==== February 16, 2014
==== Thierry, Veresch
==== Even asses can say they're sorry.

Who Thierry, Veresch
What Even asses can say they're sorry.
When Right after this.
Where Igen Weyr Central Bazaar

thierry%2010.jpg veresch_default.jpg


Central Bazaar
All roads in the weyr ultimately lead here, to this center of commerce. Canvas awnings jut out over time worn, sandy cobblestone, sheltering customers and wares alike from the majority of Igen's elements, and funnel scents both mouthwatering and vomit inducing through the thin streets. Almost all store fronts are open air, delineated by sandstone arches with intricately carved facades. The insides of these stone-shingled buildings act as an amplifier for the salesmens' bawled enticements, and are held up by the chipped swirls of marble pillars.


Veresch may have dragged him away from what could have been a nasty situation with that Oldtimer brownrider, but once they're out of sight of prying eyes, Thierry turns that hold around so /he's/ dragging /her/. Out through the uncomfortable labyrinth of the weyr's innards to hotfoot it across the bowl back to the sanctuary of his oh-so-familiar bazaar. They're on the edges of it when he finally stops, letting go of Veresch's upper arm and turning on her. "Don't you ever fucking /dare/ to presume you can pull me away from shit again," he starts, waggling a finger in her face. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Her eyebrows arch up at that tone. "Stop waving your finger at me. Who do I think I am?" she asks sweetly, slapping his finger away from her face. "I think I'm the girl that you marked up so badly her mother asked her whether she had gotten into a fight, and my mother has /ideas/ about fights, okay? I had to sweep out the whole fucking kitchen courtyard because you couldn't be bothered to contain your strength." Her movements are not smooth, but definitive; shrugging the long-sleeved, light-cotton over-tunic off, she reveals her arms for inspection. There, where he had grabbed her in the baths, two bands of bruising rest, red-purple and still hot to the touch, easily identified as hands, larger than feminine.

"Yeah? And you think I care—" No wait. Thierry stops himself. That isn't how he'd intended this to go. The guard recruit breathes in deeply, letting out a long, low breath - maybe he's counting to 10, or something. He reaches into his pocket for a toke, quietly fiddling with the lighting of it. "And no, I'm /not/ going to flick ash in your hair," he snips when the end burns cherry-bright. Instead he straightens up, seemingly relaxed - or forcing himself to be more at ease, anyway. After he's exhaled his first puff of smoke, notably /not/ at Veresch, he looks back down at her. "Sorry." That's it: a very flat rendition of the word, but…at least he said it?

The girl shrugs as he lights up, occupying herself instead with pulling the over-tunic on again. The bruises are no one's business but her own, really, and her punishment has already been served. "Apology accepted," she as he renders it ungraciously. There's a sideways flicker of her eyes, likely discomfort, before she looks at his face again, mouth pulling into a thinner line. Sighing, she reaches up to catch his chin in her fingers; this time their grip is soft, and she coaxes it to the side so that she can look at the spot on his jaw that she punched. There's a quick thumb-flick over the bruise, ephemereally delicate, before she lets go entirely. It's not fair that guys' skin seems so much more resilient, and that she had little enough strength to make the blow count. "Sorry," she mutters as flatly, gaze focused somewhere over his shoulder.

And guys have the advantage of being able to cover bruises with stubble! Which is what Thierry's tried to do, having gone without a shave since being clocked by a /girl/. He grudgingly lets her touch his face, though he's clearly not very comfortable with it. As for her apology? He shrugs it off with a grunt, which probably means it's either been accepted, or that it wasn't warranted. Then, as he puffs on his toke and looks pretty much everywhere /but/ at Veresch, he looks awkward. Thierry doesn't know what the hell to do next.

What now? Should they go back to fighting, or suddenly relax together, or… is there some kind of guide for this whole uncomfortable process of tentative reconciliation. Finally, as irritated by her own lack of knowledge as his, she reaches out for him again, but this time to try and slip that nauseating fag a little further away. "You shouldn't smoke these. Girls won't like it if you kiss them with a mouth like that." Her eyelids droop wearily. "And I know, you only prefer pretty bazaar women, and won't do it again because it's disgusting… whatever. Please don't say it. Believe me on this one." Giving a quick look around - empty - she leans forward to rest her head on his chest just for a moment. "I am so tired of this. We should just not meet."

It's not that easy to push his toke away. Thierry just looks irritably down at Veresch, his hand becoming immovable against her attempts as he exhales smoke down on her. "What's it to you who I'm kissing and who likes it?" He pulls in another drag, because he can and he wants to prove a point. No little girl is going to make him stop smoking! Then she confuses him. "Won't do /what/ again? What the fuck you talking about, little shit?" Yes, she's still going to be called that, even though he's got her name now! But then - and it's a big OMG then for Thierry - she's /resting her head on his chest/. He looks around to see who could possibly be watching, before he gives her a push away. A gentle one, but firm none the less, with a hissed warning;"Oi."

Veresch is quite easy to move away, and there's little evidence on her face of the distress she felt in that moment. Back against the wall, she stares at him, long and hard, as if she's searching for something. "I've listened to you spout shit for days now; I don't need a very good memory to remember what you think of us, and women in general." After that she flicks her gaze away again; their languages are too fundamentally different to ever inter-translate very well. "If I'm the one to be so, ah, favoured, I've got a very big say in it. That might have been your choice, back in the baths, but if it ever happens again it'll be my choice, got it? Just don't get kicked out whilst I'm making my mind up whether I want to do it or not. Please tell your friend Rei I said hello." She begins to squirm away.

Wait - what. What? Thierry holds up a hand for a pause while she's squirming off, because he's trying to get his head around the whole wtf-ness of what she just said. "Whoa~ there," he's feeling awkward enough to nervously laugh. "Again? /What/?"

Don't make her repeat things, damn it. It's already as awkward as she wants to be, and in her experiences with Oldtimer boys, should not even have to be said. "I said," she proffers in a meted voice, "that if there is going to be any kissing again, ever, the decision had damn well better come from me, not you. You don't get to touch me like that unless I want to be touched like that, not even if I want to scream my head off. However, you shouldn't get your hopes up, pretty-flippy-boy, I think I hate you even more than I hate my mother at times. Now, can you let go, please? I need to get back to the terraces."

"/Hah!/" Thierry can't quite believe that he /did/ understand what she said about future kisses - never mind all that fluff around them, she's talking about kisses… in the future. "Look, little shit," he can't help but laugh as he says it, "I ain't going anywhere /near/ them fishlips of yours any time." The laugh disappears, and he looks darkly down at her. "/Ever/. Now fuck on off back home."

The fishlips part into a thin, mirthless smile. She doesn't yell at him, she doesn't attempt to strike him. Emotionally, Veresch is at the bottom of a barrel where he's concerned, and it'll take time for her to manifest any kind of feistiness around him again.

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