4/8/99

Tarrant walks here from the Central Atrium.

Tarrant has arrived.

Despite a limp off his left leg, Tarrant walks as if he is perennially on stage, ever observed. He isn't a short man, but neither is he excessively tall. He is wiry of build, but not so much so that he could be termed skinny. Rich auburn-brown hair is combed back into a slightly old-fashioned cut, too long to be corporate, too short to be daring. Intense eyes of a grayish-green lurk beneath neatly aristocratic brows. His facial features are almost upper-class, although a great deal of that is because of how he carries himself. He moves with a swagger and dramatic bearing. His voice has a distinct drawl, a purred tone to it, although he is still comprehensible.

Tarrant is dressed in his usual archaic style, but perhaps a bit more practically than usual. He wears a shorter tailed jacket of non-descript deep brown over a white button-down of combed cotton. The collar of the shirt is high, and held shut by a simple silver-toned clasp. Dark blue jeans fall to single turn cuffs over square-toed boots of a rich deep brown. One of the boots is missing, and his left ankle is contained in a cast. Crutches are required for Tarrant to walk.

Soft thump, quiet squeak, step. Rinse. Repeat. Tarrant crutches his way through the corridor rather unobtrusively, which admittedly, is not his normal method. He's just not a very sneaky individual as a rule. Or at least by the rules that people like to read.

Corian is, as per usual, absorbed in her work. It's made somewhat difficult, though, by the presence of an admirer. One of the younger Sectassians has apparently decided that her lap is an excellent place to take a snooze; as such, she has to work around the small child. It makes for interesting use of her portable terminal, at the very least. For once, miraculously, radar doesn't alert her to your presence, and so she keeps working.

Tarrant wends his way through the milling crowd and into a small unmarked office. After a small while has passed, he returns, a thin folder held in his teeth as he is somewhat lacking in handage at the moment. Spotting you on his return journey he alters his course somewhat, making his way in your direction. His greeting is pitched relatively quietly in deference to the sleeping child, "Affernoon, 'Orian." He pauses, looks sheepish, and removes the folder from his mouth, "Good afternoon, rather."

Corian glances up at the familiar voice mangling her name. "Good afternoon, van'chela," she replies, voice also pitched quietly. Let sleeping Sectassians lie, that sort of thing. "Should you be up and about yet?"

Tarrant pauses a beat at the question, he hadn't even thought of that. "I don't suppose anybody's going to object overmuch. Besides, as nice as resting is, there is a limit to how long I wish to hang out in a refitted janitor's closet." He gestures with the folder, "And I had records I wished to examine. So I figured I'd best fetch them."

Corian manages not to look exasperated. She knows you, after all, and how likely you are to rest. "Still, perhaps you should sit for a moment? It would not be good, after all, if you did too much too quickly."

Tarrant shifts back to drop carefully into an unoccupied chair, fumbling somewhat with the crutches. He must not be as breakable as Clara thinks, as he seems to be somewhat unfamiliar with the things. "Sitting does sound like an idea. And I promise, I wasn't out to get into trouble. Just to pick up this file, then maybe the dining hall. No tree climbing or any of the like." Sitting down is indeed a good thing, Tarrant gains a bit of color as he does so. "Figured the file'd keep me too busy for trouble for a while."

Corian inquires, with a glance at the file in question, "Would it be worthwhile to ask what it contains?" After a brief glance to the child in her lap, she adds, "Xalin speaks no Standard beyond very basic greetings." And he looks to be about three; even if he were fluent in the language, he's even less likely a spy than Corian.

Tarrant half-grins at the sleeping child, looking somewhat bemused. He glances around at the room at large however and modifies his reply somewhat. "A department structure document. Who answers to who, where the lines of authority lie. It is a number of months old. I am hoping to decipher reference to my new met acquaintance."

Corian inclines her head to that, expression thoughtful. "That would be most convenient if you were to find it, yes. At the very least, it would answer some questions." The conversation has been quiet, but perhaps not quiet enough, as the child wakes, and turns to regard you with brilliant green eyes that hold maybe a little suspicion. (This is -his- Corian, you see. You'll just have to find another.) Noting the lack of slumber, Corian speaks quietly to him in a rather sibilant dialect.

Tarrant nods thoughtfully, one thumb running carefully along the surface of the folder. As the child wakes Tarrant returns the suspicious look with an innocent one, although it is quickly followed by him sticking his tongue out at the boy as soon as Tarrant thinks Corian isn't looking. Yep, Tarrant is a very mature individual, really. Making faces at small children is right up there certainly.

Of course, the tongue sticking outing elicits a protest from the child. Being three, Xalin is also quite mature. He's also susceptible to bribery, however. After a few words from Corian, he gives her an enthusiastic hug, then climbs down from her lap to flee the room. Naturally, he sticks his tongue out at Tarrant as he leaves. "He's a good lad," Corian observes, looking after the kidlet rather fondly. "Though it would be somewhat more convenient if he -didn't- keep fleeing his mother to sleep down here."

You faintly hear a chime mark the hour.

