Lane's arm stays wrapped around Zavyr as they leave the dying Drex and possible-aunt behind them. His grip, perhaps, is tighter than normal, and he casts a suspicious look behind him as they return to their little camp and the pot of boiling water Lane has set up to make sure they continue to have clean bandages. There's others already hanging to be dried, and Lane finally releases Zavyr and begins to pull them down. His stabbed arm isn't working at full strength and he keeps most of the activity to the uninjured one. "How much of that do you actually believe?" Lane, he heard it all.

Really, Lane already figured out Zavyr loves contact with this man, and she'll cuddle up against him as they walk, and try to assist him with the tasks he's set for himself. But at the question, Zavyr turns to study him. "It beggers belief, Lane. But makes sense, in a lot of ways. Sharps had told me she was from High Reaches, before. She had firehead. On the ship. And I'd nursed her through it. She said a lot to me, during and after it. Her sister had died and it was bad and she wouldn't talk about it. And she'd said a couple times, that I 'looked like her'. And that was before Goturam told me. Told me. And if you'd ever seen my aunt and uncle… They had dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair. Didn't look a thing like me. But," Zavyr smiles, "They were so good to me."

The scowl doesn't leave Lane's face. He's careful with the bandages as he pulls them down. "How's your injury?" Switching the conversation to something more immediate, Lane looks over towards the woman. "Let me look at it again?" No, this is NOT a ploy to get her to take off her shirt.

Zavyr has the whole dress on, so it's not an easy matter to get to the bound section of her shoulder. But she'll turn her back to him, to undo the fastenings that she somehow managed alone last time, so she might pull down her sleeve. Her arm as well is favored. It's her left, but Zavyr tends to show no dominant hand. "It hurts but it's nothing like the one from Hotpants and Tuber." And when he's done with the fastenings, Zavyr will turn toward him and ease the sleeve down. Blood has just managed to soak through the bandages she'd put on, but it's dried. "I think it'll start bleeding again," Zavyr opines, "If we pull the bandages off now. Let's go to the Hold, get you stitched up and then see if they think I need stitches. You really bled a lot, Lane. And it's cold. And we could do another night in that room. I'll - I'm cleared to travel," she grins at him, "So I can work this time. You rest?"

Lane brushes a hand against the bandages on her sleeve, testing them. "I can clean it. I know enough to take care of you, and it'll only get worse if it gets infected." MUCH more painful healing will come of it. Gesturing at a rock, "I know you don't like me helping you," is that a hint of bitterness in his voice? Yes. Yes it is. "But for once?" No discussion about the whole him-resting thing.

This might be the point to bargain, eh? "Then you will agree to go to the Hold and get stitches?" Zavyr reaches her hand up to brush over his cheek and beard lightly, fingers tickling over his skin. "Why are you always mad at me, Lane?" Softly spoken, "Am I so difficult to deal with?" It's already been an emotional morning, and Zavyr's eyes brighten again with a glaze of moisture.

"I'll go to the hold and get stitches." Lane says this with a sigh as he wraps his good arm around her and pulls her close against him. This isn't helpful to getting her injury looked at. "I don't trust them." Which is probably SUPER obvious so Lane shouldn't have to say it. "I almost lost you." a beat. "Again."

Zavyr tucks herself in against him, lifting herself to nuzzle his neck and inhale his scent and murmur quietly, "But you don't have to be mad at me about it." Her right arm slings itself around his neck, to secure her press against him. "And these things happen. To people like me. That's why I figure I won't be around that long. That's why I want to live as much as I can while I have the chance, Lane. I know you don't get that. That you have your whole future planned, probably including what hobbies you'll take up when you're retired. I just tend to worry about what I'll eat today and where I'll sleep tonight. But," she adds with a kiss against his neck, "You've brought a sense of stability. And I like that. I'm sorry my…My everything - who I am - is so…Disruptive to how you want the world. I am not trying to get into trouble. It just finds me, with no effort what-so-ever on my part."

Guilt. Zavyr can add 'MASTER OF GUILT TRIPS' to her list of titles. Lane exhales into her hair and lets her do all the cuddling she could possibly ever want to heap upon him. "I'm not mad at you." He says it quietly. "Look, she brought HIM," Drex, "into this. I can't just… let it go without some kind of proof." Can't let HER go.

