All Of Them


Jonavan.jpg Max.jpg

Date: 2010.10.11
Location: EW - Kitchens
Synopsis: Jonavan and Max meet. The beast manager warns the healer away from his pies. Jonavan takes one any way. Max is not amused.
Rating: PG13 - Language
Logger: Max

Late evening in the Weyr, way passed when most individuals have long since retired for the night, kitchen staff included. Except that is, whomever is currently rifling through the contents of one of the ovens where sweetcakes and bubbly pies have been left to cool in readiness for the following day. By the low held curse that growls followed by the clatter of what is probably a baking tin still hot too touch, one can safely assume this is no Weyr brat at work.

A whistle precedes the other incomer, not quiet loud enough to disturb whomever might be sleeping by the embers of dying fires, were any of the staff to choose that over a proper bed. His steps are soft out of respect for the hour, but there are no yawns here; Jonavan looks relatively alert as he enters the kitchens, likewise foraging for food.

A none too sober Max having finally managed to liberate a bubbly pie, stands a little too abruptly at the sound of inbound whistling, thus whacking his head against the underside of a counter set flush against the oven. Cue the string of expletives that would have a sailor blushing and the territorial snap of dark eyes toward his whiskey bottle standing just out of his reach, likely worried the newcomer might be deem it fair game.

Ever so considerate, Jonavan supplies another toe-curling profanity, pauses, then adds, "You missed that one." He squints against the low lighting to make out the other kitchen-raider better, looking amused when he observes Max's attention to the location of his liquor. "Relax, just looking for food." Jonavan is only hopped up on stimulants, not alcohol.

The freshly baked pie is still hot and as such Max takes to passing it from hand to hand, a smirk forming for the missed expletive handed out by Jonavan. “Keep that one for special occasions,” he gives dryly, just the faintest hint of a slur in his words. So maybe he’s not quite that plastered after all. Leaning his hip up against the counter, he gives a jut of chin down to the still open oven, “Sweetcakes and bubbly pies in there. But you can’t have the bubbly pies. Those are mine.” Stated with a firm nod of head. Oh? There’s territorial claim on theft of pastries?

"All of them?" Jonavan sizes Max up, apparently trying to decide if he thinks the shorter, thinner man can manage an oven-ful of bubblies. He crosses the kitchen floor so he can have a look in the oven himself, giving the off-limits bubblies a quick count, then straightening. He makes a grab for a dish towel with an offhand smirk for Max in the process, since the other hadn't the foresight. "That's alright, I'm not picky."

Max nods slowly, “All of ‘em.” Jonovan would likely be surprised just how much food the beast manager can put away, but the chances are better that he’s planning on taking the leftovers with him, or simply…has a thing about not liking to share ‘his’ bubbly pies with anyone else. Either way, he finally chances a bite into the berry filled pie, having to breathe out puffs of breath to cool his mouth down and then gives up and simply follows the mouthful with a wash of whiskey straight out of the bottle. Dark eyes follow the other man’s movements, “Ain’t seen you around before,” tone neutral and devoid of any suspicion he may hold for the stranger.

"Ain't seen you, either." Jonavan is being deliberately flippant as he maneuvers one of the unclaimed sweetcakes out of the oven. He sets the cake on the counter and levers it out of its baking tin with his fingers in lieu of a knife. He's got another curse at the ready, too, as he tries not to burn his fingers. When finally successful, he relents enough to inform, "Healer, just recently posted here. I've got the late shift." And is apparently ditching it.

A quick smirk, flashes in and out, "S'way I like to keep it," out of public view and consciousness as much as possible given his extra 'duties' about the Weyr. Another bite of pie, this one bigger and able to be better relished given that it's starting to cool to more manageable temperatures. "Healer?" Max passes a considering look over the other man, "Don't look like no Healer to me." Because…all healers look like Cheusia? Either that or he's simply poking at Jonavan for the hell of it. "Your name ain't Gerad, is it?" eyes narrowing slightly at the corners with the question.

"No," the healer answers with a shake of his head, "Jonavan." He breaks his cake in two to cool it, releasing a waft of steam. There's a passing, sarcastic smile when questioned on his professed identity. "Well if you ever come in while I'm on duty, I'll be sure to refer you on. Or stick you in all the wrong places." He tries his sweetcake, nibbling first to test the temperature.

The whiskey bottle to his lips, Max turns a narrowed look onto the Healer for talk of sticking him in all the wrong places. Swallowing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he sends a snort in Jonavan’s direction, “Prefer me the Healers what got candy for after they’re done putting a hurting on a body.” And then lapses into what might construed as amused silence for the other man’s caution with is sweetcake. Another bite of bubbly pie, the mouthful barely swallowed before he’s asking out of idle interest, “You liking it here so far?”