"He's just doing his duty and keeping your lap warm," Tarrant replies all but teasingly, "He can tell you don't have a cat or a dog, see, and is engaging in public service. Inspirational to witness such civic mindedness in one so young."

Corian chuckles very quietly at that, with a shake of her head. "Ah, but my terminal does so just as well, and does not demand stories or cookies. It also does not have a mother who worries about its location." After another headshake, she inquires, with a gesture towards the file, "Is there anything that I can do to help, with that?"

"Yeah, but..." Tarrant addresses the terminal, "Not to hurt your feelings here, Mr. Computer Sir," He straightens again, speaking to you, "The kid's a lot cuter than the machine." At the question he regards the slim folder. "I, uh, I would like very much to say yes, as it's in the ridiculous cryptography department's homemade language, that as I recall you speak far better than I. However, of late I have demanded far too much of your time as it is."

Oddly, Corian's terminal takes that moment to beep loudly at her, demanding her attention. She blinks, then laughs quietly. "He did not mean to offend," she murmurs to the machine. Turning back to you, she says, "But I would rather help, van'chela. I am not doing anything that cannot be done later."

Tarrant cannot resist quiet laughter at the machine's apparent objection. He does however gesture to the hallway, "Still, you are at work, yes? Perhaps not the best of times to be harassing you for aid." He smiles, glancing around, "Although goodness knows, you'd think all these terrible people would stay out of your office."

Corian's eyes hold a hint of humor at that last. "I should actually be working in there," she observes, with a graceful gesture towards the general offices. "There is a desk waiting for me that is sadly neglected. But I find that I prefer the bustle. If nothing else, I am that much more likely to remember to -stop- working at the proper time." She glances at the folder, then observes, "I set my hours, van'chela. My employers do not mind when I do the work, as long as it is completed. This can be finished just as easily this evening. And I do not mind saying that I would like a break. The Gileni language is not really intended to be spoken, I believe, but is used more as a puzzle to the mind and the tongue." That last is with a rather rueful shake of her head.

Tarrant's eyes follow the gesture towards the office, nodding thoughtfully. "Sometimes it is rather nice to be around other people, yeah? People seem to be gregarious as a rule, and too much solitude is often wearying." He shakes his head, "A break's a good idea, it would seem, but not necessarily for this lunacy. You should spend the evening resting, not working."

Corian starts to key off her terminal, ignoring its pings of protest. "Van'chela," she observes, sounding amused, "For someone who wishes assistance, you seem to be making quite an effort to keep me from helping. My work is restful, when interspersed with alternate occupations. That will suit."

Tarrant perceives the protestingly pingy terminal with perhaps a portent of problems to be. He shakes his head slightly, "I just feel exceptionally guilty for monopolizing so much of your valuable time."

Corian shakes her head at that, with a quick smile. "Tarrant, there is no need to feel guilty. I have plenty of time to complete my work, and I am glad to assist you as I may. Friends may, after all, spend time together, yes?"

For a brief moment something only hinted at flashes through Tarrant's gray tinged eyes, but not acknowledging it he simply nods with ritual amiability, "True enough, true enough." He glances around, "Perhaps someplace that is a little less monitored? Every danged embassy on this lvel has the hall bugged, pretty much anyplace but here'd be good."

Corian inclines her head at that, with a faint smile. "Of course," she says, closing up the still-blinking terminal and getting to her feet. "I shall leave you the choice of location." And if she notices anything other than that ritual amiability, she doesn't comment on it.

See, Tarrant is a lot better at making decisions than his player is. He quickly runs down his list of options. His place, just scary. Corian's place, rude to suggest. The library, well, folks don't like people to talk in libraries. Which leaves, "The dining hall? Or perhaps someplace in the Java Quarter that serves food?"

Corian inclines her head. "Either would suit me," she says, with a smile. "Though perhaps the dining hall would be better, as it would involve less walking for you."

"The Java Quarter has fewer people however, so it becomes something of a toss-up." Tarrant says with a wry grin. Look, it's his turn to play the 'You make a decision' game.

Corian turns it right back on you, saying mildly, "Whichever you prefer, van'chela. Or we could attempt my quarters. If you are hungry, I might even have something other than lasagna." Ooh, she's evil, she adds another option as well.

Okay, this is getting more and more complicated, but Tarrant simply ups the ante, poker face intact, "Or I could cook, if we went to your place." He shakes his head, "I really need to torment the powers that be into at least ceding me a microwave, I swear."

Corian considers that for a moment. "Perhaps we would have to purchase foodstuffs from the Java Quarter, though, if you were to cook, should we go to my quarters. I am not certain what you need, after all."

"I think we're carving an if circle here," Tarrant says with a quiet laugh, beginning the complicated procedure of hefting himself upright and onto the crutches.

Corian moves to offer what assistance she can, even briefly setting down her precious machine. "Well, -if- we make a decision..." She shakes her head, then, with a laugh. "Why don't we just go to my quarters? You can cook another time, when you are able to walk on your own."

And there we have it, someone made a decision. Accepting the assistance with as much grace as he can manage, Tarrant murmurs his thanks, tucking the folder between fingers and the handle of one crutch. "Okay, that sounds like an idea to me."

