Post by wordy on Jan 25, 2012 10:54:23 GMT 10
Title: Careful where you stand
Rating: G
Prompt: #58 you’re more trouble than you’re worth
Summary: It had not taken much effort to coax him from his greenhouse, not nearly as much as Briar would have expected.
Even now, with the northern shore of Chorunn in sight, Crane maintains his displeasure about the whole expedition. Briar takes small delight in that; he had expected the older man to be the type to travel poorly, heaving his guts up over the railing, the water choppy below, his face a sickly pallor against the blue sky and the green sea. But Briar has grown used to disappointment, and watching Crane’s mouth twist in distaste will have to be enough compensation for the moment.
“It must be years since you’ve left Winding Circle,” he says mildly, coming up next to him by the railing, aware of how like a splinter he must be to a dedicate like Crane; the thought makes him grin. He turns his face into the wind and breathes in the smell of salt.
“Is it that obvious.” Crane’s inflection is dry and humourless, as always, but Briar is sure that he can hear the hint of wit beneath his words. It had not taken much effort to coax him from his greenhouse, not nearly as much as Briar would have expected; perhaps Crane isn’t as sour about this trip as he likes to imply.
Briar shrugs. “Just an observation.”
There is no jetty on the island; the crew begin to lower some rowboats. The two mages watch as the men capably manoeuvre the boats over the tossing waves, all the way into shore. The trees look dark and low against the skyline, roots thick and gnarled in the sand. Briar takes another deep breath, tattoos shifting slowly over his hands, already anticipating the wonders that are awaiting him.
There’s not much by way of accommodation, they find, once landing. Briar swats at a bug by his neck, lips twisting; this, at least, will stir up Crane’s temper. It’s only when the crew from the ship depart again and Briar discovers that the locals have only provided them with one open-floor hut that his good humour twitches. Then he shrugs and drops his things in a corner, beside the softest-looking sleeping mat. If plants can adapt to their environment, then so can he.
He’s ankle deep in water by the time Crane finds him again, trousers rolled up to his knees. The tide is going out, sucking at his legs as it creeps back. He looks up to see Crane watching him from the beach, wearing an expression that is weary and unimpressed and altogether too much like Niko for comfort.
“What?” asks Briar, feeling suddenly tetchy. He plunges his hands back into the water and wiggles his fingers.
Crane walks closer, giving the retreating waves a wide berth. Even so, Briar has to strain to hear him. “Nothing. I was just wondering why unruly boys have such a predilection for making a mess of themselves.”
Briefly, Briar wonders whether he should latch onto the fact that Crane thinks him an unruly boy. It’s nothing new, though. Not really. And his clothes are safer than any other part of him, every stitch and seam brimming with Sandry. Perhaps Crane had never been allowed to make mudpies as a child; that would explain a great many things.
He raises his hands out of the water, feels it running down his arms, wet and cool. “Weed,” he says, raising an eyebrow. It feels strange between his fingers, even stranger between his toes. Slimy. “There’s heaps of it out here.”
“I’ve seen where we’re to stay,” says Crane, evidently ignoring him. “And I’ve talked to the locals.”
Briar hunches and lets the weed go, trying very had not to care what Crane is saying. Not that he does. Care, that is. “So?”
“Their houses are almost as fine as we have back home; they seem to think it amusing to put us in that shamble of a place.”
That’s a surprise. Briar laughs, imagining the conversation that Crane had just come from, trying to reason with people who considered this one big practical joke.
Crane frowns. “You’re not taking this seriously.”
“It’s only for a week,” says Briar reasonably, wading out of the water. He doesn’t tell Crane that he’s slept in worse places; who knows what kind of reaction that would get?
The afternoon is reasonably cool, the sun just beginning to set. He stops to watch it, hands on hips, with Crane beside him. Oddly, he finds himself thinking of Tris, stuck at Lightsbridge: she would have liked this.
“I don’t see how we’re expected to sleep in such a place,” says Crane stubbornly.
Briar shakes his head, smiling. “Just close your eyes. It’s easy,” he says, before walking away.
On the third day, Briar wakes feeling as though his skin is crawling; he sits up and throws off his shirt to find his body littered with bites. Sighing, he crawls from his sleeping mat to rummage through his bags. At least he came prepared.
