day 27, Month 11, Turn 2. Rosie sprains her wrist, and goes to see Jandor about it. As for what happens next, you really have to read it to believe it.

Infirmary

The infirmary is divided into two sections. The larger of these is given over to injured dragons and is joined to the bowl by an immense tunnel. No less than six stone couches fill this area, with stations between each for medical supplies and personnel. The other side of the infirmary is for human patients and is furnished with double rows of cots. A large alcove near the exit to the living cavern houses the healers' area, where they store their supplies and can retreat for a moment of quiet before wading into the battle between life and death again.

Contents:

Jandor

Obvious Exits:

Living Cavern (LC) Bowl (B)

There are folks who'll do anything to avoid the healer. There are folks who march straight in, and those are the ones who're after the lollipop at the end. Then there are the undecided, and Rosie numbers amongst them. Her reason for being present is clear; she's got one hand cradled against her chest, the other hand up to protect it from unwanted contact. She slips inside the infirmary, then stalls, going up on her toes to increase her height and get a better look at the place.

The Infirmary is actually fairly quiet this evening, and it seems that only a single individual is actually on duty for Weyr Residents -- everyone else is currently tending paitents and making sure that bedpans and the like are filled. The individual in question is quite... not the look that one would expect from a healer. Short, broad and bearded he sits in a chair with a bored expression -- until of course, Rosie is seen to enter. Unfortunatly or fortunatly, there are no lollipops in his hand as he straightens up -- recognizing one favoring an injury without any difficulty. "C'mon over here, Lass." He says, the bass sound of his voice cutting through the distance between them without effort. "And let's have a wee look. What seems t'be t'problem?"

Despite the lack of general cover, it's as though Rosie's surpised to be caught lurking. Her head whips around, and Jandor's subjected to a moment's surprised scrutiny. Someone raised her with manners, though, and after a moment she does just what she's told, crossing the floor towards the man in the chair. "Gave it a wrench, sir," she reports. "That's what I get for lifting things bigger than me." She shows off her dimples in a quick, almost repentant grin that's cheerful enough, for all she's a little pale. "Then again, most everything's bigger than me."

Jandor nods slowly as he listens, nodding his shaggy head in understanding. "I see, then. Well....." He holds out his left hand as though it clutched a hide, and his right as though it held an invisible quill. "Paitent has acknowledged mistake and shan't do so again. Skip t' slightly paternal lecture 'an have a look at t'injury. Check." It's a joke of sorts and is aimed to put her a bit more at ease, but may or may not work. He gestures towards a chair near to where he had been sitting. "Fingers, elbow, wrist? Show me where it hurts." His talk of business over for the moment he gives the other a long, thoughtful look. "Well, could be worse." He says, finally. "There's a few lasses that are a bit smaller than you."

Oh, it works. Rosie's eyes widen for a moment, then fill with laughter, her free hand coming up to cover her mouth. "Patient is very silly, and will probably do it again anyway," she corrects cheekily, extending her injured hand for inspection. "Fingers are fine, sir. It's my wrist, really. I can feel a line going up to my elbow, though." She uses a finger to sketch just such a line, frowning faintly as a brief wiggle of her fingers apparently nets an unpleasant result. "There are plenty smaller than me," she agrees with a gusty sigh. "Only thing is, they're still growing."

Jandor nods his head once again, looking thoughtful. He reaches out a massive bear-paw hand, meaning to encapsulate Rosie's upper arm with it. "Mmhhmm." He says thoughtfully as his other reaches out gently to the forearm. His first bit of examination is to check the flexation and rotation of the elbow joint, doing so gently as he watches her face. "Well, we'll have a look at t'itall t'be sure. Now, how'd y'do this exactly t'your wrist? Liftin' above your head? Droppin' it and trying to recover? What were y'carrying?" He finishes the flex and rotation check as he speaks, beginning to poke about lightly with his thumb as he follows the line down. "Now, before I check, can y'move the wrist on your own?"

Rosie's upper arms are as skinny as the rest of her, and this one is yielded willingly. She wrinkles her nose as he turns her elbow, lips twitching to a grimace that's quickly wiped away. "I was hauling a pot off the stove," she answers, watching his inspection intently. "It was boiling over, and if we had to start again, you'd have heard those riders hollering from /here/." With a gusty sigh, she rolls her eyes, communicating the frustration of support staff everywhere. "I can move it on my own, but I can feel it if I do."

Jandor hmms, thoughtfully. "I see, I see. Well, you'll certainly have t'be a bit more careful in future. Kinda decidin' at the moment weather I want y'to wear a brace or not." This is said as much to himself as to her as he continues to inspect, eventually reaching the wrist joint. This time, a bearpaw hand closes about her forearm and the other takes her palm between thumb and forefinger, beginning to carefully check the ranges of motion that she is able to support. He's also looking for signs of bruising or the like. "My condolences, though. I know more than y'think how pushy some 'o them can be. Now, y'mentioned that t'paitent is silly. Is she silly enough she won't look after herself, or silly enough that the healer can trust her not t'see her again?"

"Ow, ow," Rosie protests, although not very energetically. It's a token protest for not terribly significant pain. "The patient will get told off if she shows up in a brace, so she promises to be as good as she can be," she offers hopefully, widening her eyes briefly. "She's slightly hurt that the healer never wants to see her again, but she'll keep it to herself, because it never does to let them see you pine."

Jandor is quick on the patching up reply, given Rosie's words. "Ahwww, Lass. Y'know that's not what I meant! Y'perfectly pretty t'look at, 'n a proper good paitent. T'healer just doesn't want t'have t'see you again professionally, because then, well, something is wrong. Journeyman Jandor has all of these /wonderful/ ladies who're breaking their own wrists and getting' sprains and headaches of all sorts just t'see him and I couldn't possibly let you become one of those numbers! S'not a good outlook on life, being that obsessed." His tone is mirthful, so he's obviously kidding. "But, y'welcome to cook for the healer any time you like. He's got not a thing against seeing you, outside of professional reasons." He continues his examination, lowering his hand to check the first joint on every finger. Eventually though, he settles back on his haunches; releasing the limb. "I don't think it's too serious. Bit of a sprain. Now, y'got two choices. Brace, and tell yer superior t'talk to me, or a promise you'll take it easy and I'm not 'bove makin' a spot check."

Rosie huffs a sigh, pushing out her lower lip in a practiced pout that's more sweet than artful. "I was going to start on all my fingers next," she tells him dolefully, watching as he works his way along the aforementioned digits. "I thought that would work for sure." He gives her arm back, and she pulls it in against her chest. "Oh, it's not my superior. It's my..." There's a little frown there, and a pause. "My harper, he'll tell me I shouldn't have done it. I didn't mean it to happen, did I? I'll be good, promise." She widens her eyes, for extra innocence points.

Jandor crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Rosie in silence for a moment, apparently immune to the practiced poutage. This is truly a feat of epic proportions, one worthy of story! "Nuh-Uh." He says, quietly. "There'll be none 'o that for at least a sevenday, 'less you don't want it to be heal. Now, y'can honestly be cute 'bout it for as long as you like, but in the end, it's not gonna make it heal any faster." He lifts one of his hands, scratching at his mane of hair as he considers the problem. "Well, 'ocourse y'didn't mean for it to happen, but, y'still need t'be careful with it." He considers for a second, and tries a new tactic. "I mean, if'n it doesn't heal, it'll hurt like that... well, forever. And get inflamed, and achy and where would y'be with your.. fingering, then?"

"At least you think I'm cute," Rosie points out, her tone suggesting there's some ill-informed soul out there in the world who does not think so. There's a very long pause then, and Rosie's eyes narrow in visible contemplation. Then they abruptly widen, and Jandor's fixed with a stare, accompanied by a small intake of breath. "What do you mean, my /fingering/?"

Jandor has reached for a hide by this point, and has taken up a quill and dipped it in an already open inkpot. He's busy scribbling down the prognosis of what he has diagnosed and Rosie's indignation catches him with such a startling that the quill goes -ZING- and leaves a heavy line all the way across the hide. "Huh? Buh? Buh? Wha?" He asks in utter confusion as he attempts to think back as to what he said to provoke her. "Fingering? Fingering? Practicing of Fingers? Harper? Was thinking a string insturment? Isn't that fingering? Plucking? I dun know!" There's a slight edge of innocent panic in his voice. He actually is innocent in this matter.

Oh. Oh. Rosie flushes, cheeks coming up a brilliant red, and she abruptly shuffles back two steps. "Oh." She's flustered for a few moments more, then she pushes back her slender shoulders and lifts her chin, drawing in a deep breath that fails to dissipate the blush any. "Why would I be playing with his guitar?" Oh, that's worse. Her eyes widen again, and she hurries on. "I mean, he's the one who's practiced at it, how would I know?" That's worse again. "I meant he'd tell me off for lifting something heavy!" There, that'll do it.

Jandor gives Rosie a peculiar look for a moment or two. It's a long, long look that starts when she begins her explanation and doesn't finish for a moment or two after. "Sometimes, Lass." He finally says. "It's far, far better just t'look hurt and not say anythin' at all. I mean, here I was thinkin' about a music insturment and now you wouldn't believe t'mental images that are going through my head." There is a soft chuckle, as he masters himself. "Anyway, just look hurt and wounded? I don't know. But, y'need to do something to look after it, and.... -playing- -with- -insturments- -and- -practicing- -your- -fingers- counts as stressing it." He's very, very careful about his pronunciation and stressing of the highlighted words.

One, two, three... oh, there it is! Comprehension! And another brilliant flush, and another shuffle back a step, as she hugs her wrist in against her chest. "I meant... You said all the girls were breaking their wrists to get in, so I said I was going to start on my fingers..." Her voice trails out, and what was mirth is giving way to plain embarassment. "You know. To break them. To jump the queue. It was a..." She shuffles back another step. "I don't need a brace."

Jandor groans, suddenly. "Oh, for.." He says, as he shakes his head. "I thought ye meant....y'mentioned harper and starting on fingers in the same sentence... " He groans again, for good measure and shakes his head somewhat -- tossing his neck back to get some of his mane out of his face. "Now, in the interests of makin' things less awkward, my 'pologies. I'm sure a day from now, we'll shake our heads and chuckle. But, uh....Oh, my." He's flushed slightly, but his skin tone and facial hair hides it somewhat. "If'n you're sure. But, I can't stress enough that if you aggrivate it, it won't heal. So, no liftin' heavy pots."

"No, no, he'll tell me off because he's..." Rosie starts a rush to defend herself further, then gives the effort up with a wave of her good hand. "Oh, my." She echoes his words in the end, although she has no such recourse to hide her own blush; she is obliged to simply let it settle of its own accord, and it shows no sign of doing that. "Could we just put a bandage on it, and pretend we never..." There's a mute appeal in her blue eyes, although she fails for words.

Jandor is beginning to look not only embarassed but a touch vexed as well. A broad hand scratches at the back of his neck as he gives Rosie a sort of exasperated look. "T'fact is, Lass, I can't /make/ y'do anything. I can't /make/ you look after it, I can't /make/ you wear a brace. It boils down t'weather or not y'want it to heal. If y'do, look after it. If y'don't, don't. I 'pologize for soundin' harsh, but.....you're askin' me to practice bad medicine, and I just don't do that. If you're gonna be liftin' and using it, you should use a brace. If yer not, just look after it. In the end, it's up to you."

Aw, look what she did. Rosie deflates, her eyes dropping to where one foot scuffs at the ground, like it's trying to dig a hole in the solid stone floor. She lifts her bad wrist, presenting it to him as though she's after a second inspection. "Brace, please," she murmurs, lifting her good hand to tuck a curl away behind one ear, brushing her cheek experimentally. Yes, still hot. So, probably still red.

Jandor grunts. "Sorry t'snark at ye." He says, quietly. "Just, I think it's a bloody fool carry on over someone tellin' you y'shouldn't have done it, but I'm steppin' out of place in saying that." He turns, and fetches a wrist brace. "Now, this part goes under t'palm, and this part clips around the forearm. It'll keep t'joint from flexing. Wear this for about a week and see how it feels. It'll be a bit stiff but if it still /hurts/ wear it for a couple more days."

Somehow, against the odds, Jandor somehow earns himself a smile. Rosie's dimples betray her first, and then a little lift of her shoulders; when she lifts her gaze in turn, it's to look at him through her lashes, mouth quirking to a lop-sided smile. "If we're being fair, I boss him much worse," she admits, lifting her hand a little higher. "He'll just fuss. Will you put it on so I can see, please?"

Jandor quirks at Rosie for a moment, looking curious. "Then, but..." He places one of his broad hands over his face and gives a sort of sigh. "Why all of the fuss if he's just going to fuss at you a little bit? Here, I was thinking it was a life and death... ah, nevermind." His good nature reasserts itself and he reaches out to envelope her lower arm again, placing the brace over it and tightening one of the leather straps. "Now, we want this back, y'know. When you're finished with it." He clips it over the wrist and adjusts the 'board' portion of it so that is fits properly beneath her palm. "There. How does that feel?"

It's taken long enough, but Rosie's learned her lesson. It is time to gather the tatters of her dignity, and make at least a marginally graceful retreat. "Fits good, thank you. I'll bring it back." Shuffle shuffle, and another two steps back. "Wear it for a week, couple more days if it hurts, got it." Shuffle shuffle, two more steps. "Thank you. I'll just..." Flee.

Jandor eyes Rosie's retreating back for a moment, and sort of shakes his head as he finds the quill that he tossed in his startlement and bends to pick it up. "Look after it, Lass." He says. "Fuss or not." And with that, he goes back to his work as she flees!

Hic.

2006-12-06T09:44:30Z

Day 25, Month 11, Turn 2. What happens when Rosie's player gets tipsy and is let loose on a keyboard? Rosie gets tipsy too, and gets let loose on Chase! The girl's been waiting a long time on a kiss, you know.

Warning: The following log is so cute that readers may end up making gagging noises by the end. We're sorry.