Corian takes up her poor, neglected machine once more, starting for the door. "Quick," she says, with a chuckle, "We had best hurry, before another option presents itself."

[Travelspam to Corian's quarters deleted.]

Corian takes up the teddy bear from the couch as she comes into the room, carefully tucking it atop her laptop on her desk. "Did you say whether you were hungry, van'chela? Food is very easily obtained."

Tarrant follows you into the room, a series of soft thumps and squeaks. He looks a bit sheepish, but nods. "Food was the primary reason I ventured forth from my room to start with. But the dining hall was a bit crowded, I figured I'd get the file first."

Corian nods agreeably enough, and moves over to the cooking section of the room. "We have... more lasagna, of course. We have vegetable stew, we have various pasta-related dishes. Does any of that appeal?"

"Any of that sounds wonderful," Tarrant does not stand on formality this once, instead making his way to his accustomed position on the couch, levering down onto it. "Which is easiest?"

Corian's tone holds a hint of humor. "It is all about the same, unfortunately. You will just have to decide on your own."

Kind enough to make a decision, seeing as you made the last one, Tarrant suggests, "Stew? If you would not mind terribly? It is, after all, a wonderful substance."

Corian nods amiably to that, starting to rummage in the freezer. "Most wonderful, yes," she agrees, with a smile. "And it is a decision well made."

Tarrant carefully tucks his crutches down on the floor, resting them flat and as out of the way as he can possibly manage. "I was raised on vegetable stew, or rather my mother tried to. I was about fifteen I guess before I stopped complaining and realized it was actually wonderful stuff. I suppose we all are like that about some things however."

Corian tucks a bowl into the warmer, and comes over to sit on the other side of the couch. "Oh, of course," she agrees, with a smile. "There are some things which are an acquired taste, such as this stew."

"Were you raised vegetarian?" Tarrant asks in vague curiosity as he carefully tears open the seals on the folder, "Or was that a choice made later?"

Corian shakes her head in answer to the first question. "I chose to do so. My parents," she adds, sounding a bit amused, "Are fervent omnivores. But one of the earlier planets that I visited had... interesting methods of meat preservation. I found it preferable to eat a meatless diet, and got into the habit."

Having removed the seals, Tarrant spreads open the file folder with its onion thin pages. Each is covered in measured type, but small, and host of it. His expression is somewhat dismayed as he glances over the first few lines, "I know code is important, but why can't it at least make sense to the poor agents?" He nods to your explanation, "Ahh, certainly an understandable reason."

Corian leans closer to get a look at the type. "Perhaps we should put this aside until after we have eaten. If nothing else, those pages look like they will not withstand a wayward bit of stew." And, as if on cue, the warming unit chimes, and she gets to her feet.

Tarrant is more than game to set the folder aside, his enthusiasm for the work at hand somewhat dimmed. "Not to mention it'll likely make a lot more sense after food." Hello, wishful thinking?

Corian nods amiably as she comes back with stew and bread and beverages. "It is somewhat easier to think on a full stomach," she agrees. She's an optimist. "You -have- had something to eat since that lasagna, haven't you, van'chela?"

Tarrant shakes his head, looking somewhat chagrined, "I haven't, no. That was why I was venturing out. The great quest for food, kind of like the grail, but less prayer required."

Corian puts out your own portion of the meal, casting a faintly exasperated look at you. "Tarrant, you do need to take better care of yourself. If you did not wish to leave your quarters, you could have commed me. Please do so in the future."

Tarrant's ears redden, "I'm capable of getting around, really." He murmurs his thanks for the food, carefully balancing the stew bowl in his hand. "Sleeping in just seemed to be the better part of valor."

Corian nods her agreement to that. "Sleep was most definitely what you needed, yes," she says, starting on her own stew. It's very full of vegetables, very happy. "But not, perhaps, to excess."

You faintly hear a chime mark the hour.

Tarrant makes a polite inroad into his own stew, "Wonderful stuff, Corian." He shakes his head, "I am sorry, I was trying to do things correctly. They were just somewhat complicated."

Corian says patiently, "You need not apologize, van'chela. I should have made sure you had food handy, that is all. And I'm glad you approve of the stew. There are not many, I have found, who agree to so many vegetables." She's eating, too, of course.

Tarrant shakes his head, scooping up another bite, "Corian, I'm a man grown, I'm supposed to keep track of such things. You're not to be having to do things for me. Besides," he adds with a hint of humor, "I could have always ordered a pizza and engaged in the fine art of scaring the delivery-person."

Corian looks rather amused at that. "Ah, so you are not ten, as my cousin has decided? I am somewhat less easily frightened than delivery people, though, and more than willing to share what I have."

Tarrant shifts his casted foot out in front of him a bit, stretching out the knee. Grinning wryly he shakes his head in a negative, "No, not ten at all. I have a good sixty years on that. Still, if he prefers me ten, I can manage that as well. Official age is the work of a moment's effort to change."

Corian laughs quietly at that, shaking her head. "I think I would prefer that Jay remain incorrect, actually, though I appreciate the offer. Were he to see that you were ten, his expression would be entertaining, at least."

