| A Day In The Life |
| Summary: | Tisiphone intersects with many people over the course of a day. |
| Date: | 2041.03.24 |
| Related Logs: | None. |
| Players: |
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Part the First — Tisiphone crosses paths with Sister Karthasi in the gym, and a light conversation turns to a more disturbing one.
Part the Second — Tisiphone retreats to the showers to recollect her thoughts, running into Sawyer, Sitka, and Evandreus.
Part the Third — Stavrian makes a house call to check on Tisiphone's arm. Sitka interrupts a serious conversation, and the three Saggies end up sharing a much-needed laugh.
| Athletics Area — Deck 12 — Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post Holocaust Day: #26 |
| A large pair of mats dominates the center of this room, their centers taped-out for a small area to practice boxing or other martial arts. Around the outside are treadmills, bikes, weights, and an impressive variety of gym equipment to help tone and shape the bodies of the crew. To one side of the room is the locker room while at the rear is a hatch that leads back to the oversized swimming pool. Off to the side is a rack that holds boxing gloves, pugil sticks, and the associated pads for the sticks. |
| Condition Level: 2 — Danger Close |
It's mid-afternoon, and the gym is moderately crowded. Amongst those on the bank of running machines is Tisiphone, wearing sweats and a T-shirt. She's nearing the end of her workout, by the looks of it — face flushed and dripping with sweat. There's the hint of a stumble to her strides, her casted arm throwing off her balance just slightly.
Karthasi blends nicely with the rest of the crowd, nothing in particular setting her apart from the others coming here to engage in some physical activity. Tank tops paired in the appropriately military fashion, sweatpants hanging loose to the tops of athletic shoes that seem either well-cared-for or new. Water bottle. Duffel. Both get stowed on a bench by the wall, and she moves out to a mat, beginning to move into some slow stretches.
Running — well, jogging — like something was chasing her. Tisiphone's physical trainer would tell her to throttle back to an easier pace, if she had such a thing. The last thirty seconds have her gulping open-mouthed for breath before the treadmill finally gives its cheery ending beep, leaving her to stagger to a halt and then sag forward against the support bars to work on that breathing thing. It's hard to tell if she spots Karthasi or not — her gaze is cast in that direction, but it's blank with exhaustion.
Karthasi's eyes have closed, for the meantime, the priest focusing on her breathing, finding her center and going through stretches by rote. Simple little things, but tended to with a care that denotes an interest in doing them right and with right purpose. Arms overhead. Arms bahind back, chest out. Arms straight out in front, fingers laced in fingers, palms forward, slow lunges, ham stretches, and back to standing in a relaxed, natural posture, hands at her sides, feet shoulder-width, feeling her breathing. Eyes open again, and, settling on Tisiphone, she lifts one hand to about the level of her shoulder in a hello.
The silent hello seems to spur Tisiphone up from her self-indulgent lean; she pushes a few buttons on the treadmill's console to reset it, then backsteps off it. She crouches to retrieve her waterbottle from its spot near the back of the machine, gulping down a mouthful before clearing out so another person can have their turn. Over toward Karthasi she goes, her bare feet soundless against the gym floor. "Sister. How- goes?" Her breath is still surging a little. "You- play a sport? Stretch like a- proper athlete."
Karthasi smiles just a little as Tisiphone heads over, cheeks a little flushed with the remembrance of theis last meeting. But here, she's not on duty, and, though it's less than her strong suit, she puts an effort toward being 'person' as well as 'priest,' clearing her throat and nodding just a little. "Oh. Once upon a time. At University, I played pyramid. Not— like— first string, of course. Or second," she recalls. "Fourth, in fact. But I got in on a couple of games, before my studies took me away from the sport. I never would have made professional, in any case. And yourself? Were you ever the sporting kind?" she wonders, endeavoring conversation on light topics.