"Oh. Drex. Orderly. He hates that." Zavyr leans back with a wicked grin up at him. "He's a funny one. He stole this street sign - I have no idea why - and he had it above his bunk and he always kept the place immaculate. His bunk. With this stripe painted around it. So. Well." Zavyr continues the grin, "I gave him a hard time about it. And he tried to kill me, but I'm very fast, and I got a lot of … There was… Well," Zavyr probably should have veered off this topic before this particular spot, "You know. When I'm being the lad, I have to … I have to. There's a pecking order you guys have," Zavyr tries to explain. "And I'm new on this pirate ship, right? And I'm trying to make sure they don't think they can push me around. So I kind of gave them crap back. But they can't catch me. Usually. I should have remembered, Drex used his cot to foil me, that last time. He's clever. But we already got into it, him and I. He called me Sharp's 'Pet'." Zavyr addresses his concern, then, "We can all go to the Healer, then. And ask her. She can vouch if Sharps is Sharps, and tell us her version of the story. And the names of my aunt and uncle, maybe."

This is so far outside of what Lane has ever experienced. Near death might be the norm for her, but he has only recently joined the rank and failwhere death is a plausible happening at every corner. Her green doesn't reassure him, it scares him. "This isn't funny Zavyr."

"Well. No. Parts aren't funny. Right. But look! I'm alive. You're alive. Drex might have lived." This is proffered as proof of 'not so bad'. Zavyr leans into him to steal a kiss. Again, her fingers draw over the skin of his neck, his cheek. "We're OK. Sharps is a decent person. She was a pirate, but she's not anymore. She's the one who arranged to get us off the ship. The healers, me, her. And the boy, but the boy relapsed with firehead and couldn't be moved. So one of the healers stayed with him, and the rest of us got out and they put Sharps in the brig for quite a while. But she's out now and works for the Southern Weyrwoman now." Zavyr considers, "Not sure why Drex is working for her, but he's probably pretty reliable under circumstances that don't involve me."

Lane is going to resist the kiss this time, and pull himself away from her touch. Everything about this meeting has hit a nerve that he's not saying outloud. "Let me clean up your bandages."

Sobering, Zavyr falls silent. She will submit to his minstrations without complaint. The injury on her shoulder flares red with the beginnings of infection and swelling, but does not look too severe. Zavyr just watches Lane as he works.

Lane works quietly. Basic first aid was something he'd learned well guarding the wagons. Even if danger from without was seldom, injuries ALWAYS seemed to happen. The boiled bandages get used to wash away the dried blood and rather then wrap it up again right away Lane lets it bleed freely and just wipes it up before it can drip. Without redwort it's the best that he can do to clean. "She's from Southern?"

"I think she's from High Reaches, but the SeaCraft wouldn't take women so she…" Became a pirate. "Ended up in Southern. So now she's in Southern Weyr. I think she is sweet on D'ean, a bluerider there. And visa versa. He visited us all the time in the brig. He was also the one who she brokered the deal with, to get us off the ship. She's clever. Her name is Luciana." Zavyr's hand raises to touch Lane's arm again, but drops a second later.

That means the answer is yes, and thus seals Lane's belief that IF Luciana can be proven to be Zavyr's aunt that the woman will be leaving with her. He doesn't speak again, just beings to wrap up her arm carefully. "Redwort would be better. But it'll be fine."

Zavyr glances at her arm, and awaits the completion of his care of it, before working the sleeve back up over her shoulder, and presenting her back for him to redo the ties. "Then we go to the Hold, and get your stitches? Did you want to stay there, or come back here and camp? Drex won't be there. I don't want Sharps here by herself. She might come to the Hold. I'm sure she has warranty from Clementine to get in." Zavyr keeps her head tilted to the side, trying to keep Lane in her sight, to clue into the workings of his mind.

Lane nods, not quite trusting his words right now, less she interpret them as anger directed at her again. The bloodied bandages get dumped into the boiling water, and stirred around by the knife so it gets sanitized again.

"What's your favorite color?" Zavyr asks. "I confess I like gold best." She has to grin. "But I really love blue, too. So many different shades possible. And green for spring." She'll settle near him, quite within arm's reach, but not touching him.

Lane has a task that he's settled into, something to focus his attention away from the inward thoughts that are starting to wrap around him. Her question almost doesn't get heard in the tumble of his on thoughts. "Huh?"

A fleeting series of expressions flickers across Zavyr's features, before they settle into an impish almost-smile, "Oh. We were just discussing our favorite positions in bed. And you were making lewd promises to me." She can't quite straight-face that, but she rests her chin on her arms across her drawn-up knees as she watches him. "What's your favorite color?"

Lane has to almost physically restrain himself from yelling at her for the sudden lapse into joking that she indulges in. This is not the time or the place. A deep breath though and Lane restrains himself. "Not right now Zavyr. Please."

Now, finally, Zavyr becomes fully quiet. She rises, steps over to pull her woodworking knife from Lane's belt and the crouches by her pouch to pull from it a whetstone. Her outwardly attention turns only to sharpening the knife. Then she’ll work on her staff, some more, until they leave for the Hold.