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Panic!  Panic!  Push the Red Button!


Date:  March 12, 2005
Place:  V'lano's Weyr
Game:  PernMUSH
Copyright Info:  The World of Pern is copyright(c) to Anne McCaffrey 
l967. The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.

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Kassi's Note:  Here's another log the title of which is *entirely* 
Vel's fault. :)  She's been reluctant to do it, but eventually 
Kassima realizes that the news she's been keeping to herself has 
to be shared with certain parties eventually--and having already told
Rodric, she can't postpone telling V'lano any longer.  He takes it 
about as well as she expected. ;)  Misunderstanding runs rife; but it 
looks like if fortune's with them, they may yet see it through.  This
is a deep, heavy scene, and one that I found rather moving.  Readers 
in search of fun and lighthearted fluff, be warned. ;)

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The Log:

Volath has, thoughtfully, left plenty of room on his ledge for a visitor
this time; his usual obtrusive sprawl has been limited to merely most of
the space, not all of it, and his head drapes sideways off the ledge's
edge, offering him a lazy view of the sky above through one eye, the bowl
below from the other. Undoubtedly it is his dozing regard that brings
V'lano out from the alcove, through the breadth of the main chamber of his
weyr into the blot of bright light cast inward from the cavern's open
mouth, shaped lopsidedly by the shadow of the tucked-up drape.

Lysseth's intentions are announced by the wordless touch of mind against
mind, warm and sparkling with the light thrown off from a thousand
different facets, before ever green wings take to the sky; and while she
does not land on his ledge until assent is given, her wide circles through
the sky are at perfect height for doing so. They may also not be quite such
lazy glides as one might expect. After all, when one is handed an
opportunity to display one's flying, if only a little, should one not make
the best of it? She thinks so. And that would be why--doubtless why--her
eyes gleam so brightly when she comes to rest, claws clicking on the stone
conveniently near that sprawling bronze. "Shameless," Kassima announces.
"Isn't she shameless? Sorry, Volath. You're a wonder for putting up with
her, really." Oh, snort. Lyss demurely lowers her neck enough to permit
descent and ignores such slurs as a lady should. Turning, the greenrider
catches sight of the distinctly human shape beyond the door and casts a
crooked grin across the way. "Are we disturbing?"

Volath's skyward eye might seem to reflect Lysseth in more of its facets
than are dedicated to mere empty sky, passing ovines of clouds in azure
fields of grain, and the bronze does tilt his head a little, rolling the
jaw against the edge of the rock as if to scratch an itch, all the better
to watch the green's approach and alighting. A low murmur of pleasure,
wordless, flickers in a gray-lit sky of muted stars, a monochrome twilight
of near-sleep, but admiring just the same. "He's come to think it's his
birthright to be flirted with by greens," comes the voice from within,
V'lano still approaching the entry; when he gets there, he leans against
the side of it, curls brushing a drape of the pulled-up curtain. A hand
unfolds and sweeps indicatively inward. "And far be it from me to say
you're not disturbing, o Wingleader and green, but my time's my own, if
that's what you mean?"

Monochrome or not, drowsy or not, his appreciation would seem reward
enough. Although it may well be that Lysseth did take note of precisely
where he was looking and when; it would not be remotely beyond her, nor
beyond explaining the satisfaction in her soft croon as she settles in as
near to him as he'll allow her. "She's come t'think 'tis her right t'nestle
under his wing whenever he's near, methinks," Kassima returns, looking
briefly back at them with a marked fondness. "His and Taralyth's. With
those she's content. Say that I meant," smiling, as she crosses the
distance and takes him up on the invitation, though not going farther
within than he himself is, "am I taking time that you'd rather spend
elsewhere. Dare I hope 'tis nay so?"

One wing unfurls, slowly, moving with deliberative effort to invite the
green rather than to be in her way as she nudges closer. Once it's spanned,
she'll fit nicely beneath it, the bright harsh sun of Telgar afternoon
setting the space beneath the bronzen sails warmly aglow with their hue.
"Oh, sure, I'd rather tend to that - " V'lano's outstretched hand turns to
a point, picking out a haphazard hide-pile and a bound volume ready to come
apart at the seams on the broad table. "And that," indicating a klah
pitcher with the rest. "Than to you. Don't think it!" While speaking and
pointing, he's turned his back to the dragons, to the sky, and begun to
move inward, his steps further invitation. "Make yourself at home, Kassi,
and let me find the cider - unless it's Thunderbolt that you're here for?"
Which he finds, clearly, rather unlikely, one brow crooked upward and
merriment in his eyes, but that pleasurable gaze seeks her out anyway, just
to check.

Indeed she will, as nicely as if she were indeed meant for such space and
such space meant for her. Duskier pine sails rustle slightly beneath the
arch of his. Lysseth would not seem uncomfortable, far from it, so it may
be that the motion is only to savor the feathery whisper of 'sail against
'sail, a different tactile sensation than the warmth of side and side.
Kassima dutifully looks the way he's pointing--and laughs, relaxing: "All
right, so *hopefully* that's folly--soft cider would be marvelous," she
tells him, walking close beside. "'Tisn't Thunderbolt at all. As we both
know you suspect; unless you think 'tis impossible that I might want t'see
you only for yourself?" She'll mirror his arch of brow almost exactly while
taking one of the seats for herself, the grin lurking beneath a promise
that such thoughts would be no less fallacious.