Glurk glurk glurk. Tisiphone drains away more of her water-bottle's contents, mops at her face with her forearm first, then the bottom edge of her shirt. "Pyramid's- great, but I suck at it." Wide, breathless grin. "Snowboarded when I was- in Caprica City. Bit of- boxing, kickboxing, really." Exertion-glittery eyes drop to her cast, then, and pull the grin back toward a pensive expression. "You're- looking better." Oops. So much for light topics.
Karthasi smiles at the mention of boxing. "I boxed, after I left Pyramid. Kept me in shape. Also worked wonders prepping me for my Anointing to Ares." A joke? No, she's probably serious. But there's a hint of jocularity beneath the words, hinting that it might be a joke, as well, on some level. She looks away and down, then, "Ah. Yes. I was not well-in-sorts when last we spoke. I apologize. has Phaedra spoken to you?" she wonders.
Ares. Tisiphone's expression moves back toward a grin, this one twisted with black humour. A pleasing sentiment to the Lord of War, no doubt, though the briefness of it may disappoint — for Karthasi's question brings a fresh tangle of emotions to her flushed face. Confusion, curiousity, and something between interest and wary dread. "Has-" She's shaking her head before she even finishes. "-sorry, who?"
Evidently not. Greje, awkward, lifts her hand to touch at the side of her neck before she remembers to lower it in front of her. "Phaedra Demos. She… indicated to me that she intended to speak with you," she explains. "Robin came to her, as well. It seems she mentioned you to her."
The name isn't registering. Tisiphone gives Karthasi a long, puzzled stare before dropping her eyes, again wiping her face with the bottom half of her shirt. "I don't know-" she begins, then suddenly looks up with wide-eyed shock. "Wait, the- the MP? /Sergeant/ Demos? Why-" She cuts herself off, looking suddenly ill at ease, gooseflesh hackling under the sweat. "You're sure." As if asking the question again will somehow get her a different response.
"Am I sure?" Greje repeats the question, looking momentarily thoughtful as to how best and most honestly to answer the question. "Well. I wasn't there," she admits. "But given the fact that she came to me unsolicited with a report very much along the same lines as what you and I experienced… I would tend to believe her," she gives her considered opinion. "Besides which, Robin seems to have developed the ability to speak. She referred to her encounter with me in her discussions with Phaedra, who in turn related to me information about the encounter between myself and Robin of which only Robin and I… and you… were aware. So unless you told her about the encounter, I believe we're left with a piece of proof which seems hard to refute."
"I didn't tell her anything." Almost sullen, that. Tisiphone is evidently Not Comfortable around the MP. "She's not someone I seek out for conversation, that's all, Sister." Her breathing was smoothing back out after her time on the treadmill; now it picks up again, with a harsh breath drawn in through her nostrils. She comes clean on at least part of the sudden agitation after a restless look around the room. "She left me a note. Out of no where, I had no idea what-the-frak it was for. 'Come and see me.' Frak /that/. Last time we talked, we nearly ended up swinging at eachother. I tossed it." And now, of course, reconsidering that choice.
"This may be an opportinity to put aside your differences, Tisiphone," Greje quietly encourages that reconsideration. "Phaedra mentioned to me that Robin had some message to pass along. You should go and speak with her. We'll need our wrath for greater grudges than this," she reminds Tisiphone gently.
Were it anyone but the Sister, Tisiphone would be aiming the sourest of expressions at them. Instead, though, there's the look of someone struggling against a very loud devil on their shoulder as they attempt to take the words to heart. Mustn't be cross at the Sister. Mustn't. A tense, shuddery breath is hitched in, then released in a gust. "You're right." And again, to remind herself: "You're right. I'll- see about looking her up. I gotta go, though." She's starting to look mighty cagey. "Unless there's anything else?"
"No, Tisiphone," Greje relents, taking a half-step back. "I'll talk to you later," she releases the pilot from the engagement, turning and stepping back onto a mat and squaring herself with a large red punching bag.
"Let you know if I hear anything," is the somewhat pointless reply from Tisiphone, as she strides away with long, distance-eating steps. She scoops up her fatigues on the way out the door, not pausing to put them on, heading in the general direction of Away.