Crane, it seems, was slightly remiss in this. He wakes cursing and itching. Briar considers offering him some balm, but then remembers that he’s an unruly boy and decides to go for a morning walk among the mangroves instead, grinning as he leaves the hut, pulling a fresh shirt over his head.
Their research is going well, despite everything. Crane gets more irritable, which doesn’t fail to amuse Briar. He does try and behave himself, a little, obediently bagging cuttings and samples or writing down notes while Crane dictates. Perhaps it’s even more amusing to know that Crane can’t honestly blame him for anything.
It’s the fifth day—only two more sleeps until the ship home is due to arrive—when Crane corners him one morning, thin fingers digging lightly into his wrist. Briar raises his eyebrows but says nothing.
“You’re not itching,” says Crane.
Ah. Caught out.
“You’re not itching,” Crane repeats, eyes narrowed, “and there have been bugs the entire time we’ve been here. I can even see the bite marks on your arms.”
Briar glances down and sees that there are indeed small, pink bite marks on his arms. He can’t help but be a little impressed at Crane’s observational skills. Though he’d figured that he’d have been caught out much earlier than this.
He shrugs. “So?”
“You’re insufferable,” Crane hisses at him.
Briar laughs. “I’m insufferable?”
Crane lets go of his arm as though he’s been burned, stalking out of the hut. It only makes Briar laugh harder when he realises the truth: even now that he’s been caught red-handed and it’s obvious that he has soothing balm, Crane is still too proud, too haughty, to ask him for some.
It’s more difficult navigating their way back over the waves in the rowboats, though the men wielding the oars seem entirely at ease. Briar sits with his things between his feet, trying not to let the sea spray bother him too much. Across from him, Crane is silent, looking out over the water. Still irritated, apparently. Briar had relented a few hours after their confrontation, and Crane had accepted some balm grudgingly. It’s entertaining, Briar thinks, appearing to be the bigger man when, in fact, he’s nothing of the sort. Crane wouldn’t agree, and Rosethorn will probably scold him for it when he gets back, but for now it makes him smile.
“What?” asks Crane suspiciously, turning his gaze away from the sea.
“Nothing.”
Rating: G
Prompt: #58 you’re more trouble than you’re worth
Summary: It had not taken much effort to coax him from his greenhouse, not nearly as much as Briar would have expected.
Even now, with the northern shore of Chorunn in sight, Crane maintains his displeasure about the whole expedition. Briar takes small delight in that; he had expected the older man to be the type to travel poorly, heaving his guts up over the railing, the water choppy below, his face a sickly pallor against the blue sky and the green sea. But Briar has grown used to disappointment, and watching Crane’s mouth twist in distaste will have to be enough compensation for the moment.
“It must be years since you’ve left Winding Circle,” he says mildly, coming up next to him by the railing, aware of how like a splinter he must be to a dedicate like Crane; the thought makes him grin. He turns his face into the wind and breathes in the smell of salt.
“Is it that obvious.” Crane’s inflection is dry and humourless, as always, but Briar is sure that he can hear the hint of wit beneath his words. It had not taken much effort to coax him from his greenhouse, not nearly as much as Briar would have expected; perhaps Crane isn’t as sour about this trip as he likes to imply.
Briar shrugs. “Just an observation.”
There is no jetty on the island; the crew begin to lower some rowboats. The two mages watch as the men capably manoeuvre the boats over the tossing waves, all the way into shore. The trees look dark and low against the skyline, roots thick and gnarled in the sand. Briar takes another deep breath, tattoos shifting slowly over his hands, already anticipating the wonders that are awaiting him.
There’s not much by way of accommodation, they find, once landing. Briar swats at a bug by his neck, lips twisting; this, at least, will stir up Crane’s temper. It’s only when the crew from the ship depart again and Briar discovers that the locals have only provided them with one open-floor hut that his good humour twitches. Then he shrugs and drops his things in a corner, beside the softest-looking sleeping mat. If plants can adapt to their environment, then so can he.
He’s ankle deep in water by the time Crane finds him again, trousers rolled up to his knees. The tide is going out, sucking at his legs as it creeps back. He looks up to see Crane watching him from the beach, wearing an expression that is weary and unimpressed and altogether too much like Niko for comfort.