"Mm. Let me see." V'lano tucks himself against the greenrider much as
Lysseth's tucked against Volath, sliding a hand down Kassima's arm from
elbow to wrist if she'll allow it, where at her palm his fingers squeeze,
softly, a wordless gratitude for her visit and apology for his next act -
to divert his path from hers, to the alcove, where -his- fair share of
crates and chests, many Lemos-born, reside. He is not gone long, and
returns triumphant with the appropriate pitcher, dripping from the
mountain-brought snowpack meant to keep it from turning to vinegar, a
successful gambit by the appley scent that comes off when he finds glasses
from the mantel and pours. "Summer's been good so far. This fall's cider'll
be better yet than last year's, and last year's was fair enough. No one
makes a red blend up here, though; I should back to Lemos this fall and beg
some off Alvaro." With this musing past, he realizes his rambling and looks
up, leaving the pitcher at the mantel and bringing the glasses to the
woman, one offered. "I should hope you -usually- want to see me only for
myself," he chuckles.

Kassima will allow it, more than allow it: she turns automatically in
towards him, just a bit, and murmur wordless apprecation as her hand wraps
briefly around his in turn. Judging by the way her grin changes to
delighted smile upon his return with liquid treasure, she didn't mind too
greatly. "You might go visiting Nabol," she suggests, watching, "since they
say 'tis the best place for cider, though I've rarely tasted it m'self.
Lemosian's well enough for me. D'you always," a somewhat random and curious
query, "call your father by full name?" Her fingers brush his hand as they
curl around the cup he gives her. No accident, by how they linger in the
contact. "Almost always. Even in this. I wanted t'talk t'you--but t'you as
you, and I wanted t'see you as much." If he desires proof of that, he may
have it: she lifts her other hand towards him, clear request, and should he
duck his head enough for her to touch gently tugs him down enough to
receive a lingering kiss.

"Nabol's cider's smoother, I'm told, but there's something sharp, like open
air, in Lemos' - it reminds me." The dark-curled rider's shoulders roll and
subside, his smile easy, but for no apparent reason whatever there's a
trace of wicked in his eyes. It, too, subsides at her words, at the
seemingly casual touch of her hand, and he's smitten by the moment and by
the woman; the kiss is accepted and deepened, heated as if the cold of the
cider-glasses in their hands, beneath their chins, could light fire to the
mouths above. When he straightens it's reluctant, obeying the need to alter
posture more than the desire to answer her question, but after a moment in
which his tongue ponders the taste of her kiss yet on his lips with a lazy
swipe, he does answer. "I always do. He taught me to early; we look enough
alike, he and I, that anything we could do to make it less seeming to a
stranger that we were father and son made for better business. A family
costs less to support than two." A crooked smile twists his mouth on that.

"Reminds you of home, or of something else?" Kassi might not have needed to
ask without the wicked glint that automatically intrigues her, and there's
just a touch of amused suspicion in her voice that it just might be the
latter. Of course, it's only a few seconds before she entirely ceases to
care for a time. Her hand had found the nape of his neck, and splays in the
curls there as reaction to the heat of the kiss, and their blood--her thumb
strokes lightly, sensuously at the soft skin there, and perhaps there's
little wonder that it takes her a beat after it ends to marshal thought. Or
remember what thought is. "So you'd make 'em think 'twere brothers," she
guesses, "and that your need of marks was greater. Oh, wicked, wicked. But
I approve of it. Much is fair in love and bargaining." Still, the word
'family' turns her own smile into something... wry's not the word; call it
uneasy, and be nearer the mark. "Will you sit with me?"

"Of something else at home," V'lano summarizes, vaguely, long after the
time such an answer would have made sense; where Kassima's thoughts seemed
to recede and require corralling to bring back to fore, his simply sat on
hold, returning unbidden afterward without even his comprehension. He even
seems somewhat startled to find himself answering, the question already
gone. Her invitation makes him grin, however, and he turns to slip into
place beside her, transfering his glass to the other hand such that he can
stretch an arm across the seatback and offer its embrace. "That was the sum
of it, yes. His idea, not mine," but brilliance in his eyes and brightness
in his tone indicates he, too, approves of his father's deception. "You'd
like him, Kassi, but if ever you meet him you have to promise me not to
entice him -too- much to bet with you." His smile's wry, something
hesitating in his voice, and he dusts it off with a shake of his head,
self-depricating.

"Now that just begs for further clarification," Kassima murmurs, but the
odds seem high that she won't pursue it too much farther should it be a
question he'd rather avoid. There's an arm around her, after all. And a
warm, beloved form to lean gently against. Not to mention, a small of the
back to seek and rest on with her ciderless hand, sliding it between the
settee's back and him. "Clever man," she accuses the absent Alvaro. "*You*
like him, clearly. I'm thinking then that probably 'twould. I'd nay mind
meeting him, if'n I ever had the chance--I've heard about him from you,
bits and pieces, just enough t'form an intriguing shape, and as someone
dear t'you he'd interest me anyway. D'you think he'd like me?" She really
wants to know. Her head turns to look at him; says, "I can promise you at
least that 'twill try. Mayhaps even manage. I'd *like* for him t'like me,
if'n we did meet, and that rather suggests I shouldn't try t'do him out of
house and home." It's all light teasing, but if he catches her eyes he
might see that curious light in them, and the familiar attempt to read from
face and tone the source of his hesitation.