(NOTE: This part liable to move once one of the other folks there for the whole scene posts the full log.)
| Head — Deck 4 — Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post Holocaust Day: #26 |
| Like any normal head on the ship, this one is painted in light grey with some blue around the top of the room. Down the center there are 16 sinks, 8 on each side backed up to each other. Along the hull areas of the room, showers and lockers are toward the back and off to the left of the sinks are closed toilets and open urinals. |
| Condition Level: 2 — Danger Close |
This might almost be amusing, if Sawyer hadn't gone and made the personal crack that hits a little too close to home. He keeps his back to her as he finishes wringing out the towel and retrieving the bandaids with damp fingers. Then, padding over to the blonde, he settles into a crouch beside her, and gently eases her fingers away so he can wipe the blood off with the damp towel. "That has nothing to do with it," he grunts. "I just don't think this is the time for politics. The human race as we know it, numbers in the thousands. You don't even have a job anymore, or a boss, or a firm.. or whoever sent you over here." Yes, Sawyer is getting her bloodied shin tended to by a sweaty viper Captain in his skivvies. He, at least, doesn't seem shy about it.
Sawyer barely turns her head as he tends to her leg that suffered the most egregious of shaving accidents, a little squirmy at the sight of her own blood, it seems. She in her towel and him in his skivvies, at least the playing field is levelled. "Don't you think that's precisely why it's important? Not politics, screw politics, we're at the mercy of martial law. But keeping something alive, something of our old lives? I need a purpose. I need -this-, otherwise what do I have left? I'm even starting to question my sanity. And delivering what news I can without the taint of Command…you can't even appreciate that? Appreciate me?" The conversation back by the showers seems to be some what heated, at least from the Journalist's side.
The hatch connecting the showers to the Viper berths swings open sharply, admitting one (1) Ensign Apostolos. Bare feet slapping at the tiles, wearing sweatpants and a single tank-top, her face shining and pink — she looks fresh from the gym. Fresh from running all the way back from the gym, more precisely, considering her breathing. Her right eye, the one half-ringed with stitches, shiverwinces against the sweat. Her steps pause for only a beat, dilated pupils tracking hectically across to Shiv and down, across to Sawyer, her blood, then up, before stalking onward to the showers like her own shadow was chasing her.
After a few gentle dabs at that persistent cut, the damp, wadded up corner of the towel's stained a nice, bloody red. The pilot gives Sawyer's shin a couple more swipes for good measure before setting it aside, and dropping back on his haunches to fetch one of the bandaids. The paper wrapping's torn off, and a few moments are spent trying to get it unstuck from his fingers. Until she says that last thing. Blue eyes come up, and fixate on the blonde reporter's face without quite making contact with her own gaze. "Uh…" He looks down at his hands, still trapped on sticky bandaid. Then over to the hatch briefly, as another pilot wanders in. Murmured, "Why does it matter whether I appreciate you or not, Miss Averies?" He sounds a little perplexed. He also manages to get the bandaid off his hands, and plastered over her cut neatly, with a little pat to secure it.
Sawyer is rather bleak looking by the time he's all finished with his administrations, either from the conversation or as some lingering remnant of queasiness from the ordeal. "I…" She clears her throat as she traces Tisiphone's rather rapid path towards the shower. "It just matters, alright?" She mutters, pulling her leg off its prop on the bench, now newly bandaided after a shaving accident by the pilot turned momentary medic, Shiv. "I don't want to die out here in the middle of no where, still being called Miss Averies."
The shower-stall door bounces lightly off its own latch as it's bumped shut behind Tisiphone. Immediately thereafter, the sounds of struggle begin, Casted Arm vs. Sweaty Gym-Clothes. FIGHT. Some manner of dire threats are uttered at her clothing as she peels down, the tone more than the words drifting out from her stall. It doesn't take long before the water kicks on, promptly steaming up. She's long since ran out of patience with plastic and tape to keep her cast dry — instead she props her casted elbow on the dividing-wall, as if she was bellying up to a bar.
