Br'er, Q'fex


Br'er, Q'fex, a relatively empty ground weyr. And they DON'T get into hijinx. Or… very many of them.


It is evening of the thirteenth day of the twelfth month of the first turn of the 12th pass. It is the thirteenth day of Summer and 99 degrees. The night is clear and humid.


Ground Weyrs, Southern Weyr

OOC Date


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Ground Weyrs

Neatly ordered are a series of ground-weyrs, each generic and functional rather than ornate. The caverns are unevenly staggered in a variety of sizes: some so small as to be a snug fit for the smallest of nowtimer greens, while others are roomy enough to fit two oldtimer queens. Each ground-weyr is fitted with a reed-strewn couch and a cozy nook with a bed and clothespress.

Certain rituals have been added to the days since The Accident, things once unforeseen yet now regular. For example, Inlayraith's visits to Kraakenaeth. Of course she would visit him. And, AFTER those visits, the half hour it takes her to stop being an exhausted twitchy lump sprawled out in the first open spot in the ground weyr clearing. (She really doesn't like infirmaries. Also that creepy foreign gold, you know, the one with the SILENT FEET? That thing doesn't HELP.) Thus find her here, making little distressed tea kettle noises. Also find Br'er, half-leaning against her, absently scritching her headknobs and muttering pleasant soothing nothings. What one does NOT find is the newest addition to Br'er and Q'fex's weyr. It's something that requires a purloined playpen from the nurseries, and a bowl of water, and ground up meat, and rather a lot of chew toys. It's also the kind of thing one USUALLY consults one's weyrmate before acquiring.

Creepy foreign golds. Kraaken, at least, is showing the first blush of recovery, these many moons post-acident… well, now that they are fairly sure he is going to survive. And MAY even get to keep his wing! (Just take a moment to imagine a one-winged dragon. A one-winged Kraken.) Q'fex emerges from the dragonhealer quarters, his lazy gaze taking in his weyrmate and Inlayraith. He doesn't KNOW yet about this supposed addition, see, having been with Kraaken for the last twenty-some hours in vain attempt to keep the bronze from getting restless and randomly picking on weyrlings. Apparently, that passes as AMUSEMENT. "Br'er." Beat. "Inlayraith." A world of apology lies in the latter.

Inlayraith makes a mournful sound at Q'fex, half-hiding her face behind a wing. :(! Br'er pauses in his scritches to favor the bronzerider with a smile, a particularly winning one, all teeth and charm. It's not one he usually flashes at his weyrmate. It's a warning sign. "Q'fex." Pause. "So I needed to talk to you about something…" Even more TEEF start showing.

Oh that noise. "I'm sorry. You know you could beat him right now. He's as weak as a baby kitten! He'd never see you coming." Q'fex's sympathy combines with innovation as he talks to Inlayraith. Only then does he turns his eyes to Br'er, puzzlement showing that fades DIRECTLY to wariness. "What do you need? Did you get in trouble? Are you getting thrown in the brig?"

"Gwwwwwwargh." Inlayraith has always been a particularly vocal dragon (she just feels so BAD that non-Br'er humans can't talk to her directly, she doesn't want them to feel ignored!) and this particular sound is one occasionally heard. It means: please leave me to die of my misery and bury me in clover :( Br'er gives a comforting pat-pat, though his attention is mostly on Q'fex. He does not deign to answer the questions - at least, not directly. "Listen." SMILE. "How do you feel about canines."

"I'll say something touching at your memorial," Q'fex gravely intones, reaching out to pat the nearest headknob before focusing in his wary regard to Br'er ONCE MORE. He doesn't follow immediately, gaze drifting off into the ever-after. "Canines? What, like… like drug canines, Br'er?" His gaze snaps back to the greenrider with a touch of GENUINE horror. "Tell me it's not fellis.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, of course not," Br'er says, immediately, because COME ON Q'FEX like Br'er would stoop to such mundane criminality, you know better than that. And then, more helpfully: "I'm talking about canine-canines. You know. Wagging tails, floppy ears, slobber?" This is leading somewhere. If Br'er's too-friendly expression is any indictor, it is not necessarily leading somewhere Q'fex is going to like.

"Oh," Q'fex says. For the first part. He's not done with that topic, walking rather aggressively into his weyrmate's personal space and moving to lift one eyelid to PEER into one eye as it to see if it's not all fellis-blown. What? He has legit concerns. Then, his shoulders RELAX. "Oh. You're talking about Quentin, aren't you?" And here his voice shades smug: "I got him away from those rangy, filthy beasts. He's standing for the clutch. Faranth, I don't even know why people put up with them, drooling and mooning around after you if you don't spend enough time with them." Canines. Not significant others.

There is an indignant yelp at the EYE INTRUSION, though Br'er (as is so often his wont) is otherwise quite willing to let Q'fex into his space. He even shifts a bit against Inlayraith, to make room. She makes another mournful sound, but shifts enough to make a plump-cushioned ledge of muscle and bone. Nothing if not obliging, that Inlayraith. "So," says Br'er, after a beat. "You haven't been in our weyr yet, have you?"

