Fork Fist Or Boot

Participants:

D'lan.jpg P'sec.jpg

Date: 2011.06.06
Location: EW - D'lan's Weyr
Synopsis: P'sec arrives at D'lan's weyr with dinner for a 'chat' after the brownrider had ignored the missive sent by Abydoth.
Rating: PG18
Logger: D'lan

D’lan’s Den of Iniquity
Spacious is a word one might associate with the brownrider’s weyr, leaving one to ponder just who he’d charmed to get it. The wide ledge with space enough for at least two large dragons to sun themselves, leads through a short tunnel, passed Wyncrath’s couch and on into what looks to be a sitting area that contains an overstuffed couch, two matching armchairs, a low occasional table set in the middle and off to one side, a wine rack holding an impressive collection of alcohol collected from all over Pern.

Behind a curtained off area lies D’lan’s sleeping area which is dominated by an enormous double bed along with a heavy and ornately decorated wooden chest at its foot and a chest of drawers with pitcher and washbasin set atop them. The weyr in its entirety is tastefully decorated in a combination of leather, dark wood and royal blue, speaking to the man’s penchant for the finer things in life.


The directive sent via Abydoth was as indicated by Wyncrath it would be, ignored. Having been ‘tortured’ by Maura wearing that shirt of his during drills, D’lan had slunk off to the bathing caverns and for once, ignored any and all looks sent his way, soaking in the pools long enough that one might imagine he was hoping to dissolve.

Eventually, he’d pulled some clothes on and headed back to his weyr, this being where P’sec will find him sprawled in one of the armchairs and nursing a glass of brandy, if he bothers to go looking when the brownrider doesn’t pitch for dinner-and-a-tongue-lashing at his place.

P'sec had watched the two of them without interfering, though both riders' behaviour occasioned a long look. After drills he had let D'lan go, not making any move to intercept, and joined Abydoth in the lake for a quick dip. He didn't think D'lan would show up at his place but was there on time anyway, and he set himself working on a set of new straps until it became obvious that the brownrider wasn't coming. So, picking up the casserole dish he'd borrowed from the kitchens, off P'sec went.

Abydoth lands on Wyncrath's large ledge without greeting, and similarly there's none from his rider, who doesn't bother to be polite and strides right in. The casserole dish is set on one of the low tables, and once his hands are free the older rider settles his heavy attention on D'lan. "You got plates, forks, or are we doing this with our fingers?"

Abydoth’s arrival was inevitable and while Wyncrath doesn’t go so far as to send welcome, he does at least bother to lift his head and give the bronze a long eye-balling before dropping back to that somnolent disguise he wears so well, a trick learned from his rider.

D’lan barely moves his head when P’sec walks in, attention going to the casserole dish he bears rather than the bronzerider’s face. With that heavy regard weighing on him the brownrider finally deigns to lift his gaze, blue eyes setting his wingmate with a closed expression before quipping dryly, “Thought we were going for fists or boot to arse.” Little humour to be found in his tone as he hauls himself up and then crosses over to a nearby chest, returning with a pair of forks held up before him. “Is this where you tell me to go fork myself?” There are plates, but he doesn’t go for those just yet.

"You look like you're doing that just fine yourself." P'sec's tone is relatively mild when he could legitimately sound much angrier, accusing. He lifts the lid and out wafts the aroma of roast wher, smothered in some sort of gravy. A side of vegetables, tubers and legumes, makes dinner complete. The man takes one of the forks but doesn't go after D'lan with it. "Can I have a glass too?" The tumbler of brandy gets a slight nod.

Angry and accusing D’lan would know how to deal with but P’sec’s current approach is something he’s not familiar with and so after sending the bronzerider a tight look, he appears to let it go at the end of a wordless snort. With one of the forks taken from him, he catches a good whiff of the appetising aromas lifting up from the casserole dish as he sets his down alongside his glass of brandy and realizes that, he’s starving.

Still without saying anything, the brownrider takes up two plates from the same chest sets them down and then goes about pouring a glass of brandy for P’sec and then holds it out toward him. “Wing’s starting to come together nicely,” he states in total avoidance of the herdbeast in the room.

P'sec claims one of those large, comfortable armchairs and sits right at the edge so he can get out the food. He's hungry, too, and doesn't wait to start. He doesn't start to pick out food for his plates until several bites in. "Thanks," he says for both the plates and the brandy. D'lan's comment gets a short look, almost amused. "Uh huh." But that's not what the bronzerider's there for, and he takes a direct approach, wasting no time.

"Look, I know you know it but I'll say it anyway just once so we can both say I did my job —" Picking up after erstwhile wingmates has become P'sec's job, apparently. "Do what you gotta do, but don't do it to Maura. She can't take it, and besides, she's one of ours."

Plate and brandy handed over, D’lan sets about piling his plate with a selection of the food available. Silent even after P’sec’s statement, he doesn’t immediately sit but remains standing, spearing a piece of roast herdbeast and using the time it takes to chew and swallow to extend the silence. Taking up his glass and washing the food down with a drink the brownrider finally takes to a similar edge-of-the-seat type position as his wingmate. “I wasn’t thinking,” he finally states flatly and once again finds convenience in a mouthful of food.

Having said his piece, P'sec applies himself to eating. He hunkers over his plate, sitting forward. "Uh huh," he agrees with D'lan's short remark, sounding dry. He glances over at the brownrider and extends a question, along with the opportunity to share whatever seems to be weighing D'lan down. "So why'd you do it?"