Neither the sight of blood nor queasy young women seem to bother the Captain. Go figure. Might be the number of times he's had to tend to a skinned knee or a kid home sick from school. Might be that that's what he's ruminating upon, as he remains crouched on the floor by Sawyer, only half-hearing what she's saying to him. He blows a breath out his nose, and crumples up the paper bits into a little ball before lobbing them at a rubbish bin across the way. And missing. "You're not going to die, Sawyer," he tells the reporter, touching her knee lightly before he eases back to his feet. "Not if we're doing our jobs right." Tisiphone's battle against her gym clothes is surely noticed, but he's hardly going to waltz in there and help her with it. "Going to be okay, there?" he asks, starting to back away from Sawyer's bench.
Evandreus has gotten tagged out of a shift over on the station, keeping 303 humming along in case the ground troops over there needed a quick evac. And now Evan's the one requiring evac, fumbling out of the top half of his flight suit, then beginning to work on the bottom half. Greetings are postponed in favor of accosting the urinals, for the moment.
Sawyer takes up the damp towel Shiv's left behind, starting to clean up the remaining shaving cream off her leg while abandoning her efforts with the razor for now lest more accidents occur. "So you would begrudge me my work, when I should respect yours?" She makes a little huffing noise through her nose, blowing out her frustration with a flare of her nostrils. At least the woman struggling with her cast is a distraction, and so is the man over there peeing…wait. No. From that, Sawyer averts her eyes.
Tisiphone is either talking to herself in the shower, or singing tunelessly under her breath. It's hard to tell exactly which, given distance and the way the white noise of the waterspray devours most of the sound. It comes and goes in snippets — first splutteringly, as she puts her face squarely in front of the shower-head, wincing against the water against her stitches, then mutteringly, as her head lolls forward so the water hits her shoulders and back, instead. Her cast remains propped on the shower-stall's wall, fingers curled into a loose fist.
Aren't pilots such charming creatures? One of them having conversations with herself in the shower, another one sprinting for the urinal, and the Captain in his sweaty tee shirt and skivvies, and kind of hairy legs. Well, not by Saggie standards, really, but Saggies are savages. "Hey, Evan," he greets the raptor pilot, bemusedly, already padding off to fetch his own towel and soap while Sawyer speaks to him. "Look, lady, I'm not begrudging you anything." He holds his hands up, and turns to face her for a moment. "And you don't owe me any respect. Heck," He starts off for the showers, voice lowering to a mumble, "if you want to put up an effigy to me in your bunk, and use it for target practice, go right ahead. Just don't hurt yourself again, all right?"
A long sigh accompanies the sounds of relief from the Raptorbunny at the urinal. His neck leans to one side, ear coming close to his shoulder. It's a hell of a pee, but eventually he finishes up, and, hitching his flight suit back up over his hips, he lets the top half hang free at the backs of his legs and ambles with a good deal less urgency to the sinks to wash up. "Shivers, Sawyer," he greets the pair of them on his way. "Sup?"
Sawyer is still stuck in her snit, it seems, for as she gets to her feet, she retorts quickly to his back, "Maybe I'll just use your gods damned sweatshirt as a target!" Just shy of stamping her foot like a five-year-old, she gives an aggitated grr, then turns herself to get redressed. "Oh, you know, the usual." She answers Evan a bit flippantly as she ducks into a dry stall so she's not showing the goods to the masses as she changes from towel to damnable pink pajamas. "Slaying misconceptions about reporters one stubborn Saggie at a time. Losing, of course, but at least I got a bandaid out of it." Pause. "THANK YOU FOR THE BANDAID!" She calls loud enough so wherever Shiv is off to in the Head, he might here it, so at least she's not thought to be inconsiderate.
Losing the debate with herself, or forgetting the lyrics to the song she's muttering — either way, Tisiphone's voice stops drifting along with the steam and spray. She half-turns, right arm remaining pinned where it is, as she searches for something out of sight beneath the stall's walls. The smell of sandalwood soap joins the steam as she turns back to the shower-head — and apparently remembers another point to bring up against herself, for the quiet muttering starts up again.
