Breaking Protocol

Xanadu Weyr - Infirmary
The infirmary here is intended for human care. It is regularly scrubbed spotless and smells of disinfectant, redwort and other herbs that are - if sometimes strong - preferable to the scents of sickness. Cots are lined up against one wall, with a set of curtains that can be pulled to give some privacy to the occupants of the cots if they so desire. They're mostly used for examinations of patients and the treatment of mild injuries that won't require long term care; near the back are some more private areas with folding dividers.
There's a number of cabinets that stand off against another wall, instruments and medications stored against when they will be needed, and a back room holds those supplies seldom required.
A desk with chair is set just off of the doorway to the caverns, meant for the healer to sit and catch up on record keeping after a long day's work or await patients. If things get too busy, the patients can do the waiting on a set of uncomfortable chairs set nearby. The other doorway comes directly from the clearing, wide enough for a team to carry a stretcher through.

"I don't want it." Ah. Well. Someone's awake. "If I wanted it, I'd sharding well ask for it." Someone's awake and cranky. "Oh for fuck's sake, where is my healer? No. Nope. It's not you, or you. I want the redhead. This tall. Looks like she's snitching a melon up her skirt. Acts like she's gonna puke if you so much as look her in the eye. Fort?!" A small crash accompanies the sound of R'hyn's voice from behind his privacy curtain, drawing the attention of the few people previously politely trying to ignore the former islander's fit-pitching. Several pairs of eyes watch as a redfruit rolls out from beneath the curtain. "Fine, call Cita then. Or better yet, Ila. ILA— Faranth, what am I doing." « ILA! » The sunbright word is crowed in dramatic parody of Heryn's voice, laughter echoing in its wake. « OURS NEEDS YOU BEFORE HE, IN HIS WORDS, DOES SOMETHING INCREDIBLY STUPID THAT EVEN YOU WON'T LIKE. » "No," Ryn's voice starts up again, ringing with authority despite his utter lack of it in this weyr, "you stay right there until he gets here. Hey, I said stay! Get back here or I'll — OUCH. UNFAIR. YOU LEARNED THAT FROM CITA." Out scurry two very frightened apprentices, chased by colorful shouts from a R'hyn that is not nearly injured enough not to find the breadroll that's fallen onto his lap and whip it after them. He regrets it. He regrets it immediately, sagging back against pillows with a pained wheeze. He's probably undone several days of healing, will find that one good arm back in wraps instead of enjoying the mobility of a chest only lightly bound, but worth it?? Maybe. Maybe.

It says A LOT OF THINGS when your weyrmate, the one who walks around in one thousand degree weather, covered from head to toe in riding leathers everywhere, everyday, ALL THE DAMN TIME, appears in the infirmary shirtless. Yes. Yes that is Ila'den, Ila'den whose leathers are hanging dangerously low on hips, threatening to show more than just a little too much because while he managed to get his zipper up and half-loop his belt, those buttons and buckles were apparently deemed unnecessary in his haste to be here. Faranth only knows where the man's shirt is, abandoned instead for a towel at rest on the top of his head like some sort of cowl, catching the wet from hair long enough to brush against shoulderblades and cling to shoulders and clavicle as he swallows down air and that one good eye, as he comes around the divider WITH ALACRITY, fixates on R'hyn. "I —" YOU WHAT, ILA? It's hard to know, given the end of that sentence seems to be him standing there, having the audacity to drip at R'hyn. HE DOESN'T EVEN HAVE ON HIS BOOTS, MAN. Give him a moment as that grey eye narrows, as he takes one, two, three steps backward to look BACK OUT OF THE CURTAIN (like somebody is there) and back in to his weyrmate, brows rising as arms slowly rise and hands come to rest on his hips. "I take it the emergency is over now?" comes rough on dry tones, raspy and husky and only a hint amused.

"Don't-you-look-at-me-in-that-tone-of-voice," R'hyn says for that look Ila gives him, because he has to say something sarcastic and more intelligent than 'hubba-bubba' or 'get me out of this cast so you can do terrible things with that—' GESTURE. Right at his arm, attempting to fend of renewed thoughts sparked by his weyrmate's state. "You're too late! They stabbed me," is somehow piteous around the fury, blue-greys going big and soft, "I don't want to be stabbed. I'm tired of sleeping. I'm tired of being tired. I don't even know what day it is!" Shoes appear around the floor of the curtain, and R'hyn points with a pronounced, "THIEF!" Hiss of pain. This is fine. It's wide, doeish brown eyes that meet Ila's when he peeks around the corner, apprentice gaping like a fish out of water as he tries to ask if Ila needs help, offer explanation, anything before — nope — he's turning tail and power walking away again. "Thaaaat's right! Fuck. I don't want it." The anger doesn't go away, but it fades on a soft keen, Ryn's head thumping back against the pillows again to glare miserably at Ila'den, sweeping him from toweled head to bare toes in detail this time, gaze going dark, lips pressing to a mutinous line as though he doesn't like what he sees. Yeah. Sure, Heryn. "Kiss me, please. Before I go insensate." Does… does he actually push out his bottom lip in a pout? He does. What a jackass.