"Mmm," V'lano responds, as much to her shape against his as to her remark,
as well as to her hand on his back - happening, as it is, to lie on muscles
recently strained ever so slightly to prolong the kiss from which he's
still, perhaps, a bit heated. The way his arm slips down from the seatback
to tighte Kassima's shoulders into his one-armed embrace might say so. "I
think he'd like you. I'm terrified he'd like you," the bronzerider asserts,
then confesses, grinning too much; his ears burn a little for good measure.
He shifts position slightly, legs indecisive about whether to prop a knee
or remain, the latter being the final decision. "But. Ah. I would take you
to meet him, if you like. I've thought I should have you out for that
purpose."

And not lie quiescently, either. There's not as much range for motion with
the back of the seat right there, but she manages to rub at muscle a little
regardless; it might be soothing caress, it might be caressing tease, and
most likely of all, it's some of both. Kassima grins at his ears and asks,
"What, afraid he'd be all, 'Marry her, son'?" with nothing but amusement
behind it. "M'mother used t'be like that; only she's gotten away from it,
thankfully--mostly. Have you...." Her lips seek his face again. Cheek, this
time; cheek rather near the ear, so the touch whose warmth matches that in
her eyes is perhaps not as chaste as it could be. "Thankee for the honor of
that thought. I would like." A brief pause. "In mayhaps two months' time or
so?"

The softly strained sigh is for Kassima's touch, for the twitchy relaxing
of the muscles her fingers work; too glad for the attention, they subside
willingly, easily, from a strain that seems old enough that there must be
more to it than just an ill-considered position for a kiss. A warily rueful
glance at the hide-pile might be telling, or it might just be somewhere for
V'lano to put his eyes while his ears redden a bit more. "Uh, no," he
mutters, voice a bit raspy. "He wanted me to marry, but he knows riders
don't." After that, the young weyrsecond pauses a bit too long, one brow
twitching downward and back up, an unexpected thought crossing his mind
with obvious repercussions to his expression, his speech. "Ah, anyway," he
begins anew, as if he'd interrupted himself vocally as well as mentally.
"That's not quite what I mean. I think he'd like you." Having said this,
his cheek seems a bit warm beneath her lips, but she could assume that to
be related to the red in his ears. After the kiss he turns toward her to
fix her with a wry, wry, wry smile. "You are quite the woman," he explains,
or perhaps merely flatters. "Two months is good. There'll be cider
starting." This makes perfect sense to him.

Kassima sends her fingers ranging at least a little farther afield to seek
out other muscles that might be suffering, in the wake of such success. Not
to mention that it gives her hand something to do while she eyes him over
her glass of cider, pausing mid-motion of taking a sip. "Thirty-second for
your thoughts?" she murmurs. And post-kiss, with her eyes on his and
suddenly entertained by a notion that strikes her as wild, "--Like me. I
can think of a couple of ways for you t'mean that, even a couple that might
cause a blush, but you might want t'rule out the interpretation that just
occurred t'me." Given as fair and grinned warning before the grin softens
visibly. "Quite a woman for quite a man." Her hip nudges against his, a
gentle but deliberate bump. "I hope. 'Tis well." There's a moderately long
moment of silence from her. It starts out the comfortable sort, while her
hand still works at his back; but its length stretches toward the pensive,
the awkward, for one sensitive to nuances. She finally says, "I do need
t'talk with you--but you seem as if'n you've been stressing yourself, a
little," with a deliberate press of palm to back, lest he mistake her
meaning. "Mayhaps it should wait."

"Ah... just thinking he would be pleased to see me settled, perhaps better
this way - " A wave of his cider-glass toward the cavern mouth might
indicate the weyr, or more particularly, a one-eye-closed bronze pretending
sleep while watching the bowl sometimes, the green at his side sometimes.
"Better this way than the way we'd have had it. Besides, I'd have had to
make my own business eventually. He'd have hated to compete." Which makes
his ears ever more red, and forces him to admit, turning his gaze back to
the greenrider with the wry smile turning almost sardonic, "I doubt I can
rule it out, Kassi." A beat, then, for her nudge he seems to hold her a bit
tighter, to press her closer, craving the contact, and grins, the color at
last receding. Thus he's merry enough to dismiss, easily, his stress: "Only
shouldn't sit so long, is all. Tell me?"

Nodding thoughtfully, Kassima takes a swallow of cider as her eyes roam
around the cavern and its environs as if seeing them all afresh; imagining
them, maybe, as this man he speaks of might see. "You should bring him to
the Weyr," she suggests, her gaze finding him again. "Let him see it, if'n
'twould please him, and know how you're settled and that you're happy.
Assuming that you are." But she doesn't seem particularly worried about
that, beyond a slight shyness to her smile that her own hope of
contribution to his happiness might provide. That disappears when she has
to duck her head to attempt to keep him from seeing how much the entire
notion entertains her. "How flattering," she deadpans just before she
manages to look back up, expression suspiciously straight-faced. "T'be
faced with the prospect of admiration from two such men. In that, though,
Vel--I don't think you need fear competition." A kiss finds his shoulder to
seal it. Yet even with it so sealed, she lingers. Doesn't answer right
away. She kisses a slow trail up the hollow of shoulder, through cloth, to
the base of his neck--perhaps seeking distraction, but for which of
them?--where she relents into a soft sigh and cessation. "I have to. Well.
When I suggested two months' time for visiting, Vel... 'twasn't the
progression of the cider 'twas thinking of."