Tarrant scoops up another bite of soup, his eyes glittering with mild amusement, "After all I have been mean enough to poor Master Jay already. He asked what I do. I informed him of the official party line, pointing out that the Department investigates electronic crime. He became suddenly so innocent."

Corian's spoon pauses, and she casts a decidedly amused glance in your direction. "Van'chela, you are horrible. I wish I could have seen it. Poor Jay..." She shakes her head, laughing quietly as she starts to eat once more. "He really isn't that bad, though. We had quite a pleasant conversation, when we dined together the other day. He was most helpful."

Tarrant laughs softly, shrugging very slightly, "I figured it was the fastest way to deter the line of conversation. And I am, as you say, quite horrible. It has been the effort of a lifetime to refine my horribility." More soup is consumed, still with care to be polite. "Helpful?"

Corian nods to that as she sets aside her mostly-empty soup bowl, taking up her tea. "Oh, yes. Honalee gave me some advice that I was finding somewhat difficult to take. Jay offered an alternate opinion." Her lips curve in a quick smile. "I cannot really say which is right, but I have more to consider now, at least."

Tarrant notes the vagueness, taking another bite or two and emptying his bowl. Something tells him that what advice that was isn't his business, and even if it weren't objectionable, it would probably be another of those things he does not want to hear, instead preferring to exist in his haze of a falsified existance. "It is always helpful to have alternate opinions, but in the end it is only your own that counts."

Corian inclines her head to that. "Oh, quite, yes. I suppose I knew that, too, but it took a bit of a nudge for me to realize it." She makes a dismissive gesture with one hand, as she moves to dispose of her bowl. "It is not a situation likely to occur. Would you like some more stew? I have plenty."

Tarrant regards the bottom of his bowl, shaking his head in a polite negative. "No, but I thank you for feeding me. It's appreciated." He does appear likely confused, "It is not likely that you will have an opinion?"

Corian chuckles quietly as she takes up your bowl along with her own and heads into the kitchen unit. "It is unlikely that I will have a suitor, or the need to attract one." Yes, she's definitely out of eyeshot, as she's disposing of the dishes and the remaining stew.

Which is indeed a good thing, as Tarrant's expression would probably clearly state that something was up. A pained misture of wistfulness and rather battered upon hope, it is entirely unlike his more normal amused state. Knowing he should keep his mouth shut, he still says, "The latter, of course not. The former I would find worthy of debate indeed." There's a pause and he manages to look simply distantly thoughtful rather than quite profoundly effected. "This was the subject of Honalee and Jay's advice?"

Corian, after a moment of rummaging, returns with some of those fatinamer cookies--or however they're spelled. She casts a curious look at you as she sits down. "It was, yes. Hona seems to think that having a partner of some sort is a necessity. Jay did not find it so crucial." Offering the cookies, she inquires, "Are you all right, van'chela?" Yes, she's oblivious.

Tarrant accepts a cookie with a nod of thanks, and adds another nod to the question. "Fine, certainly, fine." There's a half-beat pause, and he snags a bote of cookie to cover his discomfiture.

Corian takes a cookie of her own, nibbling on it during the silence that continues to stretch, nigh unto the snapping point. "So. Where did that file go?" Okay, now that's just a -bad- segue, very unlike Corian.

In the silence Tarrant cannot help but cast a single rather lost look in your direction, but the question brings him up and he searches for the file folder, "Right over here. Perhaps we should split it in half?"

Corian catches the lost look, and blinks, looking decidedly concerned. "Van'chela... what is it? Are you all right? The work can wait, of course..."

You faintly hear a chime mark the hour.

Uh-oh, caught, Tarrant tries to summon up a more normal expression, shaking his head. "I'm all right, there's nothing wrong with the work. Aside from it needing to be done." Looking rather sheepish, and -blushing- as bright a red as even Ela can manage, he rummages through the stack of papers.

Corian blinks. Blushing, odd looks... she senses a grave disturbance in the force. Looking troubled, she nods slowly. "Of course, van'chela," she says slowly. "If you do not wish to tell me, of course, I understand." No, she doesn't.

Oh great, guilt and embarrassment. This is not a good mix, Tarrant might as well hide under a cushion, as he's all but a puddle of sheery misery. "If I could think of a way that would not be offensive, I would." Rummage, "First half or second half?"

Corian says quietly, sounding a bit subdued, "The second half, please." After a brief pause, she adds, "I'm not quite so easily offended as you would think, van'chela."

Tarrant carefully splits the file in half, proffering the thin pages. He looks up at you a moment, and for the half-blink of an eye, it's as if the things he wants to say will be said. But then your words of before are brought to mind and he instead shakes his head. "But I am all too easily offensive."

Corian takes the pages with a quiet murmur of thankyou. She regards you for a moment, then shakes her head slightly. "As you wish, van'chela." With that, then, she turns to the first of the pages, apparently becoming engrossed right away in the work.

Tarrant continues to watch you for the space of a couple of moments before forcing himself to pay attention to his own work, "It's likely to be well hidden, if it's here at all."

Corian's gaze shifts upwards, then towards you. "Of course," she agrees mildly. She's not a raw newbie at this sort of thing, after all.