"That's news to me, husband," comes husky, raspy, lilting with hints of unfiltered burr, punctuated by the beginnings of amusement. "I was under the impression that you quite liked a good stabbing." Terrible, incorrigible, NO GOOD, VERY BAD WEYRHUSBAND. It's in the midst of rumbling, husky laughter that Ila'den's brows rise towards his hairline and the bronzerider moves towards his usual chair. Hands settle on the back of it, drag it toward R'hyn's bed, pausing only when boots bring forth an apprentice and Ila'den, considerably underdressed for the occasion of company, goes taut in a forward lean that makes him MORE CONSPICUOUS rather than LESS because apparently this is the only way that he knows how to be uncomfortable: in telling contrast of that wolfish smile that comes while he waits, in a manner meant to make onlookers feel just as uncomfortable if not more so than him. Somewhere, Fire is having an apoplexy about scars and giving Zen and Ila healery-indignant looks, but not here. OUT THERE IN FORT, SOMEWHERE. PROBABLY. DEFINITELY. STILL, bless those doe-eyed brown eyes, because Heryn is being THE. WORST. and Ila'den, if we're being honest, isn't exactly doing much to salvage the confidence of a sweet healer who clearly doesn't get paid enough to BE THIS BRAVE. BYE TINY FELICIA. "It is," Ila begins once they're alone again and his posture relaxes, shifting that too-big body into his chair, leaning towards R'hyn, "Day nine of month eight of turn two-thousand seven hundred and twenty-one. You are tired because you fell from a cliff and then — as if the falling was not bad enough — you had the audacity to break. In several places. In several inconvenient ways." And now he's leaning closer, pulling the towel from his head with one hand as the calloused digits of the other press against R'hyn's lips, apply pressure from top lip to bottom, drag even as his thumb dips inward, past lip, against teeth and tongue, in a manner altogether illicit. "And you are already insensate, Heryn. If you let the healers do their job, you'd be the correct kind of insensate that didn't get me pulled from my fucking bath by your fucking dragon." And he's closing that gap between them, dragging his hand away, meshing his lips against R'hyn's in a predatory surge upward, forward; in a brush of tongue against lips to complement a growl, a bite to lips as Ila'den pulls backward slowly, slowly, drags that bottom tier with him and lets go with another flick of the tip of tongue to abused mouth. THEN HE'S DROPPING HIS TOWEL ON R'HYN'S FACE, and settling back into his chair. "Do you want me to ask Fioreyla if she'll let us bring you home? Risali will probably grant Cita the time off to make sure you have a healer present if she agrees."