He watches her consideration of his little domain, turning his own gaze to
it after a moment, taking in the broad table of which he is, perhaps, a
little too proud, and the varying other objects which make up his home. "I
am, Kassi. Assume more, and fret less." Sound advice, no doubt, from the
bronzerider who next eyes her suspiciously, her deadpan and ducking making
him all too certain there's something going on she's hiding from him, his
grin making it apparent he has a fairly good idea that it's hilarity.
"Don't assume -that-. You haven't met him. It wouldn't be the first time,"
which is perhaps just a -tiny- bit more than he meant to say, and when she
kisses him he's laughing with embarrassment, but affection to, such that
his throat ripples with the ill-suppressed giggling beneath her lips when
they get there. It's awkward stuff, that laughter, and falls away easily
enough when the conversation arches into the finer points of timing. His
brows furrow only lightly, forming shallow creases above his nose. "You're
busy," he infers. "Can't leave the Weyr. Can't leave Thunderbolt. Something
about M'rek?" And oh, that is not a pleasant idea, but he'll leave it be as
a possible one while nipping back further comment with suddenly closed lips.

This wins him a grin from the greenrider that lights up her eyes, fondness
and amusement and the wish to tease all commingled: "Oh, so you're saying
you'd like me t'just *assume* you're happy, and nay strive t'make it so?"
Kassima could and likely does mean that in more than one way; but the one
she's teasing him about is emphasized by the shameless, slow stroke of her
hand down his spine. Wench. She can't keep it up, anyway, because his
sensed embarrassment does lessen her desire to make him blush somewhat. She
presses in a little more against him, if possible. At this rate their ribs
might start creaking protest soon. "I can assume. Without meeting him, I
can assume. He wouldn't be able t'win me from you--and being with father
and son at once is a *little* perverse for me, t'be honest," voiced with a
low chuckle. "Particularly given givens... and someday I'd like that story
if'n 'twouldn't be too much embarrassment t'tell." The subtle tension of
reluctance returns to her when the topic shifts back. Without looking at
him, she shakes her head a fraction: "Busy's a given," she allows
nevertheless. "Can't leave the Weyr, aye. Already have left Thunderbolt,
after a fashion--Yashira's leading the drills. M'rek... is an interesting
theory, but nay." One she'd probably explore were her mind not elsewhere.
It seems at first as though she still won't, can't look at him, but when
she speaks again her eyes seek his, and it's more that she can't *not*
look. "I'm pregnant," she says, very quietly indeed.

V'lano laughs softly for her tease, and the muscles down his back shiver
with a delightful tension rather than their previous, strained one, at her
touch, but he gladly curls his arm about her tighter when she presses to
him. His head bows, eyes a little smoky despite their conversation, and his
hand's moving to set his cider-glass aside while he softly remarks, "I
wouldn't expect he could, Kassi, but - he's what he is. I'll tell it if you
really want to hear it, but there's not that much more to it." But then
she's on to why she's busy, and the cider glass halts its path toward the
side table. The path reverses when she gets to Yashira's name, and stops
again on M'rek's, which has the added effect of making his mouth twist a
moment. All of those varying responses - embarrassment, slyness,
curiousity, concern, irritation - are mixed in his eyes when she finds
them, and they're all washed away when she speaks. The tide that steals
them from the shore, that sucks them in undertow far out to sea, has a
name: dead panic. It takes him so wholly he cannot move, cannot leap from
her, cannot do anything but sit there with dark eyes locked on emerald
ones, and only after several heartbeats does he force breath. Such a little
thing, breathing; it revives him enough to control the waves, revealing a
lot of worry and even a little delight in their wake. His voice refuses to
participate, but his mouth and breath are enough to manage words. "How long
so?"

Kassima finds it a good time, taking her cue from him, to set her own glass
down. She knows what's coming, after all--at least from her end. From his,
not so much. But if she hadn't been anticipating some sort of reaction, she
surely wouldn't have been so reluctant, nor so nervous, in the first place.
"You haven't said that much of what he is," she points out, "besides a
butcher and a man you seem t'admire. I'd like t'know." A last breath of
relative normality; very relative, given the topic. What she sees in his
eyes at the outset is wiped from mind and memory by one of the things she
feared to find. She can move--does--tightens her hold a moment, a clinging
that's less possessive than born of that flash of terror that answers--it
takes conscious thought for her to ease off, hide it and attempt something
like calm for him. Not very successfully. But then, he likely has other
worries enough that he may not notice. "They can't say exactly. Long
enough--it could've been a visit with Roddy. It could," her voice dropping
quieter and quieter with each word until the last are only whisper, "have
been Mirrath's flight."

There's not much else V'lano can say about Alvaro but nod. His glass hovers
midair in his fingers, and when the greenrider clings it tips, sloshing a
few droplets onto his trousers - then tips the other way, though not enough
to spill again, as with the cider still in hand he clutches that arm around
the woman's other shoulder, responding to her desperation in instinctive
kind, as if by their closeness he could block out fear. He breathes again,
forcing a shuddering intake of air deep into his lungs once Kassima
retreats a bit. He unwraps his arm, more careful now with the glass, and
follows the sigh which is the natural recourse of that shuddering gulp of
air with an equally shuddering gulp of cider. After that, he puts the glass
down. Perhaps it reflects on him, one way or the other, that his next words
are, "Have you told him?" Still, his voice won't come, so her whisper's met
with his, but for comfort his hand, freed of the cider, seeks her knee.