Tarrant is however a newbie at making polite conversation in situations such as this. Melt, cower, very small Tarrant over here, being inoffensive.

Corian, after a few moments, gets to her feet, a small frown making a light furrow between her brows. She rummages in the desk for a pair of glasses--magnifying glasses, from the hugeness given to her eyes when she puts them on. Glancing at the small print, with glasses, she nods. "Much better," she murmurs. Looking back to you, with those now-massive gray eyes, she inquires, "Would you like a pair? I have two." See, she's going to ignore the awkwardness, for the moment.

Tarrant shakes his head amiably, thankful for the ignoring occuring. "No, but thank you. As slowly as I can hash through it, it's not a problem. But I appreciate the offer." He looks a bit sheepish, "This stuff is crazed, even for code."

Corian returns to perch on the couch, lightly curling her legs under herself. "It is definitely not easy going, no," she agrees quietly. "I can understand why they would have this for general storage, but when giving information to people who -work- for the department... perhaps they just wish to make sure that we -really- want the information." She's still just a bit subdued--or maybe she's just thoughtful.

"Or maybe they don't want me to have it," Tarrant pauses, sighing softly. "Now I think I'm getting paranoid about everything."

Corian peers at you over the tops of her glasses. "Perhaps," she observes. "Perhaps not. In a situation like this, it is difficult to determine who you should trust."

Tarrant holds his finger to his place, looking up, he likes looking up, you're there after all. "It is indeed. There gets to be...well, a point at which one no longer knows where to jump."

Corian, gaze shifting back to the sheet before her, nods slowly. "Of course," she agrees quietly. Gray eyes lifting once more, she says lightly, "You -can- trust me, though, Tarrant."

"You I trust," Tarrant replies softly, turning back to his pages. "It's me I'm not so sure I trust."

Corian blinks at that, though, with effort, she keeps her eyes on the paper before her. "I... I am not sure I understand that."

"I wish I could explain it better, but I find there is a great deal I am no longer sure of, although I had thought I understood my life, and my place in it." Tarrant says, eyes still on his paper, but no longer moving across the words.

Corian, on the other hand, does lift her gaze to watch you, silent for a moment. "I do not find that quite so difficult to understand, van'chela. This... uncertainty. I do not believe it is such an unusual thing, if that is any comfort."

"It is...a puzzlement," Tarrant murmurs, looking somewhat amused despite his wistfully distracted state. He's normally much better at controlling his expression, it must be the battering and subsequent breaking that has him so open. "It is greatly a situation of reactions. Which action will cause which reaction. Which actions are wise, which are not. But how to be certain? A puzzlement."

You faintly hear a chime mark the hour.

Corian takes off those magnifying glasses, reducing her eyes to their normal size. "But other people's reactions are so often impossible to determine, van'chela," she observes quietly. "Even for those who make a concerted effort to tell, there are always times when the uncertain occurs. You really cannot be certain, not all the time."

"No, I suppose it is not possible. Still, I may not be human but I am close enough for goverment work, and so I keep trying to figure things out in advance. We all do I suppose. Which form of address would be polite," Tarrant muses quietly, "Which words are appropriate. However there come occasions when second-guessing turns into third and fourth and even fifth guessing."

Corian is quiet for a long moment, still watching you thoughtfully. "Why not just speak, without worrying quite so much about what is appropriate? It is not -that- important to avoid offending people all the time, is it? Your friends will understand. Do the others matter so much?"

"Friends are still people," Tarrant says quietly, tracing a line against the smooth paper. "And as possibly offended as anyone else."

Corian shakes her head fractionally, finally setting aside the papers and getting to her feet. She moves to start up some tea, saying quietly, "I did not say that, van'chela. But we will more easily forgive, or understand that you did not offend intentionally. Would you like something to drink?"

"Water would be a wonderful thing, if you wouldn't mind?" Tarrant asks quietly. "Still, the offending of friends is to be avoided. Losing a friend over such an offense, so easily prevented..."

Corian returns with a glass of water for you, and the spicy tea for herself. Settling next to you, she says, with a faint smile, "It does not sound that it is so easily prevented, if it is causing you this trouble."

Tarrant accepts the glass of water, "Thank you." He takes a long sip from the glass, rotating it carefully in his hands. "I think I am being perhaps a fool. Patience has served me so far, I do not understand this sudden inability I have to adhere to working policy."

Corian sips lightly at her tea, fingers curling lightly around her mug. "Patience is virtuous, surely," she agrees quietly. "And working policy exists for very good reasons, of course. But... if I can ask, for what are you having difficulty being patient, van'chela?" Her expression is a bit concerned, gray eyes focused on your face.

"Patient, and perhaps afraid, often the two are found together." Tarrant muses, regarding the droplets of condensation on the glass, unable to meet your eyes. There's a pause, and he answers your question with a question. "I know you were not with the department overlong, but were you ever assigned a partner? One of those ridiculous must've been drawn out of a hat assignments?"

Corian shakes her head to that. "I was not," she replies quietly. "Occasionally I worked alone; more frequently, I was circulated between the smaller teams, as my skills were needed." There's another sip of her tea, and she finally looks away from you, gaze flicking around the room before settling, finally, on the low table and its contens. Your words spark several more questions, but she doesn't voice them just yet.