Shiv apparently doesn't much care whether his goods are spotted or not. The rest of his sweat-soaked clothing comes off right before he ducks into the shower stall, and shuts the door. At least it wasn't a full frontal. He also doesn't bother answering Sawyer, but merely gives a little eyeroll and shake of his head. Fwhooosh goes the faucet.
"Did you hurt yourself?" Evan wonders. Yeah, he's late to the conversation, and his attention's on his hands as he scrubs them up in a sudsy lather, then rinses them off, and leans downto draw up cool water in his hands and rinse his throat and face, wetting down his hair with water rather than sweat, for a change of pace, in lieu of an actual shower, for the moment. That'll come later. "What happened, hon?" he goes on to ask, keeping his voice casual, effortless.
Sawyer does a little bunny hop thing out of the stall as she pulls up her pink plaid pajama bottoms and ties them off with the bit of ribbon that cinches it. "Just cut myself shaving. Minor in the grand scheme of things, but I won't be wearing a skirt any time soon. Let it not be said I haven't given my five pounds of flesh." Her eyes flick to Shiv's stall, as if momentarily tempted to march in there and demand some sort of response out of him, but the moment fizzles away and she just starts collecting her belongings in a pile on the bench, then takes out her hair brush. Sitting again, she starts to pull the bristles through her straight fringe of blonde. "How are you?" She asks Bunny, before her eyes draw back to Tisi's stall, perhaps catching the dulcet tones of her muttering.
"Oh, yanno," Evan slips into a Leontinian accent moderately thicker than his normal as Sawyer heads over, "Goes as it goes, yah? No worse'n anyone else, I bet ya." He dries his hands off on his tank tops, to some degree of dryness just this side of damp, and he leans over to give the woman hug for all her troubles. "You want to come chill out in Raptorberths tonight? We can get up a game of triad or something," he offers her, since her friction with her bunkmate seems to have reached critical levels.
Some sort of song or mantra, it has to be, because the longer it goes on, the more that patterns can be heard. If they were show-tunes, all they'd deserve is an eye-roll. Maybe a grimace. Given her cigarette consumption, Tisiphone probably sings like a raven. They end as she points her face squarely into the waterspray a final time, sputterwincing, then steps back and twists the water off, plumes of steam still curling out of the stall. It's not like /she/ has to worry about paying the hot water bill. Wincingly, she unhooks her casted arm from the shower-stall's wall and turns to retrieve her towel. Sleet-blue eyes lift at the sound of Evan's voice, focus in his direction.
The faucet in Shiv's stall continues to blast hot water, or at least some middling degree of warm, while the conversation proceeds in the Head proper. The viper Captain does not sing, talk, wank or juggle elephants in the shower. His forehead bumps the back wall, along with the palms of his hands, and he simply.. soaks for a while. Good thing looks can't kill, or he might be dead.
Sawyer gets caught up in a hug she wasn't really expecting, but nonetheless appreciates given how few of her interactions with the crew actually hedge towards hospitible. "Well I was, uh, going to slip into the dark room for a little while. Develop some more of my pictures." She squeezes around his shoulder, then disentangles from the hug if only to finish brushing out her hair. "But maybe I can stop by? Though I have to say, I relatively suck at triad."
"Sure; just if you feel like it, guy," Evan goes on. "You know you're welcome over across the hall anytime, right? Just come on over. We've got other games if you don't like triad," he adds, moving back to lean hip against the sink and look over to where Cubits is deshowerifying herself. "Hey, Cubits," he greets her with a smile. "I'm home," he adds, colloqually, indicating his return from the station to the ship. It's the first time he's let a reference to Cerberus with that appelation slip, and it strikes him odd a moment, if only internally.