They're likely like that for a minute, Kassi's face burying itself against
his shoulder while she takes deep breaths to gather that strength she'll
need to draw away. He might feel her shake within his hold, just a little.
When balance--or its semblence--has been regained, she finds the damp mark
on him where cider spilled worthy of study; murmurs, "I'm sorry." In a tone
that makes it clear she does not entirely refer to the potential damage to
his trousers. Hard, again, for her to meet his eyes, even if she stays in
the circle of his arm with her hand lighting on his. Appreciating,
encouraging the touch. "I did. It was easier. He--I knew, or was fairly
sure, he wants children." She swallows. "The harder part with him was
telling him it might *nay* be... he, uh. He'd like t'be the child's Uncle
Roddy. If'n 'tisn't." The woman's still looking at their hands rather than
his face; finding more hope in them, maybe, than she expects in the other.

"No," V'lano murmurs, the first syllable to have the gift of his voice in
it. Even in that brief word there is tremulo, making his throat richer than
usual, deeper. It denies her apology, as does the squeeze of his palm
against her knee. Her remarks on Rodric even make him smile, the wash of
fear that still clings around the corners of his eyes and the stiffness of
his neck receding another mark toward low tide. When she's said her latest
bit he ducks his head, turning his eyes toward her, seeking her face;
another squeeze at her knee and his hand slips out from under hers to lift
a finger with which he'd pluck up her chin. "Kassi. Don't. Please don't?"
His unexplained plea is followed by a softer sigh and softer words, slower,
more thought in them. "I...told Breena I don't think, like this, I'd make
much of a father," he begins, haltingly. "I'd want to be more than I can
be, and there is - so much - else - " His eyes don't show it, dark as they
are, thickly lashed as they are, but as he straightens his neck and sends
his gaze off into middle distance, the strain in his throat makes his voice
thin, betraying likely tears. They don't yet come; he swallows and goes on.
"I'd do what I could, Kassi. You deserve the best I can do. But Roddy...
either way. Could probably do better."

Kassima does flick her eyes up to him when he speaks. It's not pure
reassurance, in that tone--but it's something, something enough to dull the
edge of fear she was trying to bury and calm if not vanquish dread. But she
still looks back down soon enough, so that chin is there to be tilted. She
doesn't resist the touch. Nor his guidance. So no matter what she does to
try and keep it hidden, between voice and eyes he can likely sense the
quiet misery in her, "I didn't want t'make you feel this way." Falling
silent to hear him, she's at first rather still with tension tightening the
jaw under his fingers, but by the time his own voice gives tell-tale
signs--she drops her chin to find his fingers with her lips in a way that
has nothing to do with desire. "I do nay think there's a rider parent who
can be what they want t'be," she whispers into them. "If'n they want t'be
aught at all. I can't. However I love m'children, even if'n I gave up all
life for *m'self*--I'm nay willing to--even if'n I did, I could never be
all the mother they deserve. Listen. For m'self, I'm pleased, proud, so
happy t'bear a child to *either* of you; just for the men you are, never
mind that I love you, and the only thing that could make me regret is if'n
either of you don't...." She can't bring herself to finish in words, voice
taking on a matching tremulousness, but her mouth forms the words 'want it'
against his hand all unbidding. "Who'd do better is as much a question as
whose 'tis in the first place. Roddy wants children, wants them
desperately, so in that respect--but if'n 'tis only a question of who's
busy and who can't always be there, he's sure as shards busy, and he's nay
*here*. I know he'll do his best by me... us, if'n it turns out so, anyway."

"Feel what way." It's a question, sure enough, but he'll let it be
rhetorical if she'd rather not say, and after her lips touch his fingers he
raises his hand along her jaw to caress her cheek, then press back hair
that's probably not out of place anyway, fingertips sliding behind her ear
and down the side of her neck; fascinated, he watches his hand move, only
refinding her eyes with his gaze when she speaks anew. "I want you to have
it," he says after a moment, having heard without need for the words the
question, the fear. It is not precisely the answer, but it's honest,
earnest, deeply spoken. "But let Rodric father it - him, her - " A
staggering awareness which causes a sudden smile, and his hand drops from
the curve where her neck meets her shoulder to fairly cuddle her close.
Terror, at last, gives way to weak laughter, his body trembling with
voiceless release. When he speaks again, he's shaking, his voice shaking
too. "Oh, Kassi. I love you. I'm so sorry - and so - my stomach hurts,"
which will have to suffice for everything else tangled up in the emotions
that want so badly to make his throat close, to make his eyes wet. Yet, he
kind of smiles through it all. "If it's his, if it's mine - do you think
it'll change - us?" Which is a broader pronoun, after all, since he raises
his hand from her shoulder only long enough to make a seemingly flippant,
expansive gesture.

"Unhappy. Frightened. Pressured. Burdened. Upset," Kassima recites as
murmured answer, maybe without even thinking of it; maybe without intending
to speak aloud, or realizing that she's doing so. Surely as unintentional
is her relaxation under his touch, jaw less set, neck leaning into his hand
all unwitting... until the other. That. Oh, she stills then, and there's no
way to miss it this time. And the shield that comes up after that initial
flare of hurt, that deliberate blankness and opacity--that's not easy to
miss, either. "I'd have had it anyway," she admits, frank and carefully
said. "But it would nay be the first time I've done so with little...
involvement. If'n that is the route you'd prefer, then it can be so. I will
nay ask a man t'be a father who does nay wish it. Any more than 'twill ask
a man t'be father to a child that isn't his." Almost tonelessly spoken.
She'll let herself be cuddled, but with that tension still in her she
can't--or won't--return it, not yet, and even the words that normally could
win anything from her can't dispel it. Very quietly, "I love you too, Vel.
I don't know. It depends upon the way of things, I suppose."