Tarrant sags a bit further at that response, although considering his position, it's hardly dramatic. "I have had a couple over the years. Some worked, others didn't, some were a whole hell of a lot of fun. There are a great many things in life made simpler, and others more difficult, when one has a partner." It's roundabout, and musing, and he must be -really- screwy at the moment to even be discussing this.

Corian's gaze shifts back to you. She's a bit confused, and sounds it, as she speaks. "Of course, van'chela. That makes sense, of course. It would seem that there are certain interactions between partners--I witnessed them, when I was still with the department."

Tarrant leans forward to settle the glass on the table, once again moving to regard the papers he has and their rows of precise script. He's noted the confusion in your tone which has added to his reticence. How do you explain a rainbow to a blind woman? "All the partners I've ever had were assigned by the department." Um, this might explain part of the problem.

Corian, on the other hand, doesn't look at the paper. She watches you. Her hand lifts, almost reaching towards you, but she stops the movement, uncertain. "Would it be any other way?" she inquires, shuffling lightly with her papers. "I am not really certain as to what the procedure is."

"No," Tarrant murmurs quietly, doing his damndest not to look dejected. "I suppose it wouldn't be." Okay, so you and he are conversing on different levels at the moment, but this happens. "I do not profess to understand to procedure either."

So many levels... like Pittsburgh. Corian isn't really certain what's happening, but she seems to have figured at that she's missing something, at least. "Procedure can be baffling, yes." Procedure isn't the only thing. She almost asks a question, then shakes her head.

"I am sorry Corian, I seem to have made a hash of the evening. Thank you for dinner, I should perhaps head back downstairs rather than continue to make no sense," Tarrant gathers the papers he has carefully together.

Corian blinks at that, looking decidedly surprised. "Van'chela... you haven't done anything to 'make a hash' of the evening, really." She pauses a beat, then. "If you would rather leave..." She can't quite finish the sentence, though.

You faintly hear a chime mark the hour.

"I do not -wish- to leave," Tarrant explains, eyes still on the papers in his hands. "Of all things, not that. Never to leave. However, I consider myself perhaps obligated to do so, as I am obviously making no sense."

Corian shifts fractionally closer to you, one hand moving to rest lightly on your arm. There is something about her that is rather uncertain, and puzzled. "If you do not wish to leave," she says quietly, pragmatic, "Then do not. I am glad to have you here. It is still early, as these things go."

As if Tarrant would go anywhere with your hand on his arm? As has been stated before, he has certain easily pressed buttons, and that would be one of them. It is a far more efficent restraint than any lock or cuff. "Glad to have me here, despite the total lack of sense I'm making? I think this is another case of being polite, Cori...an." The pause in between the portions of name is not so long as the elipses would indicate, but the space of perhaps a third of a beat.

Corian's expression holds maybe a hint of amusement. "Van'chela, it is not necessary that we make sense all the time," she says quietly, tone rather fond. "And it is most certainly not necessary for pleasant company. Perhaps we should put this work away for tomorrow?" Maybe she noticed that pause in her name. Maybe not. Who can say?

That is often Tarrant's trouble, the unreadability of Corian. Even as long as he has known her, she is still greatly a mystery. "Maybe, we certainly don't seem to be getting anywhere. My own fault."

Corian observes thoughtfully, finally lifting her hand, "Events are rarely the fault of just one person." See, she's her brother's sister. "I must admit that talking with you is certainly more pleasant than this." That hand gestures gracefully towards her stack of papers as she adds, "Though, of course, I am glad to offer assistance."

Tarrant leans forward, settling the papers on the table. As the hand is removed he actually glances briefly up at you, his expression wistfully lost. "And I appreciate the assistance, even though the task is admittedly unthrilling. Still, so much is. It is not all glavanting about and pretending we are in a spy novel."

Corian settles more comfortably in her corner of the couch. "Much of this life is unthrilling," she comments, with a faint smile. "Though I suppose that even people without claim to a character in a spy novel can have their own bits of gallivanting."

Tarrant settles back, carefully shifting his casted foot, expression thoughtful. "To each life is given certain utterances, certain blinding moments of glorious clarity, elsewise the rest of the muddle would be unnapreciated."

Corian inclines her head to that, a quick smile lighting her face. "Of course," she agrees, reaching once more for her abandoned tea. It gives her something to do with her hands, after all. "The extremes tend to do that, I have found. Though I do like that phrase--blinding moments of gorgeous clarity." She turns the words over on her tongue, much as one would sample a fine wine.

Tarrant slides hands into his jacket pockets, similarly needing something to do with his hands. He does however give into temptation, and tug the small wooden puzzle from his right pocket. Gently shifting it through now well familiar paces he nods. "Without the muddle we cannot appreciate the extremes, although there are days the muddle becomes rather incomprehensible indeed."

Corian's brows lift fractionally as the puzzle appears. She doesn't comment on it, though it takes her a moment to come up with something -else- to say. "The Sectassians have a similar saying, though I believe it is in reference to their children," she murmurs, though her tone isn't really amused, as it would ordinarily be when she's making such a statement.