Hopefully, Shiv wasn't looking for a scaldingly-hot shower, as well. Tisiphone may have replaced it all with tepid Folger's Crystals. He may just notice. Her gaze wanders from Evan and Sawyer over to Sitka — well, the back of his head, at least — as she rubs a towel at her dandelion-like scalpfuzz. It lingers a few beats, then slides away to her stall's door. Out she comes, wrapping her towel around her waist as she does. Damp feet slapping the tiles, she crosses to Evan and Sawyer, pausing only briefly. To Sawyer, a mute nod. To Evan, a brief touch of his upper arm as she says, "Hey." Eyes hooded, she continues on, heading back to Chez Viper.
Folgers, gosh. Sitka probably doesn't notice the look directed at the back of his head, though does finally - reluctantly - ease away from the wall in order to start sudsing himself up. It doesn't take long, he isn't fussy about it. The soap's rinsed off in about fourty-five seconds, and the faucet cranked back off again before he reaches for his towel to dry off.
Sawyer gives Tisiphone the best smile she can muster, which isn't much considering the circumstances: 1) End of the world and all that jazz 2) She's still tense from her run in with Shiv and her eyes go distractedly back in that direction 3) She's not exactly on her schmoozing game, at the moment. As the female Viper pilot retreats again, the journalist's attention goes back to Evan. "She's not a real big talker, is she?"
| Viper Squadron — Naval Deck — Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post Holocaust Day: #26 |
| Viper Squadron pilots call this home. Berthings line the walls with grey curtains to cover their sleeping areas. Lockers sit between each stack of berths and a round table sits in the center with chairs around it. A hatch at the end leads to the communal Head that the Raptor pilots share. |
| Condition Level: 2 — Danger Close |
Tisiphone is leaning against the edge of her bunk, pulling on one of her crimson- and gold-striped kneesocks. She's in her pajamas — an oversized threadbare black T-shirt and some boxers — and is still pinked from what must have been a very hot shower. A damp towel is around her shoulders, and drops of water still cling to her scalpfuzz.
Stavrian is wearing his duty trousers but no jacket, and a T-shirt over his tanks that duly reminds the ship that he is the stamped property of the N A V Y. He too has recently been through a shower, judging from his damp hair and the color that's still fading from his dusky cheeks from the hot water. He's got something with him, that same brown satchel he had along when he came to Tisiphone's Sickbay bed. If he had a traveling hat and boots, at least one allegory would be complete. A quiet word's exchanged with an Ensign at the hatch and he starts towards Tisiphone's bunk, looking alertly out of place in here.
A glance up from pulling her socks on to the quiet words at the door, and Tisiphone's eyes light with a warm jumble of recognition and relief. "Jesse," she murmurs, straightening to rub at the back of her head as he approaches. "Hey. C'mon in. How you been?" She watches him a moment longer before turning to hang her damp towel over her half-open locker door. Her resocketed shoulder's almost behaving like a real shoulder these days, and with bruises fading away, all that's left to show of her crash-and-burn are the stitches and the cast.
"Tisiphone." The way Stavrian uses her first name — a largely alien thing to him — is almost shy. That twinge quickly vanishes though, satchel shifted on his shoulder and attention drifting to her arm. "I've been alright, I suppose. I've got to be off with the Marines tomorrow, so…I thought I would stop in and see how your arm was doing."
Alright, he supposes. The look Tisiphone gives Stavrian is a bit odd — rather like she suspects him to be lying. "Good as any of us can get, yeah?" she replies, neutral words with a light tone. Another rub at the back of her head, shaking the last tiny drops from scalpfuzz, before she crosses to the table nearest her and pulls out two chairs, turning the second one around back to front before settling into it. "It aches all the time," she replies. "I'm trying to tell myself that means it's healing. No scratching under the cast with anything sharp, no getting it damp. It's okay until I think about it too much." The too-chipper words falter there; a light shrug pushes them further away from her.
Stavrian presses his lips together, in some expression that might've meant to be a smile. He shrugs the satchel off his shoulder and sits down, scratching his left hand into the front of his damp forest of black curls. "Once," he says, as he turns his attention to the front of her chair. "While I was serving on the Diomedes, I fractured my ankle. I shouldn't say /I/ fractured it. Rather, an explosion did." He clears his throat softly, pausing a moment. "Anyway…they put titanium screws in it. While I was unconscious." His blue eyes come back up, the shade darkened nearly to gray by the lighting and the reflection of the dull T-shirt.