"No - " Another denial, but then her relaxation turns back toward tension
in his very embrace, and V'lano retreats from her, loosening his grip,
taking back the hand from her shoulder, stilling the one behind her back.
Pained, he watches her as much as hearing while she speaks, and at the end
his face flushes, then pales, and he ducks his head. There would be,
certainly, tears now, but not for long; his shoulders hunch, his jaw sets.
The hand that no longer holds her close balls a fist, knuckles to press
into his face, and after that he turns his face away. "It matters," he
realizes out loud, unhappily. It probably sounds like non-sequitur. It
takes a great deal of control to make speech happen, to make it happen
without too much shuddering, and this will make his voice seem, perhaps,
cold. "I don't see how I could be uninvolved unless you wished it. You'd
have to not see me. You'd have to tell me I can't see you. It would, I
think, change things." It's needless to say that last bit, especially so
pointedly, but he says it anyway, on a roll at last with words - and
unusually profane, for the mild-spoken butcher's son: "I'm not saying I
wouldn't be as much a father as I could. I'm not saying he should - take
over for me. I'm saying if he -wants- to, Kassi, sharding let him, because
for Faranth's sake there's not a bloody thing I can do to think I'd be
everything a kid should have, and the last thing I'd do is stand in the way
of your child - my child - his child! - having the best shot they have at
someone who's -there- for them shell to shell." If this seems to be
ignoring the fact that the child would certainly have a mother, even if
both he and Rodric were wiped suddenly off of the face of Pern - well,
perhaps it is ignoring that fact. He struggles even to breathe.

"A'course it *matters*," says Kassima, voice shaking and rickety facade
threatening to fall. There's not much chance she can maintain it; his
looking away may be a relief to her, giving her leave to do the same and
let the tears drop where he will not see them. "'Twill nay make you stand
by me in this. 'Twill nay make you have any part. It isn't *fair* t'you
that this even came up--I know that--you didn't ask for it, but if'n you
choose nay to and want me t'pretend 'tis Rodric's bairn even if'n 'tis born
with brown eyes, do the raising m'self, it *matters*. Nay matter how I love
you--" Maybe, without seeing her, he'd mistake the strangled passion in the
words for anger instead of grief, and since that grief isn't unallayed, it
might not be entirely wrong. "It would change things," she settles on as
understated, thick-voiced conclusion. All a tribute to the pain that
misunderstanding brings. The next words--if she had more tirade in mind,
they still it. She's caught in the action of wiping the back of her wrist
across her eyes, as still as she was in his arms moment before, and...
listens. All through. It's an odd set of statements to calm emotion rather
than rouse it, but her voice when she finally answers is as queerly calm as
it is low at the start. "Mayhaps you wouldn't be, any more than I would be.
But I want m'child t'*know* who its father is, and, and t'actually know
him, even if'n he doesn't--d'you think Roddy could be there all the time?
He's Masterharper; he's nay going t'retire and move t'Telgar even if'n the
child's his--I'd nay let him!" Never mind that she'd lack tons of say in
this. "*None* of us can be the parent this child should have. But that
doesn't mean we shouldn't be its parents--whoever the 'we' is. If'n we have
t'have help, there's nay shame in that even by Hold standards. Loving and
caring is more important than being the ideal, perfect family."

Somewhere around the word 'bairn' V'lano turns back, his movement
whipcord-taut, whiplash-fast. Tears have come and gone, leaving red tracks
along the rims of his eyelids and one droplet glinting like a jewel in the
curls at the corner of his mouth is dead giveaway - until it's given away,
probably by the sensitivity of the skin beneath those hairs, and he lifts
the fist again to banish it. He'd interrupt, but his effort to do so comes
without voice, his throat still too tight to manage it, and the time it
takes for him to swallow hard and rededicate some air to breathing as well
as ranting is time enough for Kassima to get going again, so he just
stares, and listens, something still surprised in his dark eyes. By the
end, he nods once. "I know," he starts with, raspy. "About us. We're all
too busy. About nurses, fostering. About Rodric." Though the idea of such a
move, for a moment, makes the weyrsecond smile a bit, as if Kassi's say and
his upon that unlikely possibility might just differ. It's fleeting
amusement, but it was there. "But, uh. I didn't mean - I think - Kassi?" As
if she's not quite with him, as if she might not be hearing, but he goes
on, perhaps hoping he has her attention. "I meant. If he wants to be a
father, he should get to be. I don't mean for you to tell him, or the
child, anything but the truth. Uncle Roddy, sure. Fine. But he needn't be
'uncle,' if he wanted more than that, and I'd be grateful for the help. If
he would want to - please, let him." On which tears might come again, by
the sudden slump of his lower lip, and he has to shift his gaze to a place
somewhere over the greenrider's shoulder to hold them at bay.