Chase's Room
It's a simple chamber, this room, wider than it is long, and serves as personal quarters. Just outside the door in the hallway is a bit of leftover ink stains on the floor, aged and faded some by months of time. Light inside is provided by a number of glow-baskets fixed to walls hung with hand-me-down tapestries. A bed, little more than a cot, made up with heavy quilts, is up against one wall, pushed into the corner so it'll be out of the way. It's big enough for two if they don't mind being very close. A small chest for clothes rests at the foot. A desk and chair sit opposite it, the former often cluttered, and also stained with ink in a large expanse, just like the floor outside, and like the floor inside, too, in one place. Some clothes, clean and dirty, litter the floor.
Contents:
Chase
Obvious Exits:
Out (O)

She's supposed to knock, but she doesn't. Still, there's a couple of cues that Rosie's about to make a grand entrance. The first is the thump against the door, and the second is the fit of giggles. Isn't it funny how, when you're trying so hard to giggle quietly, you make more noise? She does now. The door handle wobbles, then half turns, then stops. Then it turns again, and this time she manages it, and the door opens, and in comes Rosie. Her cheeks are flushed, and she's laughing, immediately pushing the door closed behind her, and leaning up against it, as though she has pursuers, and her slight bodyweight will keep them out.

And, again, Chase is sitting in his chair. She so often finds him this way. At least this time he isn't looking so much like death. His nose may still be red, and he still sniffles from time to time, but the scratchy voice is all but gone, which means the sore throat must be too, along with whatever coughing was happening. Leaned back with his boots on the desk and his guitar in his lap, he's strumming idly when Rosie lets herself in, his head tilted back and his eyes on the ceiling. They shift immediately to take her in, the surprise at finding someone in his room so suddenly at first overthrown by the realization that it's /her/, then again put back in surprise mode when he realizes it's /her/ and she's /drunk/. "Hi," he greets, his mouth curved. Yeah, he's grinning. This is going to be interesting.

"Hi," Rosie offers, dropping abruptly from giggles to solemnity. This is the thing, solemnity. He'll never work it out, not if she keeps a straight face. Her palms are flattened against the door behind her, and there's a distinct possibility she's steadying herself for a brief moment. Then she nods, affirming some silent decision, and once more those dimples are back in place, and she's beaming. "You're working," she accuses. "You're always working. Even when we're all having fun and listening to you play, you're working. When don't you work?" She makes a foray away from the door, smoothing out her skirts as she skips a couple of steps towards him. "I want to be there some time, to see it. Are you writing songs about me?"

Chase's eyes are warm and somewhat narrowed. Oh yeah. Amused to no end, he is. That grin isn't going /anywhere/. His head tilts - is she trying to keep his door closed, or is she trying to keep herself upright? - and he watches her with a very curious look indeed on his face. And as for hers and its being straight? It doesn't so much help as it does add to the humorous quality of the situation. Afterall, what's funnier than a drunk person? A drunk person trying not to seem drunk, that's what. Uhoh. She's getting closer. He removes his boots from the desk - old habit, he doesn't want a smack - and drops them to the floor, sitting up straight instantly. "Well, Iiii work because that's what they pay me for. Here." His hands are almost cradling the guitar now, keeping it close. "And I might be." His grin grows fond. "Writing songs about you."

She lifts a finger to point at his boots as they lower to the floor, although as she swings her finger down she follows their trajectory imperfectly. "And they say you can't learn," she announces, her air righteous. "I know you can." It's possible the person with whom this conversation is supposed to be had is not the one in front of her. "You'll work it out in the end." Yes, very possible. A step closer, and her hands clasp behind her back, so she can rise on her toes and then clomp down onto her heels. "Do you like me better than your guitar?" One brow quirks up, and she eyes the spot it's currently occupying. Meaningfully. She's subtle tonight. Like bricks.

"Yes. They do say that, don't they." Chase lifts his eyebrows and his chin when she stops so close, so he can look up at her, all bemused. What is /this/? This can't lead to good things, this line of little events, no not at all. Surely devastating images are running through his mind. Of things her mother would do to him if she saw this situation. Or Leo. Oh /no/. "What?" Mouth open, he looks a little gapey there for a second before it clicks. Oh. "Uh." His hand flattens against the instrument. "No," he decides quickly, and, lifting its strap up and over his head, he removes it to the floor. After making sure it's leaning nice and safe against the desk, he looks back up at her and makes a Chase face. There, no more guitar.

"... No?" Rosie pauses for a minute, mentally rewinding the conversation thus far, lips shifting slightly as she replays her own words. "You /don't/ like me better than your guitar?" That draws a pout worthy of a champion, and her arms fold instantly over her chest. Oh, the things Leo would say. The things Leo would /do/. She essays an outraged sniff, and promptly takes the place of the guitar, plunking down in his lap without any of her usual grace, and wrapping an arm around his neck. "Just my luck," she mourns, wriggling to make herself comfortable, then fixing him with wide eyes. "Passed over for a musical instrument. Explains a lot, really. I'm better than a guitar in lots of ways. Just because I don't..." She pauses, frowns, and sketches a curve in the air with her free hand. "Go in and out like a guitar. Lots of ways. Should have known you didn't know that."

Chase is all calm shock, even when she's gone and plopped down like that. Or maybe /because/ she's gone and plopped down like that. He doesn't make a sound, simply readjusts himself to better accomodate her - she really wanted to be there? He couldn't know that! - and puts his own arm down around her waist-ish. His hand is at the small of her back, palm flat, ready to move in case she starts losing balance. Oh he knows. "I was kidding, Rosie," he tells her, almost meekly for fear of saying something wrong. Or in the wrong sort of voice, anyway. One never knows. He watches that hand with a sort of horrified fascination, then blinks back to her face. His eyebrows lift again. "Didn't know... what?" Poor guy.

"Didn't know...?" It's as though Rosie's forgotten what she was talking about a moment later, although a moment's frown evidently helps retrieve it. "Know that I'm more interesting than a guitar, Chase." As though, duh, it should have been obvious. "Everything's falling into place now, see. You should write songs about your guitar instead, I bet you'd do something really clever that I'm not meant to understand the inna... inn... innuendoes of. You know, doing stuff to her with your hands so she sings, only I'm meant to look all blank." She rolls her eyes to demonstrate just what she thinks of /that/. And then she leans in on him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Oh." Writing love songs. About his guitar. Chase gets through a few slow nods. Riiiight. "With my... hands." Just to make sure he got it, you know. His eyes flick to the side when she leans in, and he stays that way, sort of frozen, for a long moment. She leans, he stops breathing. That hardly means his brain stops, though. Oh no, it's quite busy racing with all the things that are wrong with this, and all the things that are, or could be, very right. He's only human. Finally he thinks of something to say. "I like you more than I like my guitar, Rosie." And he's dropped his voice, so it's quite deep, even a little growly, probably something she can feel vibrating up through him.

"Did you take /me/ all around the place with you for turns on turns?" Rosie's question verges on the petulant, and she kicks her legs out to swing them for a moment as she works up a speech on that one. "No. No you didn't. You didn't even write me, or remember me, you just traipsed off and left me wondering. And there were boys, Chase, and I said no, and tell me why I said no, huh?" Petulant doesn't last, and she lapses into giggles, struggling to retrieve her equanimity so she can lecture. She fails, and huffs; the breath is artlessly aimed at his neck, and she follows this effort by leaning up, and planting a kiss there.

If Chase was terrified before, the way she starts wriggling around and lecturing him in that tipsy way definitely doesn't help. But he listens, because that's what good Chases do. With his eyes lowered and his attention on her swaying feet, of course, because looking at her would be both difficult and a plain ol' bad move. His grin, towards the end there, is a tolerant, understanding one. She's just so /liquored up/. It doesn't last long at all, that grinning amusement, for she has to go and breathe on him. And kiss him. And kiss him. And kiss him. Is his heart stops beating for just a second, forgive it. All he can do, after regaining consciousness, is grin again and let out some very uncomfortable, breathy laughter. Aheh. Ahehe. Pulling away some, he does look at her now. "Hey, I remembered you." In his own defense and all.

Rosie is still then for a time, and there's another of those little frowns as she has a good, long think about something. More than one something, if the transparent show on her face is anything to go by, small frown chased away by a lifting her of brows as comprehension sinks in, this in turn chased away by another frown, and so on. Finally, her pronouncement. "That's not your laugh," she informs him, arm tightening around his neck as she straightens up. "And 'I remembered you' isn't what you're supposed to say. You'd rather I went." And just like that, bam, wounded dignity, as she begins working on sliding off his lap.

What? Wait. What? Chase's eyebrows come together, a sharp furrow formed when that arm starts to disappear. And then she's getting up, and he can't really approve of /that/. "Rosie, Rosie, hey." And he tightens his arm around her a little, because maybe that'll register somewhere. "I didn't mean, I mean I meant." Stop. "You just got here."

It registers, in that slightly exaggerated way that things register at times like this. Rosie is halted in her brief, indignant upward rise, and settles back into her lap, although her arm stays half-looped around his neck in non-committal fashion. "I know I just got here," she agrees, lower lip pushing out. "I think I was cutting in on you and whatshername, though." She sighs gustily, and makes a half-hearted effort at rising once more. "You're working, working, working." Those words are sing-song, whimsically delivered.

"Her name's Bernice," Chase tells her casually, using that comedic deadpan he's so fond of - and good at - and very pointedly looking at her. But then she's getting up again, and he's letting her move past his arm this time. It sort of stays there though, where he left it, as if the ghost of her might still want a cuddle. "If I don't work I don't get paid," he reminds her, mouth quirked. "How am I supposed to give you everything when I don't have the marks? I need the marks."

It's as though Rosie didn't expect to actually be allowed to climb to her feet; she comes up quickly, and reaches for the back of his chair to steady herself, standing quite still for a few seconds before she turns to eye him in a mournful reprimand. "Karl has time off," she informs him. "I /watched/ to see if he did, and he does." She shuffles then, hand behind her back once more, and edges back a step. "It's not the marks, Chase. I mean it is, but it isn't. That's just for what my father will think." Another shuffle, and she shoots the newly dubbed Bernice, her arch-rival, a glare. "Half Bernice's luck, that's all I'm saying."

Chase leans to the side, away from her, to give her a thorough eyeing. He doesn't really seem to be listening this time, and it sort of shows. When she's done he asks, in an accusatory tone of voice that holds a ripe amount of mock sarcasm, "Are you drunk?" And then, dropping the act, he adds, "You should probably sit down, Rosie, seriously." He's already starting to move, one hand on the back of the chair so he can push himself to his feet and tower over her like he does.

"'Been drinking' and 'drunk' are different, you know," Rosie informs him loftily, backing up again as he prepares to come to his feet. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, smack. Oh, that's the bed. She turns her head to establish this, and then begins sideways movement instead, towards the door. "I'll go sit down somewhere else," she suggests. "You were supposed to, and you didn't," she adds, pausing as though she might add some words by way of clarification to this information, then evidently deciding against it. "For a harper, you're awful at cues."

She knocks into the bed, Chase winces and looks like he's ready to reach out and grab her any second. To keep her from tripping and hurting herself, of course. Shuffling after her up to this point, he's paused by that. He was supposed to, but he didn't? After a moment of just standing there staring at her, he goes, "Um. What? Rosie." He sniffs once, lifts a hand to scratch his head. Tousle, tousle. "It'd be nice to know what I'm doing wrong, all of a sudden." Because he's a big dumb Chase, remember.

The tousling bit usually serves him so well. This time, Rosie's eyes only narrow, and her arms come up to fold across her front once more. "There are some things, Chase," she informs him, injecting an icy note into her usually merry tones, "that a girl doesn't like to have to ask for. Is all I'm saying." She sniffs, just so they match, and turns for the door.

Chase lifts his eyebrows and does his best impression of a very abused canine. Ouch. Her sniff seems to break him free of whatever little staring trance he was in - he really was - and provokes him to move. Because she's moving, and he still doesn't want that. So he takes a step, out goes his hand, and if he can he'll be grabbing hers and pulling her back. To him. Please?

Rosie's not that steady, so an intercept really isn't that hard. She seems faintly surprised as her hand's caught, and her eyes widen briefly as she's reeled in; one hand is planted firm on his chest to steady herself, and there's a little shuffle that goes on with her feet before he sorts herself out. The problem when you're Rosie is that even your best mean glare is kind of cute, but she has a good try now at fixing Chase with something in that mean vein. "You got five seconds, Chase, before I'm just embarassed I ever came, and I kick you in the shins and leave," she informs him.

Only five? Well it might take him longer than that to realize what he just did and where her hand is right now. And she really is cute. Luckily Chase isn't stuck staring again much longer. He's caught up until second three, and that's when he does the only thing he can think of to do. Ducking his head, he gives her a kiss. The last time he did that was when he visited all those turns ago. A lot has changed. Back then was clumsy and unpracticed, but this time there's a smoothness to what he's doing with his mouth that can only mean one thing: kid's done it since.

Later, Rosie's going to have a good, long think about that. She's going to conduct a comparative study, and she's going to do a little thinking, and she's going to draw some conclusions. She doesn't do it now, though. Now, she just makes use of that hand that's planted on his chest to grab a handful of his shirt, and leans in against him. Kid's been practicing, and Rosie plans on reaping the rewards.

One hand drifting down to a spot on her a few inches below where arm meets shoulder, the other gone to her hair, Chase takes advantage of her taking advantage. Because while there may have been some kisses along the way with faceless holder girls, there hasn't been a whole lot more, and even those were few and far between. Not that she'd know that, but he does sort of emanate a kind of warmth. Eventually it registers in his brain that his nose is stuffed, and his mouth if covered. He'll never be more frustrated about having a cold than he is at that moment. He takes it to the limit, right when it's getting really hard to concentrate on anything other than the fact he needs to breathe and now, then comes up for air, gasping a little.

Rosie is not sparing too much of her brain for consideration of practicalities, and her sniffs were solely for effect, so she's well ahead in the oxygen deprivation stakes. She goes up on her toes when he finally pulls away, fingers curling into his shirt, eyes flying open in protest as her mouth opens slightly. He went, and the kissing stopped. There's a blink or two as she sorts her mental processes out, and then she sinks slowly back down until her heels hit the floor once more, blinks transitioning almost seamlessly into a flutter of lashes.