Tisiphone looks up from her cast as Stavrian does, sleetstorm eyes intent and a little sick with the sort of shared experience you'd never want to have. "Do you still feel like puking if you think about it too much?" Quietly, carefully, as if she has to sneak up on the words. "Or can I look forward to some happy hazy day when it goes away?" A smile is determinedly mustered, there, clinging crookedly to the edge of her mouth.
"I still have nightmares, if that's what you mean," Stavrian replies, his tone blunt and reluctant to be, both at once. "But there came a day when I could listen to some asshole offering to show me his scars if I showed him mine, and not be immediately inclined to hit him." The words are almost bizarre coming out of his mouth, softly mild as his voice naturally is. His arms fold, settling against his lower chest. Eyes flicker away from hers again, noticing some imperfection in a bunk rail nearby, and he sounds slightly distracted as he adds, "I suppose at least we won't have to worry about it aching when it rains."
Almost bizarre, indeed. Tisiphone straightens slightly from her forward lean against the chair's backrest as Stavrian folds his arms across his chest, as if one protective retreat deserves another. Her eyes skitter away, finding a spot on the table near the medic's elbow to scrutinize. "Sorry. I- sorry. Shouldn't've asked." Quiet and contrite. She's sitting in a chair turned around back to front, arms folded across the top, Stavrian sitting across from her.
Stavrian's lips tug slowly. Still not a smile; the tiny expression looks more rueful than anything else. "Apologies don't suit you," he remarks softly. How to interpret that is anybody's guess, but somehow they sound like a strange compliment. He looks down and then back at her face, a long silence following in the wake of those words. His brows have drawn just a little bit, bringing out faint, faint lines between them. "Tisiphone…can I ask you something?"
A soft crackling and rustling of what sounds like a plastic wrapper precedes Ibrahim's combat booted arrival in berthings. With his eyes downturned while he tries to get what looks like a bag of candy open, he doesn't yet spot the pair of Sagittarians conversing at the table across the way. Rumpled fatigues, even more rumpled tee shirt and tank top, and a comically well-stuffed duffle slung across one shoulder as he makes his way in the general direction of his locker.
Tisiphone hunches bony shoulders and ducks her head a bit, resting the edge of her chin against her folded arms, still counting wood fibers in that distant spot on the table. With a blink, they're abruptly flicked back to Stavrian. A wordless, questioning sound best translated as, "Mmn?" before she clarifies: "Of course. What is it?" Eyes slant to the side, unfocussed. Listening to the steps trailing in from behind her.
Stavrian's lips drift open, and promptly the words are mired in silence. There's a short, extra inhale, and he finds something on her cheek to look at instead of her eyes. It's not avoidant so much as it is slightly troubled. "Do you…" He clears his throat. "Do you believe in spi-…" The last word becomes air through his nose as his blue eyes flicker up and over her shoulder. The moment of pause is enough to jarr him, and he makes a slightly uncomfortable chuckle. "Ah. Never mind, it's silly. Um." His fingers scratch at his cheek, and he lifts his chin towards her arm. "I brought something for you, if you're in pain."
Sitka doesn't look to have any designs upon interrupting the pair. He's also not being particularly sneaky in his entrance, what with all that crackling of plastic going on. He manages to tear the bag open finally, and pauses to fish out a couple of gummy bears and pop them into his mouth. Then, locker. Spin, spin, denied. Mid-chew, he glances over at the back of Tisiphone's head, then Stavrian seated opposite her. "Hey," he mumbles quietly around the candy, with a little upnod in lieu of a salute. Or a wave. Or.. whatever he might have done instead, were his hands not occupied. Spin, spin, click. The door's swung open.