"Prefer me patients knocked out and not complaining," Jonavan rejoins, mimicking the younger man's patterns of speech. He takes a larger bite once convinced that he's not going to burn his tongue and scatters crumbs over the kitchen floor. "So far. Beats a backwater hold. You got a name?"

Max puts a measuring look over Jonavan before the hint of a wry grin makes an appearance and he tips his bottle toward the other in silent gesture of ‘Touche’. Considering the flakes of pastry speckled about the floor at his own boots, the beast manager is likely not one to notice, let alone point out the mess the Healer is making. Swig of whiskey, a clearing of throat and then, “Lomaxin.” For whatever purpose giving his full name rather than his more commonly used nickname. “You from a backwater hold then?” Just asking.

Jonavan smiles faintly at the gesture with the bottle, a sort of return acknowledgement. And even were it pointed out, it's unlikely that he'd would care much about the crumbs he leaves in his wake. He finishes off the first half of his stolen treat and starts in on the second. "Not quite. Telgar." And, because he's tired of being the one always posed the questions, he presents one of his own in a tone that's not far off from goading. "And what do you do around here?"

Being as how it’s a batch of miniature bubbly pies Max is filching from, he’s soon finished with the first one and licking fingers clean heads back to the oven, peering inside and, still not learning his lesson (or going with the no pain no gain philosophy) burns his fingers yet again. Which results in use of that curse he’d left out earlier followed by a growled, “How can something so damn good be designed to burn a man so fucking bad!?” Metaphorical irony much? It doesn’t stop him however and soon he’s doing the hand-to-hand-pie-toss again. “Telgar ain’t bad. Been up to the Weyr a few times. Some good folk there,” he gives in reply to Jonavan. The near goading sitting across the Healer’s tone sets dark eyes to putting an even look onto him, “Beast Manager.” Given with just the hint of challenge in his reply.

Jonavan laughs outright rather than showing any sort of sympathy. "Well don't come to me if you keep burning yourself; it's your own damn fault." With his own cake finished, Jonavan wipes his hands on the dishtowel just to the side of the stove and eyes the leftover cakes inside, trying to decide if he'll pilfer more. "Fascinating," he says of Max's job like one does when they mean just the opposite. "And that takes you all the way to Telgar?"

Max slides a look over to the Healer for his laughter and then gives with a snort, “Sometimes you just gotta jump in with both feet and fuck the consequences.” He’s still talking about pie right? This time, he does at least set the pie to the counter, giving it a chance to cool before biting into it, busying himself with that whiskey bottle in the meantime. Eyes narrow onto Jonavan and with a barely perceptible roll of shoulders, as if readying for a smack down or something, the beast manager offers over slow and cool smile on his profession, “Aye, sorts the men from the boys.” Suggesting that the Healercraft does no such thing. “Naw, dragon took me to Telgar,” sardonic return.

Max might still be talking about pie but Jonavan doesn't take it that way, if the edge to his smirk is anything to go by. He observes the other man's reaction to the implied denigration of his job only by relaxing into a more open posture, which is meant to be as insolent as his swift return to Max's remark. "Yeah, fucking around with beasts will do that."

Taking another deliberately slow swallow from the whiskey bottle, Max reaches over for the cooled bubbly pie and eyeing it with more attention than a pastry is likely due gives in calculated return, “Aye, better’n living with ya head shoved up your own ass.” That insult more open as he glances over at the larger Jonavan, a show of near boredom painted across the beast manager’s features, except for the sharp expectant glint to dark eyes.

The insult seems to slide right off Jonavan, who merely grins and stoops to the oven once more, extracting a bubbly for himself despite (and likely because of) Max's insistence that he not. "One for the road," he indicates and starts to step away.

For a man whose temper has hovered on the brink of being only barely controlled for the past few days, Max remains remarkably calm when Jonavan extracts that bubbly pie. Then again maybe not, for the hand holding his own flakey pastry closes around a fist, crushing the innocent pie into a moosh sending crust to the floor all about him and the red berry juice oozing between his fingers, like sweet tasting blood. Lips curl back into a tight smile, “May you and the road become one.” Entirely twisting an old and well known sentiment of departure. And with that, he’ll deliberately turn his back on the Healer and find solace in his whiskey bottle, deeming this neither the nor the place. However one can be sure, the insults won’t be forgotten.

Closing Credits Theme Music: Trapt - Headstrong

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License