Well, since he's over here ANYHOW… Q'fex's hands drop to mildly curve in an only somewhat-obsessive, entirely-possessive manner about Br'er's hipbones. What? Natural resting place. They are like specially-outfitted grips for Q'fex! … … … or something. This highlights the fact that they finally have allowed him to burn the sling. Also, the total and utter lack of comprehension as Q'fex checks himself for that kiss he was about to steal: "Wait." Dawning suspicion, thy name is Q'fex's face. "What's in our weyr?"

Though it's normal enough for Br'er to respond to Q'fex's hands with a bit of obliging cozying up, one hand coming to rest on top of Q'fex's, fingers threading… there's a touch of strategy to how he does it now. Like he's trying to make sure Q'fex remembers why Br'er is THE BEST WEYRMATE EVER plz don't be upset kthx. Br'er coughs. "There might be a puppy."

And here there is a still moment of confusion. If only Pern had cameras, because Q'fex's face is priceless: confusion, sudden understanding, and then something very close to looking physically ill. "And," he half-sways, "Why… would there be a puppy in our weyr?"

In six months' time, perhaps, Q'fex will learn of Br'er's careful search of sevendays to find the precise right puppy: energetic, friendly, modestly assholish in an entertaining way. But for now, Br'er lies: fluidly, shamelessly, expression the precise right mix of embarrassment and humor and just a PINCH of silent pleading. "Well, uh. One of the Wildmen has a canine who just had a litter, and they were going to eat the runt - so I might have rigged a bet to win her off them, and…" Cough. "She's very charming."

OUT OF ALL OF THAT, all Q'fex gets is: "You had to go get a puppy and you got a BITCH puppy?" It's almost comic when he looks over Br'er's shoulder to Inlayraith's hide, the COLOR of her hide and then back to Br'er. "Oh. I guess I shouldn't be surprised by that." And what does THAT mean? "Tell me she doesn't have long hair." Resignation came QUICKLY.

"What is THAT supposed to mean?" asks Br'er, even as Inlayraith gives a little rumble (it is very very soft, apologetic) of simultaneous question. "No, no." Egads, on Br'er's nice furniture? "I think she's some kind of terrier… mongrel? Curly coat." Soothingly, Br'er adds, "It'll just be for… six months." Or, you know, forever, if Br'er is playing his cards right. He presses closer, smiling winningly. "I can lob her off on my brother once she's old enough, or - well, we'll think of something."

"It means you hang out around…" Q'fex flaps a hand ineffectually at Inlayraith. SORRY INLAYRAITH :(. "Six months," Q'fex seizes onto that. "Six months? Faranth, Br'er. Let's go with three. Three months is enough of our freedom to sacrifice for a canine. If Quentin doesn't Impress he can take her and … be happy." Vague. But his voice in WARNING: "You have to promise me you mean this no-more-than-six-months." He does relax a tich at no-long-hair.

Inlayraith just sighs, a draw of breath that makes her sides move against them :( "Well, you can always borrow him while he's a Candidate to help out. You two could bond." Br'er relaxes, a subtle but sure uncoiling of muscles. "You know I always keep my promises, Fex." (Pay no attention to the ambiguity of that sentence.) The smile that follows is more honestly warm than the too-charming expressions of a minute prior. It's the sort of thing that usually precedes Br'er going in for a kiss, which is indeed what happens, a hand curling proprietarily at the back of Q'fex's neck.

"Dammit, Br'er, I mean it," Q'fex jerks his head back long enough to mutter that accusation: "Six months," before allowing himself to be pulled in for a kiss. And because he doesn't ruin moments that are stolen, painless things where the biggest aggravation is a dog in his weyr, he kisses Br'er back, his gesturing-hand shifting back down to Br'er's hips and his motions lazy, unhurried. By the end of it, when he surfaces, he's languid-eyed and lazy-smiling.

"Mm-hm," is totally the same thing as a clear, unambiguous 'yes', right? Right. Br'er rests his chin on Q'fex's shoulder, after, his smile a thing more felt than seen. "You know," he says, absently, voice half-muffled by Q'fex's shirt, "you haven't been out of the Weyr since - you know." The hand at Q'fex's neck lifts just enough to gesture, vaguely (not that Q'fex can SEE it). "We should go out for dinner soon. Go to the Glissandi or something." Pay no attention to the topic change.

For this once — this ONCE — Q'fex allows himself to be distracted. He pulls off a bit, reaches for Br'er's hand, moves to angle them towards the out rather than the in. "I think we deserve a mug of klah, even if we don't try something so fancy as the Gliss." The dark-eyed man's smile is halfway sleepy. "And you can tell me all about this fancy dinner you're going to treat me to." There's a hint of CHALLENGE there as Q'fex leads the way out.

"I'll be using your name to get a discount," observes Br'er, serenely. He allows himself to be steered, smiling. If some of that smile is at the success of the first stage of Operation: Dogge, that's nobody's business but Br'er's. (Well, and Q'fex's. Unfortunately for Q'fex.)

Unfortunately. Just wait until the thing pisses on his clothes. That'll be the first meltdown. But… that is thankfully not PRESENT. Klah and companionship is. And maybe a little teenaged necking in one of the alcoves of the inner caverns when they think nobody's looking. (Everyone's looking.)

(There's probably a betting pool, somewhere, on how long they can go without PDA.)

The person who thinks they are most likely to be well-adjusted adults loses their rent-money. Figures.

It's Southern. The foul-minded perverts come up on top every time.

Come.. on to — you know, nevermind.

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