Chase catches that elusive breath stuff soon after starting the pursuit, and his slight panting subsides. It takes him another handful of seconds to recollect the other bits of him that stopped functioning there, like speech and brain thinking, before he can take in the rest of the situation. Her hands. Her eyes. His eyebrows lift, and hey, he isn't really moving all that much. "I've been wanting to do that for the longest time," he tells her slowly, in that deeper version of his voice.

Rosie's breath catches then, and she hasn't even got the excuse of illness like he does. "You could have hurried on a bit," she murmurs in a small voice, suddenly shy as her lashes lower. One foot scuffs, and she concentrates on that shoe with all her might, head down. "Beginning to wonder if you'd forgot how, or just forgot you wanted to."

"No, I've pretty much been thinking about doing that for... since the last time we did that." Chase's voice, so thoughtful, so smooth. He lets his eyes drop to the shoe she seems to be trying to make burst into flames, his own attention caught by it. "I won't wait so long next time," he tells her then, trying to be comforting. His hands have moved, mostly to her back, and he rubs slow circles against it.

For a little while, they watch her shoe together, and then Rosie becomes aware of it, and it stops abruptly, leaving the room silent. "Well, you..." It's the beginning of an effort at telling him off in her usual style, but it dies out before she manages to make anything of it, and instead Rosie's left to simply lean in against him, turning her head so she can rest it against his chest. So much taller than she, he makes a handy leaning post. "Good, then." And there, in that quiet reply, devoid of sass, is all he really needs to know.

Chase so often doesn't know what to do without his sass, but sometimes it's just a natural occurence, him understanding without being told off. This is definitely one of those times, and so he just nods somewhere above her and lets her lean, holds her a little. This moment of quiet lasts a good stretch, but he ends up breaking it at one point to murmur, "You were so drunk." And she can't see his grin unless she looks up.

Rosie doesn't look up for a little while, busy nestled comfortably in against his chest, keeping her handful of shirt firmly in custody. "You're wrong," she disagrees, fingers tightening then so she can steady herself, and tip her head up so she rests her chin against him, and takes in his grin. "I /am/ so drunk. Brownrider gave one of the girls a bottle, for making him cakes," she explains. Then there's a little moue, regretful. "I should go to bed, I guess."

"Ooooh," Chase sounds, softly, his mouth an 'o' of understanding. "Guess I just thought maybe you weren't anymore 'cause, well, you said before that drinking and drunk were," and here he adopts a girlish tone of voice, "so different." Cue another grin, which disappears very promptly on that last suggestion. "Oh." Well. "Do you have any... bed... preferences?" Oh he dares.

Huh, hang on. Caught out. That must be why he's a harper. Rosie wrinkles her nose at him, pulling a face to signal exactly what she thinks of his daring to remember things she said entire minutes before. "You..." Well, that was some comeback. She might have collected herself and had another try, if he hadn't spoken again. Her foot comes into motion once more, swinging so she can kick the toe of his boot. "I, um..." Colour Rosie flustered. "You mean, uh..."

Chase cuts in there to stammer too. "Yeah, well... You know, if you wanted, it's..." Aw, how very awkward and new. He removes one of his hands from behind her and scratches at his head again. "I'd hate to have to walk you to your bed and just leave you there. Some other brownrider might come by with more booze." He pauses there, gives her an endearing look. "I have some pajamas you could wear." She'd be decent and everything!

"Just your pyjama shirt would come down to my knees," Rosie points out practically, still leaning in against him, head tilted back so she can rest her chin against his chest. Oddly comfortable, apparently. She studies him through her lashes, as though she will divine his intent, and finally moves to reclaim some dignity, anchoring herself by that handful of shirt as she pushes away. "Just don't get any ideas, is all," she mutters, spirit returning as she lifts her chin, regarding him warningly. "Hands to yourself." But apparently, that's a yes. After all, look how long it took to get a kiss. Say no now, she might die waiting for another invitation.

"Then you'll be swimming in the pants," Chase adds, quite unable to contain his rather giddy grinning. Sleepover! With Rosie! His hands comes up, palms out. "I'll try to control myself." Really. Completely boyish, he turns from her to cross over to the trunk at the end of his bed, which he opens and digs around in. "Aha." That's a good sign. It's followed by the pulling free of those so talked about pajamas, and he brings them to her obediently. "Here." And, when she takes them, he steps back and starts undoing his belt and kicking his boots off at the same time.

"/Chase!/" Just listen to Rosie's outraged gasp, as she clutches his pyjamas against her like a shield. "/Turn around/." And that isn't the only bossy order he'll be getting, oh no. She gives up on the pyjama pants entirely, the shirt reaching, as predicted, almost to her knees. She has to roll the sleeves up before she can clamber in under the covers, and that's when the next bit of bossy kicks in. Move over. No, over there. They can't be all touching, otherwise they'll... Well, there are fine arguments against it, that temporarily escape her when faced with those eyes. Still, Rosie's got bony elbows, and she makes good use of them to earn herself what she deems appropriate room. It's not long at all before her breathing slows, and she's all out of sass, sleeping nestled in the curve of his arm. Chase is left to do his best not to move and disturb her, and to ponder what he will.

Sniff.

2006-12-05T10:48:14Z

Day 20, Month 11, Turn 2. How do you fix colds? With love. Or bullying.

Chase's Room

It's a simple chamber, this room, wider than it is long, and serves as personal quarters. Just outside the door in the hallway is a bit of leftover ink stains on the floor, aged and faded some by months of time. Light inside is provided by a number of glow-baskets fixed to walls hung with hand-me-down tapestries. A bed, little more than a cot, made up with heavy quilts, is up against one wall, pushed into the corner so it'll be out of the way. It's big enough for two if they don't mind being very close. A small chest for clothes rests at the foot. A desk and chair sit opposite it, the former often cluttered, and also stained with ink in a large expanse, just like the floor outside, and like the floor inside, too, in one place. Some clothes, clean and dirty, litter the floor.

Obvious Exits:
Out (O)

It's early evening, dinner time. The living cavern is likely filled with people, bustling about as they tend to do for their plates and their food and their seats. And normally there's a good deal of excitement around this particular part of the hour, because that's when the entertainment comes in to do their thing. In this case, it would have been Chase and Karl, setting up their instruments and just generally getting ready to play for the crowd. However, the former of those two lads is, well, very much not attending. Karl is out there with whatever harper took pity on him. And Chase? Chase is in his room, bent over in his chair, scribbling away at a sheet of hide on the desk. His mouth is open and there's a distinct redness in the nose area of his face, not to mention a definite increase in bedheadedness. He does not look good, but since nothing short of death could stop him from working, there he is.

Rosie understands all about knocking, and knock she does. Rap-rap-rap! Smart and quick, just like that. Only she hasn't quite perfected her understanding, because the door opens immediately afterwards, revealing a small person and a big tray, which she's quickly clapping the door-opening hand back underneath again, lest she lose balance. "You think you're getting outta eating that easy?" Her affectionate greeting, delivered with a sniff as she walks over towards his desk. "Clear a space or I'm dumping it on top, my arms hurt."

"Come-- okay." Wait. Doesn't it go knockknock, here I come, open door, /then/ someone's in the room? Why is the door-... /Oh/. Chase was pushing himself up, but he ends up flopping back down again when he sees who it is. This makes more sense, yeah. "Rosie-" Nope, not that time either. He gives up on trying to get a word in edgewise and instead does the only thing he really can do whenever she gives him an order. The stuff on the desk is shoved to the side to make room for the tray and he sighs. "This isn't," sniff, "this isn't such a good idea, I don't think." His voice? Oh-so-stuffy and so, so raw. He drops an elbow on the arm of his chair and props the rest of him up with a hand under his chin. Slump.

"/Chase!/" Her response is half a squeal, and the tray thumps down promptly, cup and saucer set jangling. "Listen to you! You should be in the infirmary." She doesn't draw breath, plonking down on the arm of his chair so she can smooth her skirts and lean forward to begin setting out his meal. She's catering to his usual tastes; there's a huge pile of meat swimming in gravy, vegetables (the addition she insists on) piled around the edges, a hefty slice of pie, a large pot of tea. She's pouring as she talks. "You look like a nightmare, I can't believe you're just sitting here trying to work. It won't be any good. You should be in bed, you stupid thing."

Chase, as always, takes 'you stupid thing' in the manner of one accustomed to such things. Besides, she means it well. Again, he tries to get something in here and there - "I-" "Well-" - and fails, so he ends up sitting silently throughout. Like a good Chase. Or maybe he just doesn't have the energy, which in itself is sort of scary. "I can't just sit around, Rosie." There's always a little victory dance inside his head whenever he manages to actually finish a sentence around her. "Or lay around. Is that pie?" Starve a fever, feed a cold, right? Even if he might have one of that first one too.

"Yes, that's pie. Not so sick after all, are we?" She's done, leaving the tea to strengthen, and she twists around from where she's perched on his chair arm to study him. Her blue eyes are bright; she's enjoying the telling off. Something fades out, though, as she takes good, long look at him, and the line of her mouth softens. "Oh, look at you. You look horrible, you poor thing. You can have the pie first if you like. Do you feel like a mouthful?" It's practically dissolved into a coo by the end, and one small hand comes up to push his hair back so she can press her cool palm to his forehead. "Aw, Chase. That ain't good."

"C'mon, Rosie. Pie." /Duh/. Sick is not an element to be considered when there's pie. Chase straightens, and if his hand should sort of sneak around to the small of her back, it's harmless. He realizes she's quieted and might just feel the focus of her looking at him; he looks up, meets her eyes, lifts his eyebrows. What? And then the softyness starts. And what else can he do in the face of such attentions? He basks in it before it goes /away/. "I think I could handle it," he says softly, his mouth quirking to the side. Yes. Poor, poor him. More, please. His hair sticks up under her hand and he freezes. "Uh. What?"

She registers his touch, and shifts under his hand for a moment as though she'd shrug it off. Then some mental concession is made, and instead he's allowed; she even turns a fraction, to begin to bring her hip under his hand. "You're awful hot, Chase," she murmurs, frowning her concern. "Are you meant to eat when you're hot? I can never remember if you are or you aren't." Her hand slides down to his cheek, and the other comes up so she can use them both to cup his face, continuing to look him over. "Whatever you feel like, I suppose that's right. You should really be in bed if you won't see a healer." Then her lips quirk, and she shows him her dimples. "Remember what Ma used to do?" Rosie does, and she leans forward to press her lips to his forehead for a moment. "Definitely too warm," she pronounces, as she draws back."

There are moments in a fellow's life when someone says something and he immediately thinks of something to say in return. And usually the thing he thinks of to say would do the most harm to the situation he's in at the time, and he must practice self control. When Rosie says 'You're awful hot, Chase' is one of such moments. Chase just stares up at her and says absolutely nothing. Well, except, "I know you're meant to eat when you're... /hungry/. And I kinda am, so." Oh. His face is captured. He might wilt a little with both of her hands on him like that. He gives her a Look. No bed. And, when she leans in, he goes completely still. Somehow he only manages to find his voice again when she isn't so very close anymore. "Uh." He clears his throat, winces. Ouch. "It isn't bedtime yet." Of all the things to say.

"Wha?" That weak argument serves to convince her, apparently, that he's sicker than he looks, for Rosie frowns, and keeps custody of his face with both hands so she can conduct further examination. "You should /see/ your nose," she informs him, sadly lacking in romantic overtones. "No, that's it. I know exactly what Ma would say, and you'd listen to her so you're listening to me. Into bed, and you can have tea and pie in there." With a sniff of her own that suggests briefly that she may not be too far behind him on the sickness trail, she releases him and slides off the arm of his chair. "Hurry up." Her concession to his modesty is this: she turns resolutely to face the corner, twitching her skirts straight.

Chase's nose is indeed a sight, but then so is the look on his face. The disbelieving, slightly petulant look. Is this actually /happening/? "She was an ear puller," he'll have her know of her mother. "So yeah, I think I'd listen to her." And then the sniff. The /sniff/. Soon as he's able he gets to his feet and points an accusing finger at her. "See? See? Now you're gonna get sick, then we'll both be sick." And when has /that/ ever been fun? "Like that time we all had flu, remember?" A room full of sick children. Poor Rosa. Her turning makes him stare. Wait. She actually expects him to, like, /get into bed/? There's a pause, then he starts mumbling behind her back. "So much for swooping in mumblemumble stupid snow mumblemumble jackets mumble." Rustling and such accompanies of course, and then silence. Beat. "Okay." And, when she turns, she'll find him indeed in bed with folded legs and lifted eyebrows, wearing pajamas. Hi.

"Don't make me pull your ears, Rechasren," Rosie retorts, pulling out the big guns at that point. "If I'm getting sick, it's from having some big, lanky /harper/ breathing down my neck every day, isn't it?" His title is used as an accusation, as though suddenly he's doing something wrong simply by pursuing his chosen profession. There's a lot of shuffling then as she waits, and a sudden burst of chatter. Oh my, he's undressing back there. "I remember. I remember you boys wouldn't stop talking about snot, it was awful." She sniffs again, and turns when prompted to inspect him, eyes narrowed briefly in assessment. "Okay," she agrees. "Get settled, you can have your pie now." So gracious, as she turns back to the desk to collect it. "Can I trust you with a cup of tea?"

Chase knows better than to backtalk when his full name comes into play. That's an instinct embedded so deep it'd take sharp things to rid him of it. Can she trust him with a cup of tea? He stares at her. "What am I, like, twelve?" Nevermind that he just got into bed because she used the ol' mother voice on him, is now sitting in bed, in his pajamas, waiting for pie. And that his clothes are on the floor. No, not childlike at /all/. "You coulda joined in talkin' about snot, you know. We weren't trying to exclude you." Here he smirks. Ha.

"What you are is dumb enough to pour it on yourself," Rosie retorts sharply, although she does set about pouring tea, granting him a few moments of blessed silence as she does so. In the end, the plates of meat and vegetables come off the tray, and the whole thing's ferried over towards him. She wears a lofty expression generally designed to indicate that she is something related to a saint for continuing to care for him, in the face of talk of snot. "You are awful," she informs him, briefly channeling some of the Caucus girls she serves on a regular basis. Then she's easing down onto a free spot on the bed, and leaning forward to settle the tray in his lap. "Am I going to have to come here and make sure you eat and go to bed and things?"