“What?” asks Briar, feeling suddenly tetchy. He plunges his hands back into the water and wiggles his fingers.
Crane walks closer, giving the retreating waves a wide berth. Even so, Briar has to strain to hear him. “Nothing. I was just wondering why unruly boys have such a predilection for making a mess of themselves.”
Briefly, Briar wonders whether he should latch onto the fact that Crane thinks him an unruly boy. It’s nothing new, though. Not really. And his clothes are safer than any other part of him, every stitch and seam brimming with Sandry. Perhaps Crane had never been allowed to make mudpies as a child; that would explain a great many things.
He raises his hands out of the water, feels it running down his arms, wet and cool. “Weed,” he says, raising an eyebrow. It feels strange between his fingers, even stranger between his toes. Slimy. “There’s heaps of it out here.”
“I’ve seen where we’re to stay,” says Crane, evidently ignoring him. “And I’ve talked to the locals.”
Briar hunches and lets the weed go, trying very had not to care what Crane is saying. Not that he does. Care, that is. “So?”
“Their houses are almost as fine as we have back home; they seem to think it amusing to put us in that shamble of a place.”
That’s a surprise. Briar laughs, imagining the conversation that Crane had just come from, trying to reason with people who considered this one big practical joke.
Crane frowns. “You’re not taking this seriously.”
“It’s only for a week,” says Briar reasonably, wading out of the water. He doesn’t tell Crane that he’s slept in worse places; who knows what kind of reaction that would get?
The afternoon is reasonably cool, the sun just beginning to set. He stops to watch it, hands on hips, with Crane beside him. Oddly, he finds himself thinking of Tris, stuck at Lightsbridge: she would have liked this.
“I don’t see how we’re expected to sleep in such a place,” says Crane stubbornly.
Briar shakes his head, smiling. “Just close your eyes. It’s easy,” he says, before walking away.
On the third day, Briar wakes feeling as though his skin is crawling; he sits up and throws off his shirt to find his body littered with bites. Sighing, he crawls from his sleeping mat to rummage through his bags. At least he came prepared.
Crane, it seems, was slightly remiss in this. He wakes cursing and itching. Briar considers offering him some balm, but then remembers that he’s an unruly boy and decides to go for a morning walk among the mangroves instead, grinning as he leaves the hut, pulling a fresh shirt over his head.
Their research is going well, despite everything. Crane gets more irritable, which doesn’t fail to amuse Briar. He does try and behave himself, a little, obediently bagging cuttings and samples or writing down notes while Crane dictates. Perhaps it’s even more amusing to know that Crane can’t honestly blame him for anything.
It’s the fifth day—only two more sleeps until the ship home is due to arrive—when Crane corners him one morning, thin fingers digging lightly into his wrist. Briar raises his eyebrows but says nothing.
“You’re not itching,” says Crane.
Ah. Caught out.
“You’re not itching,” Crane repeats, eyes narrowed, “and there have been bugs the entire time we’ve been here. I can even see the bite marks on your arms.”
Briar glances down and sees that there are indeed small, pink bite marks on his arms. He can’t help but be a little impressed at Crane’s observational skills. Though he’d figured that he’d have been caught out much earlier than this.
He shrugs. “So?”
“You’re insufferable,” Crane hisses at him.
Briar laughs. “I’m insufferable?”
Crane lets go of his arm as though he’s been burned, stalking out of the hut. It only makes Briar laugh harder when he realises the truth: even now that he’s been caught red-handed and it’s obvious that he has soothing balm, Crane is still too proud, too haughty, to ask him for some.
It’s more difficult navigating their way back over the waves in the rowboats, though the men wielding the oars seem entirely at ease. Briar sits with his things between his feet, trying not to let the sea spray bother him too much. Across from him, Crane is silent, looking out over the water. Still irritated, apparently. Briar had relented a few hours after their confrontation, and Crane had accepted some balm grudgingly. It’s entertaining, Briar thinks, appearing to be the bigger man when, in fact, he’s nothing of the sort. Crane wouldn’t agree, and Rosethorn will probably scold him for it when he gets back, but for now it makes him smile.
“What?” asks Crane suspiciously, turning his gaze away from the sea.
“Nothing.”
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!