He'll catch sight of the silver trails that mark her cheeks in doing so;
Kassi's been less diligent about hiding them, and whether because her moods
are already off-kilter from the very condition that's brought this
discussion about or of some lingering hurt, they seem slow to disperse. "I
have a cousin in the Lower Caverns who's helped me with almost all
m'children," she half-confirms, while hastily scrubbing palm and fingers
across her face. "I don't use the nursery; she--" It hits her that she's
rambling a bit, and she pulls it back with a breath. "He wants t'be a
father, but--blood-father, I think. He has Genevieve and her son, but I
don't think 'tis quite the same. He didn't say aught about wanting t'be
*father* t'this one if'n 'tis clearly yours. If'n we're never able
t'tell... that's a different issue." No longer so caught in her own turmoil
that she's not watching his, she does see those signs--maybe hears
something in voice--and after a second's hesitation... reaches to try and
gather him to her, if he'll let her; bring his head to rest on her shoulder
as hers did on his, and bury a kiss in the forest of his hair. Voice
tender, she murmurs, "I haven't any intention of depriving the child of one
who'd care for it, however it goes. But if'n 'tis yours--mayhaps he could
help us, if'n he *wanted* to; but you would still be its father. You are
*worthy* of that."

V'lano nods, softened by the need to explain, the misunderstanding, the
back and forth of frustration and pain; aware of those tear-tracks and of
his own barely-held control, it takes effort for him to refocus on her
face, to attend to her while she speaks, but he does it - wanting, perhaps,
that much to make her feel he listens, not just hears. "I don't assume he
would - but if he would," he murmurs, then shakes his head, quick to add,
"I mean - we haven't talked - haven't had cause. He may think of me
something I'm not." He looks sort of ashamed on that, but he allows her to
bring him close, relaxing slightly against the shield of her shoulder,
breathing more easily the scent of her skin. He is just fine there, almost
content, until she gets to the end, and then he begins to quake. Obliged to
shift in her embrace to pull from his jacket the square of brushed linen
that resides there, his weeping is silent. The linen saves her from being
damp, however. It takes only as long as a flight from the Star Stones to
the floor of the bowl, and then he picks his head up, turning away - not to
hide, but to dab at his nose, then secret the sodden cloth away. "Sorry,"
he states, voiceless and almost gruff, plainly agitated - but at himself.

Kassima is better able to keep her eyes on him for it, the green still dark
and rimmed with red but neither opaque--hiding--nor particularly
pain-filled, now; and his attention brings its own peculiar ease. Answer to
his answer can wait. She'll hold him, first; one arm wrapped around his
shoulders and the other gentle on the back of his neck, encouraging his
using her shoulder thus. He may or may not hear the things she murmurs into
his hair--few comprehensible words, anyway; the tone is soothing, loving,
and that's probably what she means to have carry. It's subtly different
from maternal comfort in some way better felt than described. Decidedly the
comfort a lover would offer beloved, instead. "Don't apologize for that."
Her hand shifts to brush at the skin beneath his eye, to catch any dampness
there. Softly, "There's nay need. Now. Whether he might think such a
thing--it depends on what you're believing isn't true. I, we can talk it
out with him, if'n 'tis your wish. And whether you'd like t'be involved
even if'n the child has brown hair instead of brown eyes--we can speak of
that. There's a lot of time."

He shakes his head firmly, as if to say he'll be sorry if he wants to, but
those long lashes droop against her fingertip when she touches his face,
his eyes lidding for a moment's repose. When they open again, he seems less
stubborn, but more collected, able to look at her, able to smile, however
faintly, and able above all to answer in truth. "I don't know." Still rough
from tears, from strain, his voice is rueful, apologetic, but open, and his
shrug helpless. "There's so much - related. It's complex, Kassima, all over
again." And knowing what he's said and full well how she'll take it, he
lifts a hand, already poised to put a single finger to her lips if it's
called for. "And that's all right. But I don't know. I don't know how I'd
be a father; I can't even get close to how I'd be a not-father. Rodric, I'd
believe anything of." Which is admiring, sure, but there's a little tease
in it too, as the bronzerider starts to get his spirit reassembled.
"Myself, I barely know."

"That's all right." Kassima is a moment in deciding, then leans in,
gently--tentatively--against him, so that her position is similar to that
she was in before things went haywire. Her cheek rubs against his shoulder.
"'Tis. You aren't expected t'be knowing all the answers; why would you--"
Her eyes do flick to his face when he speaks that loaded word, worry
starting in them that his touch mostly forestalls. "I don't think 'tis in
your cards t'have a simple life," she mutters with a hint of humor. And
kisses his fingertip. "We might talk; we'll certes find out, one way or
another, but I'm going t'optimistically hope it might be all right, and
mayhaps shift m'next worry t'whether either you *or* he are going t'find me
at all attractive once I'm the size and shape of a fish-fattened wherry."
Finally, finally she's back to teasing him, because while there's enough
wryness to suggest this isn't an entirely mock-concern, compared to that
other, it's silly and she clearly knows it. "D'you know, I think we had
this discussion in a different light nay long agone. One of us having an
ideal of how things *should* be, afraid and mayhaps hurting because they
can't live up to it and be what's deserved. Only even if'n that's so, I
don't recall you saying t'me that it meant what I could be wasn't worth
having or good enough. However it goes... if'n you'd be the father you can
be, I'm thinking you'll find that everyone involved thinks that's worth
having. I've nay doubt I will."