"I know," Chase replies almost automatically. Awful, mmhm. So used to it. It's the sass, see, that keeps him giving her that gentle smile. Without it, she just wouldn't be Rosie. He watches all the arranging and such with an eager sort of expression on his face. /Food/. Considering how long his legs are when set straight, them folded makes for a most generous lap indeed. Plenty of room for that tray. But, perhaps surprisingly, it's the tea he goes for first. Sip. The answer to her question is thus, "Yes." Because that would mean he'd get to see her, like, /all the time/.

Maybe she belatedly realises that he may have motivations for which she has not accounted, for Rosie's eyes narrow, as they so often do in his company. After a moment, though, she essays a nod. "Fine, then. Just don't think you're going to enjoy it." She wriggles back slowly, careful not to jostle the tea or its drinker, until she can rest her back against the wall and stretch her legs out so her feet hang off the side of the bed. No stretching out now of his long legs. And having thus seen him to bed, and loaded him with his tray, she relaxes, tipping her head to one side, and sighing softly. "Ma would look after you better."

Chase holds his cup so delicately, minus the pinky up. It seems he has some respect for tea. "If I did I would worry," he tells her, all innocence. No, of course no ulterior motives. /Him/? Absurd. He looks over at her, watching while she arranges herself, and suddenly her feet seem to be a point of some interest, for he's staring at them. Until her sigh of course, that brings his attention back to her quite effectively. He listens, looks down, makes a face. "Maybe," he says finally, after a moment. Back to her, his eyes dark and warm. "But she wouldn't let me have pie first." And he's completely solemn, too.

Rosie's lips quirk for that, and she looks up to him through her lashes, the smile making it as far as her eyes. "No, she'd make you have the vegetables. I'm only an apprentice to her master, though. You watch. One day I'll have sons bigger than me, and I'll boss them so hard it'll make your head spin." One brow quirks her amusement at that prediction, and then there's a bit more of the smoothing of skirts as she looks him over. "I suppose I'm fussing to no end. You must have got sick on your circuit."

Oh. Sons. Children. Her children. Their children? Chase's eyes go momentarily glazed as this line of thought flows through his mind like a ticker. Distracted, he doesn't really hear that last part until it wriggles its way in through the fog of future thoughts. "Huh?" After a blink, he focuses again. Present, Chase, present. "Oh. Oh yeah. Maybe. Or, ya know what, hm." His eyebrows come together over narrowed eyes and his mouth quirks again. Chase face. He's setting something up. "It might just have been that walk we took outside when I wasn't wearing a jacket."

From Rosie there's only an owlish blink as he loses himself briefly, and a faintly enquiring smile. Her lips shift, as his quirk. Chase face. He's setting something up. Oh, there it is. Her eyes widen, and there's a wriggle back against the wall, one hand coming up to clap over her expressive mouth. "What were you doing coming outside in the first place without a jacket?" The first horrified salvo is defensive, eyes wide over that hand. "That's what you get for following girls places, and you don't remember your jacket, and it's your own fault because you got taught better than that, and I can't believe you didn't die of a cold on circuit, only I bet there were holder girls to /nurse you/." She trails off on that one, forced to breathe, and lowers her hand for her apologetic whisper. "I should have made you get a a jacket, I'm sorry."

Somewhere inside Chase's head, Inner Chase sits back and watches the resulting string of Rosie's trademark verbal ear pulling with a satisfied grin on his face. Outside things are a little different. Yes, he expected it, but still. Rosie on a tirade is definitely something to be wary of, for she has hands. Hands that move quickly. He twitches when she puts on of said quick hands over her mouth, a wince for the smack to come. Nothing. Hm. And then the apology, and doesn't that just make him feel like an ass. "Rosie, I was /kidding/." No, that won't do. He sets his cup down on the tray, moves the tray to the bed - it's safe there, right? - and leans on one arm to /look/ at her. "Who's big dumb Chase?" Hm? His eyebrows lift. Ah yes. The trick he used to use on her when she was small. Just turn it around so he's the silly goose, and all will be well.

It's like she's hardwired, for her lips quirk almost instantly, despite the gravity that's still in her blue eyes. "I /am/ sorry, though," she murmurs, reluctantly fighting the smile he prompts. "I was being awful, making you follow me out there. I didn't have to be so mean." Another of those sniffs that would have her mother instructing her to find a hanky, and she shifts her weight, as though for a moment she's debating shifting closer. Then she collects herself, and nods to the tray. "Eat your pie, big dumb Chase. You never know, it might make you better."

"You're not the boss of me," Chase tells her, then stops. Er. "Thaaaat's a lie." Yeah. "But if I didn't wanna go out there, I wouldn't've, so." Another of those 'so' moments. And she shouldn't think she can just shift like that and he won't notice. He is, afterall, right /there/. Completely ignoring her, and perhaps proving just a little that he really does think for himself, he puts the arm he was leaning on to another use by draping it over her shoulders.

Such a dilemma. Delight at this development, or distress that her attempts at nursing are so ignored? Rosie solves the problem by sniffing her disapproval, and wriggling in a little closer, making herself comfortable inside his arm. "Would so have," she murmurs, flashing her dimples at him to clinch her detailed argument. She's quiet then for a bit, leaning against him, regarding the abandoned tea and pie. "Eat up," she murmurs finally, although she's unmoving, so apparently his efforts at doing so are to be one handed. Then, "Folks'll say stuff, with me coming in here, you know."

Chase very tactfully ignores that. Yeah, he would have, but there's no sense in actually agreeing. She knows, anyway. Afterall, he probably didn't want to get smacked on the bottom when he took the blame for her when they were kids, but he took the blame anyway, knowing what would happen. With his arm around her, he looks quite comfortable indeed. In fact, he might have forgotten all about eating if she hadn't reminded him. "Oh yeah." Food. Bringing the tray over is a little difficult with just the one hand - a lot of careful maneuvering, there - but he succeeds in the end, and digs into the pie without pause. Apparently one-handed ain't all that bad a price to pay for a Rosie under the arm. He's chewing when he looks at her, after she says that, and it's only because he's in her company that he doesn't immediately reply with a mouth full of food. Swallow. "Oh yeah? What kinda stuff?"

"You know, Chase." Rosie flushes, frowning faintly at being required to elaborate. "Stuff. About me being in your room." Her eyebrows shift up and down a bit, trying to communicate the sorts of things that might be said in a nuanced way. This attempt is abandoned pretty promptly in favour of something more direct. "And about what a girl's doing in a man's room, see. Drink your tea up before it gets cold."

Chase listens so very patiently. He wants to be educated, see. And he reaches for his cup when she directs him to his tea, ever the obedient fellow, but after one sip he sets it down again. "Well, we are holdbred. That should horrify us." He forks off a chunk of pie and offers it over to her, utensil held inches away. "But I like you here. And from what people have been telling me, people talk." Ha. "I dunno, Rosie. I don't think it's that big a deal anymore." Anymore. "Don't get me wrong," he adds quickly, "I don't want your reputation or anything getting sullied, but... Who else is gonna take care of me?" Ah yes. Appeal to her fussy side.

Rosie is silenced momentarily, for she leans over to bite down on the offered pie, and is then obliged to chew her way through it and swallow before she can speak, lifting one finger to chase a crumb away from the corner of her mouth. "But they're really gonna think..." She hesitates, skirting around the question of putting just what they'll think into words. "It's a deal to me. It should be a deal to you, unless you're settled on never going back to a Hold. I /told/ the girls we weren't, but I don't think they believed me." She's concerned by that, little frown lines appearing between her brows for a moment. "I know someone's gotta keep an eye on you. I'm just saying, if anyone suggests, you can't just let 'em suggest, you know?"

"We could live at the Hall." Chase and his suggestions. "Doesn't matter where I am, if you're there with me. I could ask for permanent posting here, even. We wouldn't be far from home, just a blink away." He absorbs the expression on her face, thinks back on the way she was avoiding saying certain things, and heaves a great big sigh. His pie momentarily forgotten - he sets his fork down, even - he thinks. "You know, and I know, what we're doin'. Isn't that enough?"

"I know we know," Rosie agrees, shrugging a little under his arm. "I just wouldn't mind so much if other folks knew. They don't think it's anything bad, here. They think it's normal. Can you imagine if word got back to my father?" She's suitably solemn at that prospect, chewing on her lower lip for a moment. But no solution is in sight, and in the end, she doesn't stick around to linger on a a problem with no solution. "Anyway. You'll just have to look at me longingly, so they /know/ what's not going on." As to whether it might ever, before he is an old, old man, be going on? No word. Except that she turns her head, and leans up to press a brief kiss to his cheek.

Reunion.

2006-11-11T10:55:32Z

Chase arrives at High Reaches Weyr, completing his circuit, and unexpectedly finding the girl of his dreams assaulting people with a tray of vegetables. A reunion!

What you will not find in this log: two lovers dashing towards each other across a field of flowers, arms outstretched, to inspirational music.

The living cavern buzzes madly, the main evening meal in full swing. Tables are crammed, the line is long, and the kitchen staff are performing their nightly routine; it's half scramble, half dance, the serving tables kept stocked by sheer industry. A diminutive figure is making her way from the kitchens to the main serving table, a voice that doesn't match her size raised to holler at a pair of bulky riders who block her way. "Out of the way boys! No eating until it's there to scoop onto your plates!"

And into a kind of chaos that he's really only ever seen a few rare times before, Chase arrives. Looking rather scruffy and dog-tired, he shuffles into the cavern from outside, his shoulders hunched and his thumb hooked under the straps across his chest. One for the bag dangling at his hip, the other for the guitar case flat against his back. Behind him, a few beats later, a chubby lad with moppy blonde hair and cheeks reddened by exertion and cold follows. The two lads pause, about to converse it might seem, but are forced to abruptly and simultaneously step back and to the side when a group of people go pushing past. Once they're through, the pair tries again. "Got here in time for food," says Karl, the fuller of the two. Chase's eyebrows lift as he looks around. His expression is one of nervousness and, well, exhaustion. There's little room for much else. "Yeah. Guess we did." And, together, they move further in, searching for two empty chairs and not having much luck.

"Move, move, /move/!" Someone's a bossy little thing. Struggling with a tray that's far too big, loaded up and piled high with steamed greens, Rosie's forging a path through a populace intent on forming the least orderly queue possible for the serving tables. Some nights, chaos rules, and this is one of them. She's checking knots as she passes, eyes lifting to rest on the shoulders of those she's haranguing, but she's yet to see one that'll silence her. A bluerider and one of the weyr herders are in conversation, and she butts the taller of the two in the back with her tray. "Move!"

Chase, still edging his way through the crowd and chairs that, unfortunately, contain uncooperative people, doesn't seem to be paying much attention to anything that isn't either of those things. Karl is leading the way, though there isn't much leading to be done seeing as how it's impossible to forge through. Especially if you're a rather polite and timid sort. Karl happens to be. "Maybe we should just go find our rooms and put our stuff away and then come back," Chase finally suggests, after they get bumped into by a couple bustling through hand-in-hand. "I'm /hungry/," Karl protests. Heaving a sigh, Chase is just about to reply when certain bossy tones get his attention. With his brow furrowed and his mouth quirked, he leans and cranes his neck. "I think..." "Huh?" "I said I think... um..." "/What/?"

"Listen up, and listen good." There's that voice again, distinctly unimpressed. "You cannot scoop it straight off this tray. The tray on the table is empty. I need to get /to/ the table, to put /this/ tray down there. Then the folks at the front of the line will have greens, and everyone'll move." Rosie speaks as though to the terminally bewildered, adding another shove with the tray for good measure. This wins her some forward progress, although with the tray doubling her width, it doesn't last long.

"Yeah," Chase says rather vaguely, that confused and yet so /focused/ look still on his face. Karl is staring at him, utterly lost. His eyes narrow along with his hissing, again, of, "/What/?" "I'm gonna be right back." "What? No." "Mmhm. Hold this." Chase ducks out from under those straps and hands them over to his companion, who struggles to keep these new burdens as well as the ones he was already carrying balanced and /not/ on the floor. And, thus free of extra weight and not having to worry about things being damaged in the crowd, Chase pushes back into it, shouting, "Find us a table!" over his shoulder; he steers himself towards the line, pushing and elbowing, making very specifically for the girl with the tray. When he arrives at his destination he reaches out and big, long hands drift into view, making for that tray. All intents and purposes seem to point towards its abduction.

"Listen, I told you." Rosie's voice fairly rings with exasperation. "It goes on the table. You all know this. /When/ it's on the table, then the folks at the /front/ of the line help themselves, then you all move along, and you..." And then she stops, all of a sudden, blue eyes locking onto those hands. Mouth open, she's caught quite still, frozen for an instant before she yanks her gaze up, seeking their owner. It's another three or four seconds before she manages to hitch her jaw up, and then abruptly, possession of the tray is surrendered. Either he's going to grab hold of it, or it's going to crash to the ground.

Chase has had a long day, so give him a break if he lets that tray slip a little dangerously. It doesn't drop, he's quick at least, but there's definitely a moment. He'd met her eyes too, just before, and there had been a different kind of a moment, one in which time stood still and all of that. But now he's just wincing, his face getting a little hot while those around him who witnessed his near-miss snicker. "Jays, Rosie, what're you tryin' to do?" he asks her, exasperated, as he balances the tray so precariously.

Rosie recovers quickly, firing up her indignation as though she's not a day out of practice. "What'm /I/ trying to do?" The snickers are disregarded, her hands planted on her hips. "What're you /doing/ here?" With a toss of her head, the recovery begins, and she draws herself up, gaining an extra inch, but failing signally to close the gap between them. "What're you /doing/ here?" She repeats the question, this time in a hiss, reaching out for her tray again. "I have to put this down, folks're waiting on it."

It's like they just saw each other yesterday, and not more than a turn ago. Odd how that works out sometimes. "What am /I/ doing here?" Chase darts back, his eyebrows lifting. He glances over his shoulder and hunches some, momentarily self-conscious. Those snickers have died down, but the people who were doing the snickering are still there and that isn't helping. "/I'm/ doing my job. Why aren't you home?" 'Where I left you'. Wait. Folks're... "I'll do it," he tells her, turning away and then quickly turning back. "Where does it go?"