"How dare you. How dare you say those words to me, when I'm over here, looking like this, and you're over there, looking like—" Stutter. Falter. A softening around the edges of his gaze as he stops to actually think about Ila'den's dripping wet state, about that response time, about how and why he arrived so suddenly, "like… like the best damn thing I've ever seen in my life." UGH, uttered aloud, and thump goes his head again, likely to give himself another concussion at this rate. "How many people did you cause to pass out on the way over? Faranth, I'm glad I don't have to file those reports anymore. So hard to apologize with a straight face when it's your husband causing the fainting. 'Yes, ma'am, sorry, ma'am, I know, I know, the rampant masculinity. It happens to the best of us.' Have you ever considered wearing more clothes?" The little heeheehee of laughter that accompanies that errs on the side of delirious, causing him to frown and force sober anger back into his expression. NOT FUNNY. Super, duper, totally not funny. This is serious business, and so it is with a studious regard that he watches Ila's lips form words that he may or may not hear, eyes slowly, slowly narrowing on their every press, part, curve to form words that don't much look like kisses to him, ILA. "Yeah," Ryn says, absentminded in tone only as he responds with a floaty, "so they keep telling me. Gonna have a dashing scar though. Almost asked them to just take the eye so we can… match…," he trails off, focusing inwards as Ila leans close, breath hitching and then hitching again in response to the stabbing twinge of his ribs. He ignores the pain in favor of basking in the heat that rushes from head to toes, that spreads in a faint, telling flush across his chest, expressive even when he is not. Heryn himself is far too busy meeting Ila gaze for gaze, dark as lips part under guided pressure. Said lips curl ever so slightly at their edges for words that attempt to chide him, NO REGRETS flashing in metaphorical neon lights as his tongue lifts to curl around the pad of Ila'den's thumb, lips closing, cheeks going hollow, chin tilting up just enough to facilitate that backwards drag because this. This is what he wanted, expressed in a whimper against his weyrmate's mouth, scratched hand gathering up into raven hair, too lost in ankyloglossial articulation to care how damp and dripping it might be. He pours every inch of frustration into return pressure against Ila's lips, frustration at the healers, the pain, the separation, at himself for, however unintentionally, preying on Ila's fears in an attempt to get him here faster. It seeps from him in fractions, over too quickly, a long, low hum of appreciation for the drag of teeth on his lower lip ruined by the sudden thump of towel against his face. A punctuated "Nnf!" precedes a muffled, "Rude." And yet grumpy ire does not return, something soothed, quiet, and persistently exhausted in the face that reappears from behind the fabric. He keeps the towel for now, while the privacy of the curtains and the fear of another rampage assures Ila will be kept from prying eyes, thumb of his good hand kneading circles in against stitching as he curls it against his cheek. He rests the weight of his head against it as he lies there, watching Ila with soft, sad eyes, lips quirking once in a swift bounce that says I wish. "I already asked," he mumbles miserably, gaze dropping to stare at the mess he's made of the floor. "They said no." Which is, just maybe, the origin of the fit that has him looking sheepish as he reconsiders it, regrets, medication, or perhaps both pulling him into thought that pull his gaze into the middle distance for a stretch of long, empty silence.

"How dare I…? Hmm? How dare I… what, husband? Use your words. Go on. You can do it, baby. I believe in you. How dare I…" Ila'den's lips quirk, his brows raise, he waits for R'hyn to finish that train of thought and… emits more of that husky, low rumbling laughter. "You must not have seen very many good things, Heryn, if I'm the best thing in it," the bronzerider drawls, "and you're projecting. Again. I always dress this way," DUH, "just never in front of you, and if anybody fainted, it was because their very precious naivety about monsters and their blahblahblah existence was challenged." Ila leans forward, a brush of nose against nose, and a soft, husky, "Boo," preceding more rasping laughter, a kiss pressed to brow, a rumble damn-near a purr in his throat for what exactly it is that his weyrmate's mouth does to his finger. Then it doesn't matter. For just a moment, it doesn't matter because Ila'den is taking every bit of frustration, every single wordless complaint to be found in the press of lips and giving back forgiveness, giving back apologies; he communicates want, and need and… acceptance. It's okay. I'm here, and it's okay, it'sokayit'sokayit'okay. That's what he's for, that's why he's here, that's why he will always, always — "And yet…" is his answer to BEING RUDE around a shuddered exhale, as that grey eye opens slow and a hint of canines is bared around renewed grin. The edges soften, giving way to something hushed, something gentle, something that translates in Ila'den's hand when the pad of his thumb brushes against R'hyn's jaw and — one, two, three, four — Ila'den sighs. Then he moves. He uses ALL THAT BRUTE STRENGTH to move his baby over just a smidgen, just enough to make a little more room without being too jarring, without ruining placement and important LIMB-THINGS, and then he claims that space beside him, presses hard lines against a broken body because he knows that face, and there are very few things that Ila'den simply cannot endure. This is one of them. "I didn't ask you to ask again. I asked if you wanted me to ask." Because LET'S BE REAL. There's a WHOLE LOT OF DIFFERENT KINDS of intimidation between these two, and Ila'den is arguably the least personable one. Nose and lips nuzzle into temple, press a kiss and then paint words of, "I have a very angry bronze who's absolutely willing to acquire Leirith's special brand of… we will go with wrath, it's the kinder word."