Her permission, her acceptance - it makes V'lano relaxed enough, almost
immediately, that he can once again be the embracer, his arm circling her
shoulders, his side warm against her, and he sinks back against the
cushioning of the settee with tangible relief. Her mutter even makes him
chortle softly, weakly, and he does let her finish speaking before he
traces the shape of her lower lip with that fingertip - it was invited,
after all, by that kiss. "As lovely as your midsection is, I hardly think
it's the only thing either of us value in you, Kassi." A shadow of worry
does lower his brows a bit, but he defers it, reaching for his cider with
the hand he's got free. He swallows from the glass while watching her, eyes
bright from her words, her affection, and what they've in the space of an
afternoon been through, but sort of abruptly stops drinking on a tiny
snort, moving the glass away to let himself swallow, somewhere along what
she's saying. "That was different," he claims, but knows immediately how
much it wasn't, and his mouth is rueful around those words. His chin dips;
lashes half-lowered, he regards her through them. "Thank you," he decides
on at last.

A relief echoed by and doubtless partially the cause of Kassima's, who
melds against him as readily as ever she has--with an arm still wrapped
about him, though around his waist now to make the position more
comfortable. Embracer and embraced. Her lip curves against his touch in a
genuine, mirth-touched smile. "Here's hoping. And if'n naught else," a dry
sort of mischief bids her add, "there'll be other enhancements t'make up
for it. So. You can tell me of it, if'n you want." A bit of a non-sequitor
if he doesn't catch that she's caught that shadow, though the gentleness of
the suggestion may be another clue. "So very different?" she insists,
tightening her hold in a brief, one-armed squeeze. She still has a hand
free, and she seeks to cup his cheek with it as prelude to a kiss of the
warm, soft, and none-too-brief variety. "You're welcome, Vel, even if'n all
I do is repay what you did for me."

V'lano chortles a bit, but looks almost immediately wary - kindly,
affectionately wary, as he often looks at this particular greenrider, but
wary just the same - either for enhancements he's possibly not worldly
enough to determine, or for her prodding at his mute concern. "Er, what,"
he begins, then, "Yes, very!" with defiant self-knowing, absolutely false.
So taken up in the fast-paced mood of their conversation, he's dumbfounded
by the kiss even with her touch as warning, and while he returns it there's
a soft stopping sound in his throat, which might be the startled noise that
accompanies his staring at her afterward. "Ah." Normally used to indicate
understanding, this time the syllable describes just the opposite - but he
sets his cider aside and aims for repayment of his own, his own hand
providing warning of another impending kiss with a stroke along the length
of her neck, fingertips savoring the pale skin. Only after that does he
seem to understand her question and brace himself to reply - phrasing it
delicately, probably too much so, and looking quite abashed for his
trouble. The concern, however, is genuine. "The healers. Er, that you've
been to." Suggesting he'll assume, nicely, that she has been, though her
earlier comment about 'they' and timing might have cued him if he weren't
in fight-or-flight mode at the time. "They say it's - all right for you 
to - bear a child?" Good thing he got the kiss in first; she'll know he 
hates to ask what he's asked, because he's a bit stiff next to her, 
beneath her touch. Or, perhaps that's brace for being smacked.

Kassima can recognize the quality of that wariness for what it is--that's
why it amuses her so. Well, that and the inherent amusement factor of
wariness of those particular enhancements, which may be what she's
assuming. "Mmm-hmm. Sure 'tis," she drawls in that laughing, obnoxiously
entertained way of someone who well knows better, before laughter is lost
for a time in favor of even better things. Her eyes might have a
feline-like gleam in the interim between kisses, but her pleasure at
startling him leads to delight of an entirely different kind soon enough;
it likely needn't be said that she thrills in the caress and in returning
the kiss both. Her low, "Thank you," after is a deliberate echo. She
settles in to hear him out. "Ah." Her eyes close when the question comes.
Wryness crosses her face; it might not help him with this
anticipating-a-smack thing, but when she opens eyes again there's humor in
them hand-in-hand with rue. "He seemed t'worry, too. To get it out of the
way, they *did* tell me t'be careful and be sure t'get plenty of rest, eat
all the right things, etceteras; and aye, they stressed it more than they
have in... times previous. But I'm healthy, Vel. I've done this a'fore,
seven times. M'body knows what 'tis doing."

His hand remains on her neck - perhaps it would make a good line of defense
there - until her eyes close, and then he draws it back not to use as
shield, but to give her space. When her lashes part he's still waiting,
watching keenly for the shine in those green eyes - and relieved, plainly,
to see it there. His embrace softens again, warming, and the hand withdrawn
finds once more her knee. "I - " He stops himself, wry. No excuses. "Good."
And for a time it might seem that will be all, his palm curling a little
tighter over her knee, his head bowing to just be closer to hers; and then
he speaks lower, with insurgent delight: "Do I get to help with the plenty
of rest?"

Kassima warms the more for such relief, the smile she gives him
affectionate, amused, and fondly indulgent all three. "I know--" Or thinks
she does. "'Twill be all right. And I'm nay going t'be miffed--*too*
miffed--at you for caring." Whether he sees her grin or not with both their
heads bent so, hers towards his so that black hair and black hair might
mingle, he can probably hear it. The surprised and joyful grin that his
last inspires, though? That he'll see, since she draws back just enough to
turn her head towards him, find charcoal eyes with a green set that his
words have kindled with a familiar, promising light. "I hope that you
will," she murmurs, shamelessly sultry. "And 'tis never too early t'start
getting that rest--well," grin broadening, "eventually." A fine prelude to
a deliciously heated kiss, which itself is a fine prelude to far greater
things.