She gives up possession of the tray with a flap of her hands, folding them abruptly over her chest. "On the first table, at the end." One benefit, their audience has gained them; folks are waiting on the tray now, and a path is clearing to allow the harper to bear it to where it belongs. For her part, Rosie remains planted just so, a small, shocked island in the midst of a sea of people, forcing them to move around her. One of the kitchen girls numbers amongst those who have been watching; her progress towards Rosie is halted by one of the girl's patented glares. Then she clears her face, turning back to watch Chase's progress in silence.

"Oh, okay." On the first table. At the end. And through the people who still remain in his way. Chase swallows once and, without so much as looking back at Rosie, begins his short but arduous journey. "'Scuse me, sorry, um, no, that wasn't my hand, wow, was that /your/ hand?" and so on. Surely she didn't expect him to have so much fun with something that was supposed to be testing, but when he reaches that table he's grinning nearly from ear to ear, and as he goes back through the crowd he's making faces at people and chatting them up in the few seconds he has with them. And there he is again, standing in front of the girl he left behind, looking all a-muss and still grinning. Leaning in, as if about to tell her some small secret, he says, "Well /that/ wasn't so bad."

Rosie tracks his progress, the glare slowly fading out of her blue eyes, the line her mouth has fixed into slowly softening. She's further undone by that smile, looking up at him, head tilted back; here is her perpetual struggle, one brow quirking, dimples threatening to show as she fights off a smile. As simply as that, back into this habit. In the middle of the living cavern, a long way from home. "Helps if you're so big folks're scared you'll crush 'em to death. They don't even notice me buzzing around."

Chase just gives her a Look, somewhat offended and somewhat just tolerant. Yes, yes. "And it's my fault you didn't grow? You had your chance." And that's that. After looking down at her in all her trying-not-to-smile glory, he narrows his eyes and says in a tone that's a little detached sounding, "I think you were just about to tell me why you're here." Mmhm. He's sure.

"Hey, I..." Her arms cross more firmly over her chest, chin lifting defiantly. Then Rosie's jostled, and stumbles in a step closer to him. Hard on the dignity, that sort of thing. He's fixed with a look that suggests it's somehow his fault, and she recovers herself, arms unfolding so she can smooth down her skirts. "Don't believe I was." She's cross, but unable to maintain it, the dimples threatening another comeback. "I think /you/ were about to tell me you're pleased to see me."

And so it goes as it usually does, with Chase looking out for her. From taking her punishments when they were little to now, when she's jostled and he reaches out to catch her, steady her, if she needs it, it all amounts to the same thing. "Woah, hey." Any indignance on his part is cut short, stolen away, though he's still looking a little to the left of happy when he reaches for her hand and starts pulling her away, out of the way. He doesn't respond to her teasing in kind. "No, seriously, Rosie, what're you doing here?" he asks when he stops them, a few feet away from where they were just standing.

She yields up her hand, allowing him to tug her out of the main flow of foot traffic; she keeps her possession of his hand once they're halted, reaching up so she can wrap his one in her two, looking down for a moment to quirk her lips at the contrast in size. "I live here." The words are quiet, address to the hand she's holding. It's a moment more before she gathers herself, lifting her chin to look up at him. "Got searched. No dragon, though."

Chase bears this news with a very Chase-like version of surprise. It's like normal surprise, but enhanced by a very mobile face. "Oh. Wow." Oh hey, she has his hand. He looks down at it, at hers around it, and moves his index finger in a twitchy little jerk. Wiggle. A moment passes, filled with silence - well, unless you count the humming of activity all around them - and then he says, very softly, "That's, uh... Weird." Yeah. And by weird he means bad, because he had Plans, damnit.

Rosie's reply is gentle, and accompanied by a soft tug on his hand. Here's the advantage of being short; she can lean forward, looking up, seeking his gaze. "That's what happens, Chase. They came asking, and there wasn't anything at home..." She trails off, hesitant; the dimples are gone now, and so is the smile. One hand breaks away from his abruptly, to come up and tuck her curls away behind her ears.

"Yeah." Oh,that was even softer. Chase looks at her, really looks at her, and clears his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, no. 'Course there wasn't. Anything." As in there was nothing, because if there isn't anything then that means there was nothing. His brain is taking very inevitable visits to very inevitable places. "So is this... I mean, is this what you do now?" He's trying to smile and tease, for her, trying to summon up whatever spine he has left. Most of it's a melted puddle at his feet at the moment.

"Yeah," she echoes, quiet, weaving her smaller fingers in through his. "This is..." She breaks off, pausing, gathering breath and gathering words, meeting his smile with one of her own that's tentative at best. "I'm in the kitchens. Vegetables." A smile, watery. "Haven't taken a finger off yet. I'm... I mean. Yeah. No.' She surrenders coherency, fingers tightening on his. "How'd your circuit go? Anything interesting?" Any girls?

Chase's fingers, long and slender, don't do much to avoid or make more possible the weaving. They just hang there with his hand and don't complain. He watches her face while she speaks, like he so often does, with his expression calm and his eyes warm. Very warm. Kitchens. Vegetables. Hm. There's a quirk to his mouth that's sort of the opposite of a smile. He looks down at their fingers again, pinches one of hers very gently and lifts it. With this grip he wiggles her whole hand. "I can see that." Circuit. Oh, yeah, that thing. The enthusiasm for his work comes up to the fore, lights up his face. "It's been great, I wish you could see some of the places... We've lived around them forever, but to /see/ them is something else. You'd love it." And, with very little pause, he says, "Come sit with me."

"I'm meant to be working." Her response comes with a faint frown, hesitation, eyes down on their joined hands. "I mean, they'll be waiting on another..." She breaks off again, then lifts her head; her chin juts in a familiar way, mouth firming as a decision is made. A hell-with-those-who disagree quirk of her lips. "I'd love to hear about your circuit," she replies, resolute. "You tell me where you're sitting, I'll fetch you a plate and bring it out so we can sit."

Oh yes, that jutting is indeed familiar. Sure, the face around it has grown - some - and aged - a little - over the turns, but still. Chase can't help it really, he quirks her a little smile when he sees it. His eyebrows had lifted while she tried - oh yes, /tried/ - to tell him no. It's the way of things. He can never say no to her, but only because he knows she can never say no to him. It's an age-old arrangement, bundled perks and slight hangups and he'll take it any day of the week, thankyouverymuch. The only point he has any disagreement with would be that last one. "Uh, no. You're not gonna fetch me a plate. Actually if you could never use the word 'fetch' and 'I' as in /you/ in the same sentence again..." He grins again. "C'mon, Rosie. You can take a break can't you?" For him?

Rosie pulls a face, flashing him her dimples in a quick smile. "I can take a break," she agrees, pre-emptively stubborn in regard to any protest she might hear in the kitchen. "But I got a short cut that gets me past the queue, and you just got in. You gotta be hungry. Let me get in there and find you something to eat, and I'll bring it out." She reclaims her hand, because she needs the two of them if she's going to settle one on each hip, tipping her head back to eyeball him. "You sure look scruffy, Chase." Just lest he think those dimples mean something.

Chase lets go of that hand with the kind of absentminded reluctance of someone who secretly wants to keep something but isn't paying enough attention to tighten his hand. Or maybe he /was/ paying attention and just saved himself the embarrassment of clutching her hand in his like someone drowning. Scruffy? His mouth opened to protest or comment - whathaveyou - on that whole ongoing getting him something to eat theme, but he stops to stare at her. That now-empty hand lifts and he rubs at his jawline, angular and, yes, scruffy thing that it is. Scritch. His other hand finds his pocket and hides. "Yeah, we don't really get the chance to do much on the road. Been kind of a long way from our last stop." And his last shave. And? He's looking quite chastised about the whole matter.

Rosie looks him up and down, hands on hips. The inspection takes a fair bit longer than strictly required to tally the bits and pieces of him that need washing, mending, cutting or shaving. Still, when she concludes at his face once more, she's summoned a mock-stern expression, the frown that creases her forehead utterly failing to reach her dancing eyes. "Get y'self sitting down, Chase." That firm instruction comes with a swat at his arm. "And I'll get you a big plate of stuff, and then I'll watch you stuff your face, and it'll be like old times. Got it?" Boss, boss, boss. Dimples showing. Damn them.

Dimples showing. Damn them. They're distracting, see, but they also betray her. Chase knows what to look for. Dimples, check, light in the eyes, check. He's getting to her. Luckily he knows better by now than to let show his knowing of his own victory; he keeps it tucked away. "Okay, okay." Shoulders hunching, he's donned the mortified canine look as he turns from her. However, he ends up turning back to make a little request. Leaning in, he murmurs, "Do they have those little sweet bread things here?" And cue his most endearing of looks, hair in his eyes and everything.

Rosie is turning away too, and swings back a little too quickly, chin lifted so she can look up to him; her hands are promptly folded together behind her back, denied the chance to reach for his hair. "Could be," she allows. "If you're good." With a sniff, she turns away, and fairly flounces back into the crowd in the direction of the kitchens, demonstrating a newfound skill at weaving her way through the dense dinnertime crowd. Helps when you're just a little thing.

Chase's smile is quick and right-away warm. His face is accustomed to it. Good? He's about to reply when she turns again. Bother. Well, he'll call it after her anyway. "I'll be good!" And then, after watching her make her skillful way, he grins to himself and, both hands in his pockets now, makes for where he supposes Karl might have disappeared to. It takes all of a few minutes for the two to find each other. Karl's found a little table smushed up against a wall, four chairs all around. "There were people sitting here, but they up and left." Karl is positively beaming. "And the best part is we'll have two extra chairs for our stuff, so it won't get stepped on." "One." "Huh?" Chase lifts his eyebrows, meets Karl's eyes, and enunciates very clearly. "/One/. One extra chair." He removes his guitar and bag from one of the chairs and replaces it on the other with Karl's things, then sits; Karl is left to blink for a moment before he follows.

Rosie isn't far behind Chase; she does not have his height advantage in seeking them out, but she knows the layout of the cavern, and weaves her way through it, using her tray as a battering ram. They know their technique, these kitchen girls. So she pops out of the crowd, ducking an elbow as she appears by the table, and leaning in to set the tray down. He's earned himself two plates. On one, meat and vegetables cling together for mutual safety amidst a swamp of gravy. One the other, sweet bread things are piled high, with two squashed slices of pie fighting a valiant rearguard for space. "Right, now!" She's hauling out the chair to make herself at home when Karl registers, and bright eyes are turned on him. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'll just..." There's a brief Look for Chase, and she's making ready to swing around and turn away.

Chase has nothing but smiles for Rosie when she appears; Karl, well, just looks somewhat thunderstruck and says nothing. It's his more easygoing and, let's face it, personable counterpart who speaks, and one could very easily come to the conclusion that this is always the way of it. His dark eyes widened for effect, Chase slides the meaty veggie plate closer and, with his other hand, reaches for Rosie's. "No, no. Don't go anywhere. Karl here can share off my plate, can't you Karl?" And, with his attention solely fixed on poor Karl, Chase idly stirs together all the food on that plate, stirring and stirring until it's all a mess of brownish. Karl gives the unidentifiable blob a distasteful look, then settles a mild glare on Chase. "That's okay. I'll just... go get in line." "Oh, okay. Well, darn, guess I'll introduce you to Rosie when you get back." Karl mutters something under his breath; his chair scrapes the ground and he's disappeared into the crowd. Chase hunches some over that plate, grinning down at it. In a voice just for her, he says, "After a while of him wanting to 'share' so he wouldn't have to wait around in lines, I devised a strategy." There's laughter in his tone. "He... /hates/ when food touches other food."

Rosie is caught short by Chase's hand, offering Karl an impish smile of greeting as he rises to his feet to depart, and sinking down into her chair as Chase confides. Her free hand comes up to clap over her mouth, eyes widening in outrage that doesn't quite make the grade. Her fingers slip down so her lips can twist into a frown that's trying hard not to be. "Chase, you're so mean to him! How'd he put up with you all this time?" Her free hand's twitching at her skirts now, and she's making herself comfortable. Keeping custody of his hand - knowing full well he's equally capable of using the other to eat with. "Eat up, if you want that horrible mess yourself. And tell me things."

"Well I /am/ teaching him all I know," Chase replies in a very oh, Rosie sort of way. However, the smirk that tugs up one corner of his mouth gives him away. He quirks it all the way and lifts a shoulder. "He gets me back." As if that's more than good enough reason. Ah, two young men on the road together. For months. Pranks and poking fun, especially if you're Chase, are going to happen. He obeys that bossy nudging and tucks into the messy plate of stuffs without hesitation. He's /hungry/. It's with a full mouth that he does indeed tell her things, and with a glad acceptance that he keeps his hand right where she has it. "We just got in from the Hold, it's a ways that way." Vague gesture with his fork. "High Reaches, um. There was this kid there, definitely reminded me of, um, what was his name... Jasper, 'member him? He was always trying to, um, get me'n Leo to fight with him and stuff? Anyway, so he was there."

"All you know? Pffft." Rosie wrinkles her nose, tapping on the back of his large hand. "What did /you/ ever know? I'll have to show him how to get you back proper, before you two push on home to Tillek." His full mouth is permitted on this occasion, and she props her chin up on her hand, leaning in to hear him over the bustle of the cavern. "I remember Jasper. He got himself married right before I left, you know. He got nicer, in the end. Boy, though..." She trails away, nostalgic for a moment. "Remember when he pulled my hair so you and Leo'd fight him? Boy, was /he/ sorry after I kicked him."

Chase gives the appropriate grin for her snarkiness, a slow one that goes with the Look he gives her to match. "/Wow/. Ouch." Pfft, indeed. Not only has he been quite used to this behavior for, well, since she could speak words, but he's also come to expect it. Want it. Look forward to it. "If you can teach him how to get me back proper then I probably deserve it." He takes his turn to listen, head tilted towards her so maybe a bit of the hair that sticks up might brush her forehead or cheek or hand. It's tickly. After swallowing he gives his fork a break and lifts his eyebrows at her. "He got married? Wow. And yeah. Too bad he wasn't smart enough to pay attention. Like I'd fight anyone for /you/. What was it? Oh yeah. /Pfft/." But he's grinning again, a sly expression angled at her.