While those of the renegade wing had spent the past turn together in some pretty dangerous situations that had formed a particular bond between them, contact had been kept to general surface stuff amongst most of the riders. And so it is that while D’lan chews on another mouthful of food, he sets P’sec with a long and slightly guarded look. He could shrug and pretend like he had no idea, even shoot back with a ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ but instead, he swallows and casting his attention back down to his plate, states low, “She reminded me of someone.”

P'sec has been no different, down-to-business for his own reasons even with those riders that also hailed from Igen, though there are those among the renegades who have operated with the knowledge that he's a person they could go to, if ever it was needed. It's why he's here tonight, thinking he senses a need, and what made him take Maura out for breakfast after D'lan made a mess of her emotions that morning. "Oh." P'sec sets his plate down on his knees and reaches for his glass instead. "That stinks."

Out of all of those he flew with that still remain, P’sec is likely the one person D’lan has to come know he can trust which is likely why he’d given the honest answer rather than throwing out a decoy. More food speared, chewed and swallowed allows for more silence that doesn’t need filling, with the brownrider working through almost half of the plateful before he pauses and slides a glance to the older bronzerider. “Yeah.” Nothing much too really add to that. Setting his plate down on the table, half-finished and taking his glass back up again, the rich brown liquid within is given study. “I’ll go set things straight with her,” spoken in a monotone before a quietly sardonic snort is added, “That’s if she doesn’t push me off her ledge first.”

Then in a bid to take the uncomfortable focus of conversation off himself and his apparently douchebag ways, D’lan leans back in his chair and puts P’sec under curious study, “So what’s your story, eh? Don’t ever see you going about with the fairer sex?” There’s a slur on the other man’s orientation in there somewhere but it’s weak at best.

"Just keep clear of the dragon," P'sec answers with a wry remark for the tendencies of Maura's blue. He also nods once when D'lan shares his intent to put things right with the wronged younger woman, but doesn't push D'lan to say anything more than what the brownrider feels comfortable sharing. His silence is contemplative, and after a minute he puts his plate on the table too, not wanting more. D'lan's question receives a flickered glance but he's unsurprised to hear it voiced. He still lounges forward, now drinking and now staring at the brandy between his hands in unconscious echo of D'lan. "I lost my family," he says eventually, his tone direct. "My kid died, and my weyrmate left. Haven't really felt much like company since."

“Heh yeah,” D’lan gives in wry return, not of a mind to have a chunk taken out of his butt. The brownrider then drops silent once again, sending a look to P’sec from under lowered lashes as he speaks of a family lost and a heavy frown forms for the bronzerider’s tale swings perilously close to home. “Yeah, I get that.” He having gone the opposite route of trying to erase a particular face by drowning it with those of numerous others. Reaching for the bottle of brandy standing on the coffee table, he offers it the other man’s way for a top up before pouring himself one. “It doesn’t work though, does it? They never really leave,” the ghosts of one’s past

P'sec sits up and holds out his glass for the top-up, sitting back once the amber liquid splashes into his tumbler. He doesn't offer details, nothing but the basic facts laid bare. "No, it doesn't," he agrees, sounding calm and wry. "But the work," the raiding with its element of danger, the wholehearted commitment it requires, "and the change of scene, those are good."

Returning the bottle to the table and settling back into a lazy sprawl in his armchair, D’lan nods and utters a quiet, “Yeah,” to P’sec’s last. “It’s not too bad here,” he then adds, glass bearing hand lifting and sweeping in a small gesture meant to indicate the Weyr at large, “A chance to start over.” Or…continue mucking it up as he seems to be doing.

The bronzerider nods his agreement until the last, which gives him pause. "Don't know about that," P'sec voices, skeptical and likely overthinking it. "Been riding too damn long to start over. Don't you dare say anything about my age." Heading off a potential gibe, he points with his glass at D'lan and pins him with a stern look.

P’sec’s last draws a twitch of lips and a sardonically drawled, “Acceptance is half the battle won,” even going so far as to lift his glass up as if in toast thereof. Broad shoulders lift and fall around a shrug and D’lan leans his head back against the padded chair sending a sidelong look to the bronzerider, “So what? You’re just going to hobble around with that decrepit old dragon of yours, one day rolling into the next until you go Between for good?” The tease just that, a tease, with no real intent behind it save for the cynical lift of brow that speaks to the meaning behind his words. “Nah, you’re too good for that.” Little often praise handed over the older man’s way. “You need me to take you out drinking. Meet a few pretty lasses and dust the cobwebs off your pecker. Cheer you up and all.” Erm…yeah, okay.

Silence and a raised brow is all the answer D'lan gets to his first and his second comment, though the bronzerider knows when he's being teased. "My dragon," P'sec says in the end, "would like you to know that he is considering shoving Wyncrath off his ledge and seeing if your lazy-ass brown can remember how to fly." He smiles slightly, knowing the compliment for what it is, and takes another sip of his brandy before setting the glass down and reaching for his plate with the intention of finishing off the food. "Thanks, I'll think about it," he replies dryly but not with great enthusiasm.

P’sec’s comment actually draws a laugh from D’lan, “Tell him to go right ahead. Might do the lazy porcine some good.” A companionable silence fills the weyr after the bronzerider’s sceptical thanks, amusement showing on the brownrider’s face as he nurses his drink. “Thanks, P’sec,” the words spoken in quiet and sincere gratitude for not having bust his chops (or ripped his spleen out) over the whole Maura affair.

In the end Abydoth can't be bothered, so for now Wyncrath is left in peace to be rolled off his ledge another day. Within the weyr, P'sec tips his glass back and settles in for at least a little longer, putting Maura and their separate specters behind him. "No problem."


Theme Song: Dire Straits - Brothers In Arms


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