"I've seen the sun rise over the High Reaches, and set on Ista's black sands. I've seen dragons born, held our children in my arms, and stared into the vastness of space beyond our planet and you're still the best thing I've ever seen in my life," Heryn says with 'I love you' conviction, taking Ila'den's provocative teases and turning them on their head with sudden seriousness. It doesn't last — it never does, much to his relief, much to his joy — necessary levity coming in the form of obvious truths ("of course, how forgetful of me") and self-effacing objections ("you'd be surprised, monsters can be very, mm, inspiring"), sotto voce drawl finally broken by laughter he can't help but echo, a face he can't help but trace, fingertips brushing the heights of cheekbones and the sink of cheeks with soft reverence that has not, and perhaps will never, truly fade. And this is why, this wordless communication, this reassurance of not only self but also his place in the world here, here, right next to this perfectly imperfect, brilliantly idiotic man that gives so much and inspires no less. Not even when he's being a rude and towelsmushing faces, R'hyn finding comfort in the smell of Ila'den's soap, in the familiar brush of their towel, so at odds with the clinical crisp detachment of pillows and sheets. He nuzzles it without meaning to, chin tilting to move his cheeks from thumb to towel and back, seeking comfort that isn't enough but will suffice because he's an adult, he's grown, and— he's way, way too relieved by the intent behind that sigh to be anything other than moved, tears pricking at the corners of eyes unbidden, unwelcome, unshed as he shifts, assists as best he can. Teeth sink into his lip to keep instinctive protests at bay, ignoring the wealth of not okay his body blares into his senses because he needs this more than he needs anything else. He needs the press of Ila'den up against him, to pull and push the edges of his towel to cover the exposure of ravaged backs, to sink into his weyrmate's heat and finally just… relax. "Wrath?" The inquiry is delayed, as though it's taken a few extra seconds to sink into his mind, as though, finally ensconced, finally safe, R'hyn might actually be submitting to the weight of exhaustion pressing in on him. "Ain't never seen her be wrathful," he admits, old drawl sneaking in to twist around tired words. "Just loud," he says in the tone of a person who can't say a damn thing about that. Thanks, Caps Dragon. You're the worst. There's another lull, another quiet stretch in which he might well have fallen asleep, face turned to press nose and lips into the hollow where Ila's throat meets shoulder, basking in the feel of skin against his. Then, so softly it barely merits the word 'whisper', "I just want to go home."

"Mm," comes a rumble of affection, a brush of lips to knuckles upon which Ila'den breathes, "I'd hate to see how you greet the things you despise, then." BECAUSE IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN SERIOUS, but that scrape of teeth says he is remembering distant times, back in Half Moon Bay, where a bartender met a broken man and ATTEMPTED TO BREAK HIS FACE. LOOK, BAE, WE RHYMED. "But I…" an exhale, another brush of thumb against skin — any skin — because he needs the contact, because turns and turns of shared breathes and secrets and bodies will never be enough to sate this craving, "… am the lucky one." AND HE WILL HEAR NO MORE ON IT. THERE WILL DEFINITELY BE A HAND OVER A MOUTH AND A 'HMM?' OF SARCY PROPORTIONS IF ANYBODY TRIES, UNMOVED BY LICKS OR TEETH OR ANY MANNER OF SOTTO VOCE DRAWLS BROKEN BY THE KIND OF LAUGHTER THAT… makes Ila'den's heart stammer out a frantic rhythm against his ribs; that filters through his veins like electricity up his spine and diminishes the shame of bruised and broken bodies until it's worth every minute. It got him here, it got him to this moment, to this… sanctuary. To his home, to R'hyn. There is not an abuse or a shame or an agonizing moment of pain, of giving up, of seeing the basest, ugliest, most horrifying aspects of human nature that Ila'den would surrender if it meant not having this. If it meant never getting to be in the presence of everything good for at least just a little while. "That's why I was using it as the kind word. I'm pretty sure she hasn't the faintest idea of how to be a queen. She'd just shout about how badass it was, and then Risali would grant me the death of exactly one thousand paper cuts from all of the paperwork she accrued during The Incident." IT WOULD BE BAD, HERYN. SO BAD. But just like Ila'den will always find R'hyn, just like R'hyn will always find Ila'den, Ila'den knows — and hears, and sees — that R'hyn's ability to stay awake is failing. It's in that silence that gentle fingers find more skin to move against, as if Ila'den's hands were placed upon ivory keys and Heryn's body were his piano. He hums a melody, the beginnings of a song, and then he sings, hushed and soft and husky, fingers moving and moving and moving, Ila'den humming between lyrical breaks. It's when R'hyn speaks that the bronzerider quiets, that he tilts his head and brings his ear near lips to hear and… goes still. For a moment it seems he might be done, but instead he whispers, "Sleep, baby. Go to sleep." Then his fingers pick up the melody in his head once more, his voice joining seamlessly. It's not until much later, when he's sure R'hyn is sound asleep that Ila'den extracts himself very carefully, leaves behind his towel and his usual need for modesty to go and demand an audience with a certain Fortian-dwelling redhead. Maybe, just maybe, he'll be lucky enough to convince the healer that R'hyn will heal better in his own home. Maybe he'll get to be surrounded by his family and ASSHOLE CATS instead of the offensive antiseptic of impersonal infirmaries. Maybe.

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