"You watch, I'll teach him something," Rosie threatens. "Then, when you're on your way again, you can think of me when you squeak. I..." She abruptly cuts off as his hair brushes his forehead, her head bent in close to his. She's still for a moment, breathing carefully, and then she jerks her head back, lifting her chin, words accelerating. "Sure he got married, everybody's doing it." With a sniff, she shifts along from that subject. "Never needed you to fight anyone for me, I kicked just fine. Just couldn't stop you charging in, could I?" She's got her mother's roll of her eyes down to perfection. Then, more quietly, "How long you here for, Chase?"

Chase continues to take it all in stride, like any male accustomed to being berated and chastised and all of that by a particular female. Except usually it's a husband taking it from a wife, and not just a boy taking it from a girl. Their relationship will always be a strange one. He'll only argue one point, and that's the bit about squeaking. "Hey, I'll have you know I don't... /squeak/. That one time was... You were tickling me and I couldn't control myself." And all the while he's pointing his fork at her and gesturing. "It wasn't fair." So there. She gets a proper eyeing then, he's about to say something more, but then she's dropped her voice a bit and so he listens. Ah yes, that question. "Well." He swallows another mouthful, quirking his jaw to the side while he runs his tongue along his teeth. "That... sorta depends on you, Rosie." And if his voice should drop too, and then crack slightly because it's already rather deep, well.

"Excuses, excuses." Rosie leans forward to click her teeth together, as though she'd take custody of his fork and deny him his gestures; she deliberately closes her teeth short of it, though, leaving him free to continue his meal. She's watching him through her lashes as he looks for words; her eyes drop when he finds them. "Nothing to do with me," she disagrees, starting out nearly too soft to hear, then clearing her throat, lifting her volume. "You're on a circuit. Wasn't nothing to do with me when you left, won't be to do with me where you go." In other words: no such luck, buster. You got to say it out loud.

"When I /left/," Chase begins, his head tilted downward but his eyes on hers, "it was different. I had to go, and you know it." With his lower lip caught between his teeth he pauses. How to proceed, hm. "And it wasn't like I could take you with me. If I could've, I would've." And there's something in there, in that particular sentence, that /is/ everything, everything he's trying to say. But she won't let him off so easy and he doesn't deserve it anyway, so he heaves a great big sigh and fiddles with his bangs. "After this circuit I'm gonna have some time off. I was gonna go home. I thought..." His eyebrows tilt downward suddenly and he flounders momentarily; then he looks at her and tries a grin. "I saved up some marks, I made my first circuit as a journeyman. This is it." 'This' is demonstrated somehow by him poking the tabletop with his forefinger.

Rosie sniffs, only partially mollified. The laughter is gone from her eyes now, and she swallows, sucking her cheeks in as she listens. "When you left, you were fifteen, Chase. Now you're halfway to twenty-one." There's a hint of anxiety in her voice, masked by a quick smile that nearly makes the grade. "So this is what, huh? How do you know when I don't?" Her chin juts further then, and she produces a small but powerful frown. "I'm not just packing up and going home with you."

"I've /always/ known." Which might not be at all what she meant, but there Chase goes anyway. He always has been that running, jumping, impulsive thing. "When I came back, for that visit, you remember? I was eighteen then. Then at some point I was nineteen. I can keep going with these numbers /all/ you want." He swallows in response to that frown. That's one of the little looks he /can't/ smile at, no matter what. That's genuine unhappiness, that is. And... she's not? "What, why?" Because, yes, that's sort of what he'd /wanted/.

He's always known, and she's always known he's know. And she's always known too. Except that now, she's levelling that troublesome frown at him. Rosie sniffs again, swinging their joined hands back and forth slowly. "And you were twelve when you went into the Hold proper, sure. That's nearly ten turns. You're after who you think I am, Chase." The lower lip's threatening to go. And so soon after their reunion. "I'm staying here because I /like/ it here. You don't know that, either."

"Since when do you get to tell me what I'm after?" Yes, Chase lets her boss him around, push him around, treat him like he's a silly little boy, but there are some instances in which he won't allow it. "What does that even mean, anyway? I think you're you, 'cause that's who you are. I'm after /you/." And their hands swing, and he looks down at them because she didn't let go and that means something. "What is there to like here? You know, everyone talks about this place. It's this place and Nabol lately. It isn't even /safe/ here, what, do they have really great blankets or something?"

"How come you have the slightest idea what I grew up into?" Rosie stops, presses her lips together until that threat of a wobble goes, then starts again. "I'm not nine, like when you went up to the Hold. I'm not twelve, like when you went to the Hall. I'm not fifteen, like when you came home. You missed all the bits in between. Before you say what you want again," - her voice is rising, indignant, and she suddenly catches herself and modulates it - "you spend some time getting to know it, so what you say holds some water." That scowl is fierce, now. But her fingers are holding on still. "I don't care what they say about this place, it's safe now. We had trials, harpers and all. I like it here. I'm useful." Yes. Chopping vegetables.

"Okay, yeah, I missed a lot. But I /know/ you. I've known you your whole life. You can't just... take that away." Chase's voice drops off when hers rises. They were practically talking at the same time, him trying to make her understand and her having none of it. But she's right, he knows she's right. He did miss a /lot/. "Useful?" Somehow that's the part that's caught his attention. He gives her a look, one that says he doesn't buy whatever she's selling, and if she's being honest than he doesn't exactly like it. His Rosie, slaving away in the kitchens. Unacceptable. Finally he just says, "Listen," and leans in. "If what it takes is... being around, then I'll do it. I'll /do/ it." Or, the underneath of that, 'I'll do anything'. And he would.

Rosie can't take that away, and a brief, grudging shrug cedes that point. "Sure, /useful/." Either she's just fine with her vegetables, or she's simply unwilling to diminish her position, just now. "Work's gotta be done. What was I supposed to do, sit at home and knit until you came to get me? That'd be a mighty big sweater by now, Chase." A sniff, and a meaner glare, one she can't maintain past a second or two. "Or was I going to take someone else? My Da's a Master, there were boys around, you know." And Rosie, it would seem, demands credit for loyalty. A deep, deep breath fills her lungs up, and is released only slowly. "You do it then. Get it right. /Then/ we'll see."

To say that Chase dislikes thinking about there being 'other boys around' would be the understatement of the Pass. The subtle way in which he looks down at their hands when she mentions said other boys might just betray that. "I didn't really know what to expect. I hadn't really thought of anything past just getting some marks together and coming back. Guess I just assumed everything would go okay. Or better than this." He attempts a weak smile that comes out very weak indeed. Get it right. "I will. I promise." Only he's not looking at her still, and his hand has turned sort of limp.

"Right, getting some marks together and coming back, where I'd be boring as anything, not having shifted out the door in ten turns." Because a real concern with Rosie has /always/ been that she'd be boring, right. Her voice softens, though, and she lifts her chin off her hand so she can once more apply her two to his one, turning it over, feeling for the guitar callouses. "This isn't going so bad, Chase, trust me. Just..." She lifts one shoulder, the gesture borrowed from him. "What's so wrong with wanting to be walked out a time or two? Waited a long time."

Chase just looks at her, blandly, and lets the 'yeah, right' come right on through via expression. Her. Boring. /Rosie/, boring. That'll be the day. "You... /kick/ me at least once every time you see me. How could /that/ ever get boring?" His voice is somewhat on the desert side of dry on the scale, but there's a little twitch in the mouth region of his face. His big hand is easily manipulated, much like he can be, and the callouses won't be hard to find. They're on his fingertips, his fingers up to that first joint, and in some other very odd places, places one wouldn't think would ever touch a guitar string. "That's just it, there's nothing wrong with wanting that and I... I messed up." In a softer voice he adds, "I just didn't realize it. I was really bent on just getting here. Or there. Getting home."

"Well, could get kinda same-ish," Rosie replies, managing a wobble of a smile. "I could branch out, maybe, punch sometimes." Her mother probably just twitched somewhere. Her small fingers are probing at his, exploring out the callouses as she finds them, tapping at his knuckles, tracing out the lines along his palms. It provides somewhere to look other than his face, and so her eyes drop. "You did, a bit," she agrees, just as soft. "'m a way behind the girls at home, now. Waited this long, though, I can wait another bit. See if you can do it right."

"I will. I will." Chase flicks his eyes once to peek at her face, or what he can see of it since she's looking down at his hand. After that quick little glance he looks down at it too, because maybe in doing so they can share something again. "It's good being with you again, Rosie," he tells her after a long moment of doing that thing with the looking. And just then, Karl comes puffing up with a full plate of food. He flops down and looks at Chase, who has straightened up quite quickly, then at Rosie. He says, "Don't tell me you're not even gonna eat that," and points at Chase's only half-empty plate. "Uh. Okay, Iiii won't. Karl, this is Rosie, Rosie, Karl. We got assigned to each other. It's sorta like being married, only I never have to know whether or not he steals the blankets." "Very funny," Karl manages around a mouthful of food. Then, to Rosie, after he swallows, "Nice meeting you."

Rosie manages a real smile this time, dimples making a comeback as she studies his hand. "Sure, you got fed and beat up. Course it's good being with me again." She takes longer than he to register that Karl has arrived again, and so her head comes up just in time to catch the introductions. For her sweetheart's circuit partner she has one of her blinding smiles, lashes lowering momentarily, dimples showing, charm switched momentarily to full bore. "You too, Karl. We've got stories to swap." Then she's belatedly realising she's still got both hands wrapped around Chase's, and slowly sliding them free.

"We do? Why?" Karl narrows his eyes suspiciously and looks immediately at Chase as if he plotted something terrible during the relatively short time he was away. And Chase, for his part, lifts his eyebrows and goes back to shovelling food into his mouth. He did nothing. Karl gives Rosie a Look. There are two ways for a pudgy lad to take a pretty girl smiling at him. One: get all blushy and sweet on her right away. Two: immediately suspect her of Plotting with Chase. Karl opts for good ol' reliable two. And, thinking he'll try cleverness out, he says, "Chase talked about you a lot on the road." Hey, it might embarrass /one/ of them.

Rosie leaves the embarassment on that front to Chase; she's too busy lifting a brow, quirking her lips to show her dimples, Chase's favourite giveaway that she's trying hard not to be delighted. "Did he now?" A sidelong glance for the harper in question, as she folds her arms to lean them on the table. Just like they were there the whole time. "That was awful forward of him. You just wait 'til he's gone to get himself a drink, Karl. You tell me what he got up to, and I'll tell you about the time he fell head first in the river when he was seven."

Chase's reaction is of course as smooth as silk. To that bit about him talking about Rosie a lot on the road, anyway. He just absorbs himself in the plate in front of him and ignores her little look. The whole him falling headfirst into rivers section of his life, though, that's something he's willing to put a stop to before it's been too widely opened. "Uh," he starts, his mouth full and his cheek bulged out on one side, but Karl's already on it. "Well it isn't like he doesn't do stupid stuff all the time /now/. Just the other day he tripped on a tree root and went down a hill at a full roll. If we hadn't been stopped for a little rest he would've still had his guitar on, and it'd be in splinters all over that bit of woods." Chase is grinning, his cheeks somewhat flushed. "Hey, what about the time you were sweet on that girl and she heard you trying to get me to talk to her for you. She was probably coming over to talk to /you/, you /freak/. I'm never getting a drink ever again."

Now this, this is familiar ground. This is Chase and Leo trying to one-up each other, and Rosie knows how to referee it. "Eat your dinner," she admonishes Chase, pushing her shoulder into his for a moment; a ladylike version of the punches he used to earn himself. Karl earns no such reproof, but rather another dimpling smile. "I can see you've had a lot to put up with, the last turn or two," she sympathises, mischief bubbling up, along with a sort of confidentiality. She's going to make a friend of her beloved's partner. "I suppose I should thank you for getting him back in one piece. You just come by the kitchens, mmm?" Such a sweet smile.

Karl and Chase say a few things more at each other, but they're talking over the other so it's sort of mumbled and all at once, too much to really pick apart what it was that was said. When Rosie nudges Chase he quiets almost immediately, still grinning, and, as if on autopilot, sets to doing what he was told. Karl marks this with no small amount of awe, someone who's been trying to get that same sort of result with no positive outcome. This time the response to that smile is less suspicious, more friendly. "Cch, you don't know that half of it. Hear that, Chase? Come by the kitchens, she says." "She's gonna feed you, Karl, then probably punch you." Karl rolls his eyes and Chase grins again and swallows. "Believe it." And the smile he turns on Rosie is pure adoration.

Rosie permits herself only a fraction of a second's smugness in reaction to Chase's automatic obedience, busy leaning in to devote her attention to Karl. "I would never punch Karl," she informs Chase loftily, lifting her chin again. "/He/ won't be deserving it like some people will." Then she unfolds her arms, bracing her hands against the table. "I'll let you two settle in. Make sure he shares the dessert with you, Karl." There's a wink for Karl, and she reaches out to ruffle Chase's hair as she stands. "Back to work for me." And back to work she is, denying the opportunity to fix a time to see her.

Chase mocks surprise. Never punch Karl? Karl, meanwhile, just grins a toothy grin and is suddenly all about being smug while making sure Chase did indeed hear that. Rosie's getting up nabs both of them straight away, Chase because didn't he just get her back? and Karl because hey, she's a nice girl /and/ she's pretty and he wants for so little in life. Two pairs of eyes, one dark and one blue, follow her up. Karl grins again. "He'll share." "Yeah, I know how you get when you haven't had your sweets." "Hey." "Hi." "Ugh." And so on. The exchange is interrupted when she ruffles his hair, and Chase is about to say something but she's already gone. Hm. "I like her," Karl declares after she's gone; he returns to his eating frenzy. Chase twirls his fork in his hand and smiles. "Yeah. Me too."

First Kiss.