The sounds of the puzzle rasping are very soft, testament to the quality of its construction. Tarrant nods, eyes on the small wooden device. "If the children are the source of muddle, Sectassians must be a very muddled people indeed."

Corian nods her agreement to that, gaze lingering on your hands for a moment. She gets to her feet, absently smoothing her skirt with the hand that isn't attached to the tea mug, and wanders ratner aimlessly about the room. "Sometimes they are," she says thoughtfully. "But they are wonderful parents, and very open people, for the most part--Saaranus being an exception. It is generally a joy to be with them, and I hope to visit Sectas again in the future."

"It is certainly a fascinating world," Tarrant agrees, gray-green eyes coming up to watch your progress around the room, although his hands do not cease in their efforts. "I do feel sorry for those displaced here. Linnae is greatly unlike Sectas, a trial on the young."

Corian pauses before another of her father's carvings--or, at least, part of it is his work. The wooden flower is quite realistic, though the sandy, fine-grained wood would hardly pass for an actual plant. The vase is much simpler. One hand reaching to rub along the edge of one petal, she nods. "Some of them are having a difficult time of it," she agrees. "Ximena's youngest, for example--the little fellow stealing my lap this afternoon--didn't really even know Sectassian very well when they left the planet." She shakes her head fractionally.

"And not knowing Standard is indeed a handicap here," Tarrant replies, hands stilling as he watches your movements. "The ability to communicate is, after all, vital."

Corian nods firmly to that. She, of course, would agree. "That's why the young Sectassians like me, I think," she observes. "I can communicate with them, when very few people outside of their family--and the Sectassian delegation--can do so. It is a novelty, that and my eyes." Her tone is a bit amused at that.

You faintly hear a chime mark the hour.

Oh, see that was a tactical error for Tarrant, at mention of your eyes he looks up to meet them, and is all but lost. It takes him a minute to catch back up to his train of thought. "A very different world for them, certainly. It is kind of you to help them."

Corian pauses a beat at your expression. Her lips purse, but then she smiles, with a fractional shake of her head. "It is not a question of kindness. I knew Ximena from Sectas, so it is continuing a friendship. And the children are a joy in their own right."

Tarrant clues in and swiftly pulls his eyes back down, rediscovering the all but abandoned puzzle in his hands. "The little fellow earlier was certainly an adorable lapful. I do believe he was jealous however."

Corian, after a moment of hesitation in which she looks decidedly uncertain, slowly makes her way to perch on her section of the couch once more. "He's somewhat posessive," she says, a hint of apology in her voice--for the little boy whose name her player can't seem to remember? For her mannerisms? "When I'm spending an afternoon with them, there are always at least some of his siblings, after all." Her gaze flicks to the puzzle, and then to your face.

Tarrant sets about once again re-solving and un-solving the puzzle in a careful rhythm. "He was cute, and the expression was certainly quite amusing and entirely, all too entirely, understandable."

Corian starts to say something, then shakes her head. She puts down her tea mug finally, fidgeting with her necklace. "Of course," she replies quietly. "And I can't honestly say that I mind being with him. He really is a sweet child, for all that he worries his mother rather more than he should." Talk about the kid, that's safe, no problem. Of course, watching you with the puzzle is almost hypnotic. "I'm glad you are finding use for that, by the way." 'That', of course, would be the puzzle.

Tarrant glances up briefly, smiling almost sadly. "It is like your necklace," he explains briefly before looking back down again. "Something to do with my hands when I am thinking. And it is a pleasant memory as well, doubling the effect."

A brief smile lights Corian's face. "I'm most glad," she reiterates softly. "Father will be pleased as well, that it was put to such good use. And Hona will tease, of course," she adds lightly. "She's quite gifted at that, after all."

"Tease?" Tarrant questions, sounding all but wary. References to Honalee have been somewhat dangerous this evening, but he is rather curious, "Whatever about?"

Corian props an arm on the couch's arm, resting her head lightly in one hand. "Whatever suits her," she replies thoughtfully. She slants a glance at you, then says, carefully casual, "She has teased me about quite a lot--my costume to the ball, my similarity to my mother... you."

"Your costume was lovely, and certainly deserved no teasing," Tarrant's hands slow, "Your mother I do not know, but if the two of you are similar she must be a wonderful person." There's a puzzled pause, "Me?"

Corian considers for a moment, gaze shifting to the giraffe. "Well, yes. Actually, some of it was tied to the costume-teasing. Hona was somewhat entertained by commentary about trees and lumberjacks and... squirrels." Oh, wow, fairskinned people can really get brilliantly red. Suddenly, Corian's regretting this particular topic of conversation. "Ah, yes. And I suppose I'm like my mother. I... always thought I was more like my father." Distraction. Distraction is key.

Tarrant's brows raise at the changing of color, tilting his head so he can regard you. "Squirrels? I am glad that was not suggested to me. Somehow I think the bushy tail would have gotten in the way of dancing." Then there's a pause as he processes the concept of squirrels and lumberjacks and trees and blushing Corianage. "I -really- need to meet your great-grandmother I think." There's a pause, "More like your father?"