2006-10-09T07:28:31Z

Backscene: In Turn 200, a little before the Pass began, Chase came home to Tillek before beginning a circuit. He and Rosie had a conversation.

Very little has changed in this room; the same hangings grace the wall, the same comfortable, battered furniture fills the place up. Only the rug underfoot has changed, the old traded for one that looks relatively new. Rosa is seated by the hearth, knitting needles flashing back and forth as fast as ever, her dark curls now shot through with a few extra strands of silver. Anden is all of twelve turns old now, and he's changed dramatically in the past few turns. He's shot up in height, bulking out already. Sandy-haired where Leo is dark, he's already beginning to look like a mirror image of his big brother. He's standing in a stance that screams boredom, arms spread wide with wool wound all around them. It is the girl doing the winding, however, who's changed the most. Rosie is not twelve anymore, she's fifteen, and somewhere in the last three turns a lot has happened. She wears a skirt and blouse in a practical cut, although the colours are somewhat less so, spring green and pale yellow cut together. The change in fashion from pants to skirts is only one, however, of several interesting changes that have taken place in the past few turns.

It's an also much-changed Chase that stands outside that room, the place he used to call home more often than not. He has a thumb hooked under one of the straps on his shoulder, the one belonging to his gitar. There's a bag hanging too, a large one, and he's hunched some under the combined weight. In this manner, sheepish, he hesitates. One oversized hand lifts, turned with knuckles at the ready to knock; he decides against it. This is still home, right? He opens the door carefully, trying not to make a fuss, and peeks around its edge. Spotting Rosa first, the only mother he's ever known, he grins and steps in the rest of the way. Eighteen now, he's taller than when he left, and slim, his hair a mop of brown atop his head that tends to get into his eyes. Like now. His announcement is soft. "Hey."

Anden turns his head straight away, keen for any distraction at all. Rosie doesn't, carefully finishing the loop of wool she's making; for a brief moment her head begins to turn, though, before it twitches back into place once more. While Anden squints at Chase in disbelief, Rosa drops her knitting, coming to her feet with a delighted smile that shows off girlish dimples. "Chase!" Her arms open, then one hand comes to gesture to the floor in front of her. "Get yourself here, young man, let me look at you. Will you look at him, Rosie? He's doubled in size!" His suspicions concerned, Anden drops both his hands so he can start forward towards Chase, immediately tangling himself in the wool. Rosie, suddenly finding herself with an armful of wool, swings around to fix the harper with an exasperated glare. "Aw, Chase!" As though he hadn't been gone three turns at all.

Chase's grin grows, maturing from the rather nervous little thing it had been into something much more natural. "Yes, ma'am." He does as told, head ducked as he crosses the room towards Rosa. He stands, not as tall as he should be due to those darn hunched shoulders, but at least he's patient and tolerant of any inspections he's about to get. He's grinning at the woman in front of him, unsure of what else to do, then over at Anden. "Wow, hey. You grew up." Look who's talkin'. Ah. And then there's Rosie. Dark eyes shift from the girl's little brother to the girl herself, and there's a moment in which something clicks or changes. And then it's like nothing happened at all. His grin returns. "Good to see you too, Squirt."

"Anden, will you just... look at what you..." Rosie's flustered, grabbing at pieces of wool as she tries to gather up the disaster her little brother has created. "How come you didn't tell us you were coming home? Just like you." Her words to Chase are an ungracious demand; her mother quiets her tone with a steady look, and as Rosie falls silent, Rosa steps forward to reach up for Chase's chin. "Let's look at you, then. Have you been eating? I would have got something in for tonight, Leo's not back until tomorrow." She's fussing, patently delighted at having this charge of hers back in her home. Anden is suddenly shy, of all things, hanging back.

"I wanted to surprise you guys. Sorry about your wool, Rosie." One minute sassing her, the next genuinely apologizing. Chase turns back to Rosa just in time to have himself examined, his chin captured. "Yeah I've been eating. Small tunnelsnakes mostly, or whatever else I can find on the road." He's grinning again, completely teasing the older woman. And, really, she should be used to it. But while he seems flippant and sarcastic, there's a definitely note of respect when it comes to Rosa. She is, afterall, practically his mother. "I'm okay, I think I'm actually too nervous about being back to eat. Hey Anden, you remember me right?" He's noticed the lad's hesitance. And is completely ignoring Rosie. On purpose.

"Oh, Chase!" Rosa sounds just like her daughter, swatting at the young man's arm in exasperated affection. "I can't believe you've got so tall, you must be a head above Leo now. How long are you staying, love?" Her smile grows, suddenly, a thought visibly striking her. "Did they post you home?" Pinpointed thus, Anden pushes forward, running his hands through his sandy hair in a gesture learned straight from his father and brothers. "Course I do, Chase." Look at him square his shoulders, puff his chest out. That was direct recognition of his existence, right there. Which'll do nicely for the youngest of the brood. Rosie gives up on the wool, dumping the tangled pile on a chair. Her hands go to her skirt to smooth it out, the movement abruptly cut off halfway through. With a sniff, she edges around into his line of sight.

"I tried not growing, but I kinda lost the battle. I'm gonna be around for the next seven, then I'm off to Nabol and anywhere on the way where I can find more than two people." Which is a no, he isn't being posted home. Alas and alack. Back to Anden again, Chase grins. "Good. 'Cause I remember you. Wouldn't really be fair." Ah, how the sons in this family look alike. Him being the odd one out, of course, though not so much in looks. Rosie does indeed get herself into his way of looking, and so he lifts his eyebrows at her and makes a face, one of those he knows is gonna make her laugh. With this face in place he spreads his arms wide. Hug? Of course his plan is foiled when the strap of his bag goes sliding down his arm and the whole thing ends up on the floor. "Aw, jays."

"/Nabol/?" Mother and daughter protest that in unison, and Anden adds a snort. The protests end there, however; Rosa is stepping back, keen gaze suddenly shifting from Chase to Rosie and back again. For her part, Rosie presses her lips together for a moment, struggling to maintain her scowl; it doesn't work, and she shows off her dimples in a bout of helpless laughter, wading forward to push his bag out of the way with one foot - this takes more effort than she anticipated, and the kick isn't very ladylike - before collapsing in against him, both arms winding around him as far as they go, head on his chest. Anden's observation of this isn't quite as pleased as Rosa's; he simply snorts again, and looks away.

Chase had been about to bend to pick his bag back up, and he's looking really very concerned. Did something sound like it broke in there? Mmf. However, the outburst from mother and daughter has him straightening quickly, eyes wide. "Then on to High Reaches. It's what they call a circuit." He makes little hand gestures in an effort to help explain himself. "When you go around a major point, stopping along the way, before you hit the main point itself. Our main point is gonna be the Weyr." And he seems rather thrilled by this. /Dragons/. He's almost caught off guard again by Rosie's laughter. /Almost/. When she kicks at his bag he winces again, holds a hand out - there are /things/ in there - as if he might stop her. But then she's being all huggy so he hugs back and, for image's sake, rolls his eyes at Anden over the girl's shoulder. /Girls/. His arms are rather tight around her though, fancy that. "Rosa, d'you think I could steal your daughter for a little while before dinner?"

Rosie cares not a whit for whatever valuable property she's just aided in the possible destruction of, still leaning in against Chase with her arms tight and her eyes closed. Anden is pleased to oblige with a roll of his eyes and a wrinkle of his nose, and to judge by her smile, Rosa is yet more pleased to oblige. "I think you can for a little, Chase." Her permission is granted with with a smile, eyes dancing. "Perhaps the two of you can walk on down to the kitchens, see if you can find something for us to eat in our quarters. Anden can untangle what he did to Rosie's wool." Whether it's the reminder of that outrage, Anden's groan, or simply a belated realisation that she's awful clingy, Rosie suddenly straightens up, planting both hands on Chase's chest to push herself away, and levelling an assessing gaze at him.

"Sure. Yeah. We'll sniff something up." Chase grins past Rosie at her mother, then blinks when the girl he's hugging pushes herself away so abruptly. He stumbles back a step but thankfully doesn't lose his balance. Nor does he seem all that put off. It's just Rosie, afterall. He rolls one shoulder to readjust the gitar on his back so it settles more comfortably and definitely bends this time so he can flip open his bag, poor abused thing, and rummage a little. "Just have to... There." Something small is retrieved from within and pocketed. "We'll be back. Um." His hands shoved into his pockets and hair in those warm eyes of his, Chase tilts his head towards the door. "Comin'? Rosie?"

Rosie eyes him suspiciously for a moment; some sort of irritation is warring with pleasure at his presence, one brow lifting, one corner of her mouth quirking. In the end, neither wins out; a truce between the two impulses is signalled when she tosses her head, and turns away to stride towards the door. "Come on, then." With this haughty instruction, she hauls it open and makes her way out into the hallway, signally ignoring Anden's outraged protests as his mother grabs him by the shoulders and steers him towards the chair of abandoned wool.

Chase watches Rosie sashay off, a quirk still tilting his mouth up in one direction. He gives Anden a sort of oh man, sorry look, which translates into sort of a wince. Poor kid. Then, pecking Rosa once on the cheek, he follows out the door and into the hallway. Once out there, and the door is closed behind them, he starts drifting off, half turned towards his companion. "So I made Journeyman," he tells her. Like she wouldn't already know.

"Took you long enough." Rosie's response is prompt, delivered with a sniff, and no sign that she knows he's done well to get his knot at eighteen; she's too pleased to see him to play at being haughty for long, though, and a quirk of her lips betrays her once again. Three skips bring her up alongside him, and she matches his pace, throwing in an extra skip every so often to make up the difference between his long legs and her own. "But now you're journeying. I thought you might come home." She's cheery enough, but there's a faint hint of dismay underneath her smile.

Grinning, Chase unpockets a hand and drapes a long arm over her shoulders. It's clumsy and fraternal, but well-meant. "Not as long as it takes most people," he'll have her know, his tone almost defensive. He /will/ make her see how important it is, dangit. "Well. That's kinda what I wanted to talk to you about. Coming home and all." They round a corner, continue on down another hallway.

"Sure, sure, you're too smart for words, Chase." She falls easily into teasing him, leaning in against him for a moment so she can mock-punch him in the guts. She lacks both the strength and the intention to get any force behind the blow. She's laughing at her own tease when he speaks, the sound abruptly fading away as his words register. She tilts her head back so she can look up to him, eyes widening momentarily, then her head's back down, a flush registering on her cheeks. "What you want to say, then?"

"Yeah I know," Chase replies, that lopsided grin making another appearance. It's a trademark, really. "So smart I can only be described with really weird hand gestures." And he makes a few, then halfway keels over in response to her mockpunch. "Oof. Well." He glances down at her, noticing how she isn't looking at him in turn. "Um." He rubs at the back of his neck. "I just... I thought maybe after I'm done with the Weyr I'd come back. For a while."

"/Really/ weird ones," Rosie agrees with a laugh, reaching up to tousle his hair as he begins to keel over. But she's avoiding his gaze, eyes on the hallway in front of them. He's said something wrong, for her elbow drives into his ribs, even as one of her small hands comes up to reach for his large one, hanging onto it to anchor his arm around her shoulders. "For a while? Rechasren, listen to you." Ooooh, ah. His whole name. Someone's in trouble.

Chase is used to such abuse, both in the form of that big long name of his and elbows and ribs and things. This time his slight slumping is real, his hand dropping to cradle his poor midsection in an awkward way. "Okay, yeah. For a while. What? I thought you'd like me being around." Rub, rub. Ow. But his arm didn't move. No, it's still right where she wants it until he stops them suddenly, pulling gently, and turns her around to face him with his hands on her shoulders. "I can ask to be posted here." He straightens. "We're gonna get married."

"/Chase/!" It's the same protest Rosie's moaned a thousand times, and it comes again. "Of course I like you being around, you big idiot. 'For a while' sounds like you're going to..." She's shrugging the rest of that sentence as he pulls her around to face him. The query in her eyes is masked by surprise as they widen, mouth falling slightly open in the wake of what he says. "But..." Her protest is weak, quiet. "Chase, you... I..." She swallows, blinks, and reaches up to press a hand over her mouth for a moment. Her words are muffled, coming from behind her hand. "We're gonna /what/?"

"No, remember? It's like when we were little." Chase is as serious about this as he can be. And darn right he's more serious about this than he ever has been about anything else. "This is gonna work. I know I went away, but... If I didn't get my apprenticeship then I wouldn't have at all, and I'd still be stuck here, probably on some boat every day, and if I'm gonna be any good at life I gotta /be/ something." As always, his hands are very expressive. "And now I am. I mean, c'mon. Rosie. This is only the beginning, here."

"Our fathers are stuck on some boat every day," Rosie points out, her hand coming away from her mouth so she can get some real volume behind her voice now. "My brother's on /some boat/ every day, Chase. What's wrong with it?" She's working herself up, slender shoulders tensing, squaring, arms folding over her chest. "They're /something/, Chase." There's a foot stomp coming any minute, her eyes narrowed as she glares up at him. "This isn't the beginning of anything. You think this is how you ask a girl?"

"I /know/. And that works. For /them/." Chase waves a hand at the wall, as if that represents the ocean and ships and fishing somehow. "I don't wanna be out fishing for days at a time. And I don't wanna just scrape by. This knot," he tugs the cord on his shoulder, "is a key." That last has him blinking at her, hair in his eyes. "What? No! This is how you tell a girl you're gonna ask her. But not now 'cause you're not gonna be home for a while." He gives her a sheepish grin. Aheh?

"My Da has his own /ship/!" Rosie's all fiery outrage now, conveniently ignoring the fact that 'scraping by' is probably a fair way to describe Chase's father - indeed, most of his crew. Her brows push together in a frown in return for his grin, its usual effectiveness failing for once. "You're gonna ask? You're gonna..." Her nostrils flare, weight shifting to to one foot, hip cocked. "What, when you come home? When's that? Plenty of men here at home, you know. Men who don't go missing for turns on turns."

Chase looks like he's been slapped. His mouth is open just slightly, his eyes are wide, and his hands are on his hips. Women. "Yeah? Well that's great for him, but think I'd be that guy? Own ship? Nuh-uh. I'd be just like my dad." And he really, really doesn't wanna be just like his dad. It's that bit about there being plenty of men that has him looking so shocked, though. "I didn't go missing! I went to get a life! And I did!"

"Well /good/!" This isn't about their fathers, and Rosie knows it as well as he does. She isn't willing to argue that he should emulate his father, anyway. "I hope it's a great life, and I hope you like it. I hope you like it all the way around Nabol, and all the way around the stupid weyr! What am I supposed to do? Just wait here while you romance your way around hold, hall and weyr?" And here's the promised foot stamp, aimed right for his toes.

"Ow!" /Toes/. Chase's yelp is accompanied by a sudden downward tilting of his upper body and a leaning against the nearest wall. He gives his foot a brief inspection - like he could see if anything's damaged, what with his boot being in the way and all - and mutters, "What're you breakin' my foot for? And /no/," and now he's not so much muttering, and definitely looking at her very directly, "I didn't say anything about romancing... /romancing/? What does that even /mean/?"

"Break your foot, might slow you down some." Rosie's reply is a mutter, arms still folded across her chest. She has to lift her chin to meet his eye, but she does, her own narrowed. "You're the one who'll know what it means. That's what harpers /do/, and what they sing about, with their gitars and all." She makes the word 'gitar' sound like some sort of condemnation, voice rising higher and higher. Abruptly, she seems to realise just how loud she's getting, and cuts out in favour of a hiss. "You just /assume/, Chase. You just show up after turns, and you just /assume/."

Chase's mouth hangs open, hair in his eyes. /What/? He's too stunned to argue, too shocked by what she's saying to say anything back. It isn't until her voice drops that he moves again, this time to look around. Yes, that was getting loud. And high pitched. Girls. "We've been talking about this for /turns/. I mean yeah, maybe not the past couple, but only 'cause I haven't even been here. And who's assuming, you are, assuming I'm gonna like... /music/ my way into-" But no. No, he isn't going to continue along that same vein. He's going to stop, straighten up, and look at her with those warm brown eyes of his. "Rosie."

"What do you mean, we've been talking about this? You've been talking about this, you've been saying, but I never said." Finally Rosie's eyes drop, and she concentrates her gaze on where one foot is tapping on the ground, all the energy that went into that stomp now pent up in this one, quick gesture. "This isn't how you're meant to..." Her words die away, and puffing her cheeks out in a nearly sulky exhalation, she lifts her blue eyes to him, confusion evident, and more so as that warmth registers. "Yes?"

And Chase had so much to say. So much. He's a harper, his gift is with words. Or at the very least he knows how to use them in such a way that they sound nice and sweet and good. However, when she looks at him like that, and since the taptap of her foot is sort of echoing around in the hallway - how is it so /loud/? - he finds himself without words. Where did they go? His mouth is open, works a couple of times, but no sound comes out. Finally he does the one thing he can think of to do, and that's duck his head and kiss her. It isn't a very /professional/ kiss, nor is it messy. It's just hurried and desperate and /urgent/ and unpracticed. And it's quick.

She's waiting for his words, arms still folded tightly across her chest, blue eyes wordlessly asking him to pick some out and speak them, and sort this out. Rosie's caught off-guard by the kiss, frozen for an instant. But only an instant. After that she animates suddenly, reaching up to grab hold of his shirt to steady herself, head coming up to make the kiss that much easier. She's no more expert than he, and in the moment after that quick kiss she's coming up on her toes to lean after him, as though she'd beg another. Then, just as suddenly, she's thumping down on her heels, fingers still caught in his shirt, staring straight ahead. Which gets her a view of his chest, and not much else.

A chest that currently houses a very enthusiastic heart right about now. Its thumpthumps must surely be heard, somewhere out there. Or maybe they're making the very ground pulse in time. The beats certainly seem strong enough to /Chase/, who has them banging about, making his blood surge in his ears. What did he just do? He looks down carefully at the top of her head, thanks his lucky stars she isn't looking up at him. His hand moves, uncertain, and he reaches into his pocket. The thing he'd pulled from his bag, there it is. He doesn't force it into her attention, doesn't try to make her seet it. He simply lets it rest in the palm of his big hand, right there. It's a necklace. It doesn't have jewels or shiny bits of metal, no, he knew better than to try to sparkle his way into her heart. It's of much simpler make, just some ribbons of different color and width braided together in a pretty way and strung with beads. And in the middle, where it can hang at her collarbone, is a ring. It's silver and engraved with little designs, nothing fancy.

Rosie's chewing on her lip, and as his palm comes into view she drops her head to look at the necklace. For a time, she's still, and all he's got is the top of her curly head, which doesn't provide much clue as to her reaction. Then her hand comes up, so one finger can poke at the ribbons, and push them out along the length of his hand so she can inspect them properly, her finger trailing along his palm as she does so. These small touches that have been so casual all their life are now so tentative, and careful. She takes her time looking at it, and she doesn't look up when she speaks, simply resting her fingertip against his. "What's this for?"

"It's, um, for you?" Chase is having a little trouble still with those pesky words. His eyes shift to the side and down, and it is indeed the top of her head he focuses on. Pretty hair and all, see. His hand moves, and if he blatently gives hers a little nudge and a caress of sorts, well, there it is. "You don't have to take it if you don't wanna. Just thought you might like it. If it isn't, I can just..." Cry?

This, this is much better than before. Rosie hooks her finger through his for a moment, and when she looks up he's rewarded with a smile, dimples showing. "You'll have to fasten it for me." So obliging, she tips her head forward so he can do just that, stepping in closer (how convenient) and catching her hair up and away from her neck so he's got a fair run at the task she's set him. "Going to be a while before you're home, isn't it?"

Well that isn't a no, get that thing away from me. Which is good. Chase uses both hands to obediently follow through with the fastening it for her. First he brushes some of her hair forward in the manner of someone very much reverent - even though it didn't need brushing forward - then very carefully, so as not to pinch, he does the little clasp and makes sure everything is fine and secure. Then he puts one of those hands to her face, her cheek, so he can nudge her, tell her he's done, and gently. Her question pauses him. Oh dear. That big weighty issue. All he can say is, "Yeah. Gonna be a while."

There's no need for her to stand near him any more, now he's finished, but she does anyway, simply tilting her head back so she can look up at him, widening her eyes. She's solemn, chewing on her lip again, lifting up one hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, then dropping that hand to finger the ring and the ribbon. "You're going to forget me." It's not a question, it's a statement, softly made. "You're going to say things about writing before you go, but then you won't."

"No," is Chase's immediate denial, soft and fierce. His eyebrows have drawn together, knitted tensely above warm eyes. "C'mon. How could I forget you? I will write. Or... or if I don't I'll do something. I won't forget." Now they're lifted, those eyebrows, expressive as they are on his equally expressive face. "Next time I see you it's gonna be perfect. I'll make it perfect."

Her fingers tighten around the ring at her neck for a moment, and after that moment, Rosie summons a smile for her. Her dimples show, but her eyes don't reflect it; it's a brave smile, not her usual delighted offering. Then she releases her ring, and reaches forward to pat his chest for a moment. "You wait until you see all those other girls all over the place." This time her words aren't wistful, they're a fair attempt at a tease, delivered with another grin. "Ma'll be wondering what we're doing about dinner." Ma will be wondering no such thing, to judge by her smile as she watched them out the door.

Chase returns that smile, his quite a bit more 'thorough' - gets to his eyes and everything - and probably goes about thinking everything's fine and dandy. Afterall, she's /happy/. Or at least she looks happy, and that's good too. "Oh yeah? All those girls? All over the place?" He gives her an eyeroll. "Oh, Rosie. Oh. Right. Dinner. We were s'posed to be sniffing something up, right?" He lifts a hand, scratches his head; his hair tousles itself up obediently. "Guess maybe we should go find something edible then."

"Guess we should." Rosie has a nod for him, and that's that. She angles in, seeking his arm around her shoulder once more, and sets a course for the kitchens. For all he's a harper with his fine words, it's her voice that's dominant as they make their way around the corner, raised to a cheerful chatter, recounting the trials and tribulations of the last pair of turns. Nothing's wrong here. Oh no, not a thing.

Dream a little dream...

2006-08-27T11:18:53Z

"They sure don't see our type very often, do they?"

Chase hefts one of the chairs, carries it over to the wall, sets it down with the others. He turns then, hands on his hips and hair in his eyes, to inspect the space he and Karl made.

Grunting as he straightens, Karl continues. "I mean, we have to teach these backwater kids /and/ make our own rooms to do it in?"

"Someone's gotta teach them. It isn't like knowledge just falls from the sky. If that's how we learned what we know then you'd still be at Igen and I wouldn't have to deal with you."

"Ouch."

"Anyway."

"What do you think? We gonna have enough space?"

Chase takes a moment to plan the room out in his head. He's always had a knack for using his brain.

"Not bad," he says, grinning lopsidedly. "This is gonna be a classroom. If it kills me, this is gonna be a classroom."

"You know we're only here for the seven."
"And for that seven," Chase indicates the cleared floor, "this is gonna be a classroom."

"You're impossible."
"And charming."
"Shut up. Let's get the rug down."

The two young men grab an end each of a rolled carpet and carry it to the center of the small room. They toss it down and begin to unroll it.

Karl grunts. He's a thick sort of fellow, and he definitely didn't become a Harper so he could lug heavy things around. "So where we off to after this? The Weyr?"
"Yeah. And then home." Chase hides that grin by ducking his head.

"For you, maybe. My home's clear across the continent."
"Sucks to be you."
"Ugh."

"I can't wait."
"Why? You got a girl or something?"

Pale blue eyes, like the sea after a stormy day, and that small, secret smile. Oh, and her cheeks would get all pink when she got angry. Right before she'd smack him.

"Karl, what do you even know about girls?"
"I have seven sisters."
"That so doesn't count. And ew."
"What?"
"Just... there."

The two straighten again, Chase wincing and trying to massage his lower back with one hand. He scans the room again, eyebrows drawn downwards. "We have a rug, we have chairs. We have students, at some point. I think we're almost set."

"Good. Can we go eat?"

"Um. You go ahead. I, uh, I have something to do."

They say their temporary farewells, the rounder of the two heading to the messhall of the small cothold they're currently occupying while Chase returns to the room they've given the two journeymen for their stay. He's tall and lean, and his boots hang off the bed he's claimed when he stretches out atop it. With his arms folded under his head he stares up at the ceiling and thinks.

I've been gone from home for like two and a half turns. She would have had a couple birthdays by now. When was it again? She'd kill me if she knew I forgot. I should probably send her something. Or maybe I could just not tell anyone I'm coming home and it could be a surprise. That would make up for it.

He pulls a hand free and reaches under the bed for his carrysack. Propping himself up on an elbow and leaning, he rummages in it. Finally he pulls a sheet of hide from the depths of that bag and looks it over. The song he wrote, for her, and he knows exactly the look she'd give him when he told her he wanted to sing to her. That one with the eyebrow lifted and the little quirk to one corner of her mouth, that one that always betrayed her because he always knew when he saw it that she was trying to fight back a delighted smile.

His own mouth curves into a little one. He'd ask her. He'd come home and ask her, and she'd say no and he'd pester her and pester her until she said yes. The nervousness he feels makes him want to throw up, but he's still sure. He's gonna marry Rosie, and there's nothing in the world that's gonna stop him.

Loved ones remembered

2006-08-23T09:50:55Z

Just a little piece to help me start getting inside Rosie's head.

She folds her hands behind her head, staring up into the darkness with wide open eyes, lashes showing no inclination to lower, mind still buzzing too quickly for sleep. All around her, the sounds of girls settling down to sleep; soft snores mingle with the rustle of sheets and blankets tugged into place, the quiet footsteps of one of her roommates creeping in late.

It's almost a game she plays in her head; a trick to be sure that no detail escapes her as months pile on top of each other to the tune of nearly two turns.

First her mother's face. Her blue eyes dance at some joke, although her lips are pressed together in an attempt to maintain her authority; her efforts do not banish her dimples. She has her hair pinned up. Silver streaks highlight her dark curls, and have done since Rosie can remember.

She squints slightly, reaching for her father's face. His chin is covered in stubble; it will prickle her cheek when he hugs her, smelling of salt and fish and old sweat. This is how she loves him best; he always had time to hug her when he came in from sea. His brown eyes sparkle with the humour that makes him so popular, weathered skin crinkling into smile lines as he laughs.

Her brothers require a little more imagination; they must have aged, by now.

Leo next, with his irrepressible smile. He'll be deeply tanned, so often on the water. He would insist she add his brand new journeyman's knot to his picture, so she does, plonking it atop his head gleefully. That'll show him to interfere with her nightly routine. He is the most like her, his crop of dark curls dulled slightly by constant exposure to salt water, blue eyes full of mischief. Leo couldn't look solemn if his life depended on it.

Anden requires the most thought. His face will have lengthened, she decides, and his jaw will have squared. He'll never be tall, but he's inherited their father's stocky build rather than their mother's slender lines. He's not still, even in this picture, but rather jigging from side to side restlessly. Sandy curls fall into his face; he's growing them out so he can braid them back, the apprentice emulating the journeymen he idolises.

Her family complete, Rosie allows her lashes to lower, rolling over onto her side and pulling the covers up underneath her chin. She snuggles down into the warm spot she has made on the mattress, the familiar series of imaginings having given her mind the cue to prepare for sleep. Perhaps, though... She wavers, reaching for resolve - and then with something like a mental shrug, she allows herself to add one more face to the bunch. It has been a month at least, since she did. She nestles down further, closing her eyes tightly as she conjures up his face. How has it changed? His eyes will be the same, of this she is sure; full of laughter, so gentle. His hair, though... a small, sleepy frown, as she debates this. Long, or short? Perhaps a little past his ears; that would suit him. Or perhaps very short. It would be a pity to see his curls go, but he has just the right shaped head. Some of the riders here cut their hair that short to go under their helmets, it looks nice. His hands, huge, of course - the time he came home she teased him for having only a harper's callouses, rather than the sea-roughened hands most of Tillek's menfolk sport. Has he been journeying? That's what they do, isn't it? Perhaps he'll have a tan, or freckles...

... she is smiling, as she drifts off to sleep.