If you thought Corian was red before, you were mistaken. At the suggestion of you as a squirrel, she goes even more so, head lowering--incidentally, so that her hair hides her expression somewhat. "I am most glad that suggestion was not made as well," she murmurs. Honalee would have had a field day with that. "Ah... yes, meeting Hona would be interesting." She peers at you through the veil of her hair, adding, a note of caution in her voice, "I mentioned that I did not believe that she would embarrass you, which means she is likely to try." Gaze shifting back to her hands, she nods. "I spent more time with my father when I was younger. Mother could be... somewhat distant. And she was often busy." And Corian's not going to admit to how much she's like her mother, nope.

Distant? Busy? Tarrant turns back to his puzzle, perhaps agreeing. For while you are in the same room, miles seperate. "I am not afraid to be embarrassed. It is somewhat tricky to do, and if one can succeed, well then it's an experience. It'll be worth it. She seems to have some ... insight."

Corian inclines her head to that. "She does, yes," she agrees, absently toying with her necklace. "But I am not altogether certain that all her insights are correct." Shoulders lifting in a graceful shrug, she adds, "It does not matter much. The decision to take her advice or not is mine, after all."

"Does she often give advice you do not agree with?" Tarrant questions quietly, fingers tracing along one smooth edge of the puzzle box.

Corian shakes her head. "It is a rare thing, in fact. For the most part, her advice is very sound." She hesitates a beat, but doesn't elaborate. "Would you like some more water?" she inquires, as she gets to her feet. This is, of course, whether your glass is empty or not.

Tarrant's glass is, in fact, all but full. But he doesn't question it, although he does look a bit puzzled, "No, but thank you for the kindness of the offer. I still have the better part of a glass."

Corian actually looks at your water glass, now, and shakes her head. "It seems that it is now my turn to avoid making sense," she observes, as she disappears into the cooking area with her mug. The sounds from there suggest that something is being done, likely the stowage of the dirty mug.

"Perhaps I should go," Tarrant says quietly. "The hour grows late after all, and I have been intruding for quite some time. I appreciate the gift of your company however, a treasure beyond price."

Corian smiles faintly, that expression visible as she returns from the sleeping area, though she doesn't sit. "Thank you for your kind words, van'chela. It is somewhat late, yes, though your presence is never an intrusion." She gathers up her half of the papers, moving to offer it to you. "We will work on this further tomorrow?"

You faintly hear a chime mark the hour.

Tarrant accepts the offered papers, tucking the puzzle into his pocket. Leaning down to gather his crustches he sets about the complicated process of gaining his feet. Stiff from having sat in one position so long, it is a tricky affair. "I appreciate the offer, but your time is far too precious, my friend, to be wasted on the likes of me."

Corian blinks at that, a flicker of something in her gray eyes. "Tarrant, I wish to help. Am I not able to judge how I would like to spend my time?" Confusion and weariness and maybe a little hurt war in her gray eyes, which, after a moment of lingering on your face, are turned to something else--anything else. "But... of course, have it as you will."

Tarrant steadies himself on the crutches, attempting to catch your eyes with his own. Maybe he uses nets, I don't know. "Corian, please...I would rather spend time with you than I would do anything, anything else. I do not however wish to make a pest of myself. I don't want you getting fed up with me. My life would be a great deal poorer without you in it."

As long as you don't use hooks. 'Hook and eye' may be a phrase, but it certainly doesn't refer to people's eyes. Ow. Whatever it is works, though, as she meets your gaze rather steadily--at least for a moment. "Then do as you will," she repeats quietly, with a faint smile. She's tired. That's it. "Van'chela, I am a polite person, but not so much that I would let a friend become a nuisance. I am glad to have you here, and I am glad to help you."

As he would however, would not be appropriate, at least not as Tarrant sees it. You are after all a very special and talented woman, not to mention beautiful, and he's a lunatic. There, as always, is the rub. Being on his feet is still quite difficult however, and the color is slowly leeching from Tarrant's face. "A pleasant evening to you, Corian. My appreciation for the ways in which you have brightened my life." There's almost a faint tone of finality to that.

Corian starts to say something, but a look at your face, and your increasing lack of color, apparently kicks in her self-editing. She'll just make herself crazy trying to interpret your words, or nag Honalee for more advice. "Dream sweetly, van'chela," she says quietly. "I will comm you tomorrow about the work." She gives you a brief, searching look, then inquires, after a pause, "Do you need assistance to your quarters?"

"No, but thank you. You are after all, already home, and it'd be a double trip for you and all. Not efficent." Tarrant fumbles with the pages, curling them into almost a scroll at last to contain them.

Corian looks for a moment like she's going to protest that, then instead nods slowly. "Well. If you need--anything, please, don't hesitate to let me know. Inefficiency isn't such a bad thing, after all."

Tarrant simply nods to that, now a bit too white to even respond really. With a murmured farewell he makes his way carefully around the table and doorwards. "G'night."

Corian trails carefully behind you, expression holding a hint of concern over her weariness. "Good night, Tarrant."

Tarrant leaves the room.

Tarrant has left.


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