Tisiphone's expression moves through curiousity to concern on its way to ending in puzzlement, brows raising and furrowing, the stitches at the edge of her eyesocket twisting subtly along with them. "Um," she echoes, puzzled and reluctant, not answering much of anything. Instead of clarifying, she half-twists in her chair, looking back over her shoulder, eyes again warming with recognition. Or perhaps the sound of gummi-bear crinklings. "Ibrahim," she calls. With a point of her chin: "You know Jesse?"
"We've met." Stavrian returns the upwards nod to the Captain with mirrored motion. His arms stay folded, the addition of more pilots serving to remind him that he's in a foreign land. His blue eyes flicker to Tisiphone, unreadable, then back to Sitka. Then to the bag the man's raiding. "Do we all just, like…keep you on a leash and feed you candy?"
Sitka's business with his locker is simple: the duffle is shoved inside, and a pack of smokes brought out, along with a deck of cards. It's nudged shut again with his hip right as Tisiphone addresses him. He tosses a couple more gummi bears in his mouth before answering, with a small smile that almost warms his eyes, "Sure, we've met." Stavrian's comment just gets a mumbled, "And I was going to share with you, too." After a moment's deliberation, he wanders on over to their table, and eases himself into a chair roughly equidistant between the two. "Watch this. Not sharing." He tosses another one into his mouth. Except it misses, and poiks off Tisiphone's shoulder. "Shit, sorry."
"That's okay," says Tisiphone to Sitka as he pads over, a sudden grin flashing across her face. "You can give me his share." That same grin is shot sidelong to Stavrian, on narrowed eyes. All's fair when there's gummi-bears on the line. She slaps at the gummi-bear when it poiks off her shoulder, but misses it. As she stoops to pick it up, she says, "If I could go back in time and change one thing about my boarding inventory? I'd bring some frakking candy."
"In other words, 'yes'," Stavrian remarks, just deadpan enough to not be completely serious. Sour grapes where his share of candy's concerned, a mild sniff given afterwards. "I'll bring some more lollipops around, soon. Because somehow in this discussion, that makes me the bigger man." His lips just barely twitch, unable not to anymore. He clears his throat, pulling his ankle up carefully onto his knee.
"I think I just did," Ibrahim points out, blue eyes crinkling a little at their corners with the slight smile he gives Tisiphone. He watches her bend to fetch the rogue gummi bear, then holds the bag aloft, in front of Stavrian. Universal signal for 'hold out your hand'. And speaking of which, his is wrapped in a bit of bandaging that wasn't there a day ago. "I still have the one you gave me before," he murmurs.
Gummi-bear retrieved, Tisiphone flicks it a couple times as if it was a marble, then pops it into her mouth. As she's chewing, she reassures Stavrian, "Don't feel bad. They're not very good." Cheeky monkey. She's all smiles, suddenly, like some mad scientist's switch was flipped and the previous tense-going-on-awkward moment with the medic was lost. She'll hold her hand out for another candy, too, when the medic does. "What happened to your hand?" The smile lingers in her eyes, even if her expression grows more serious with the question.
Stavrian unhitches his arms from their personal space-guarding duty. He's left handed, so that's the one that comes out in beggar's motion under the bag. The third finger's still encircled by his plain wedding ring. The mention of Sitka's still having that particular candy causes a second more pause than perhaps expected, his head tilting. But Tisiphone's question is a fine distraction for a member of medical staff, and his eyes find the bandages as the humor fades a little. "You were injured last night?"
Three or four pieces of candy are shaken out into Jesse's hand, along with a dusting of sugar. The ring gets a glance, but no comment. "Nothing major," he assures, leaning over to dole out a few more bears for Tisiphone, too. "Just a small electrical fire in the cockpit. My glove took the brunt of it." Tisiphone wouldn't have seen that raider sideswipe him, the previous night. Stavrian.. probably didn't, either. They don't build raptors with viewport windows, and vipers in combat are pretty quick-moving beasts.
Tisiphone saw nothing but what the Observation Deck windows would show her while she stood and smoked cigarette after cigarette, which was a view turned ninety degrees from what she wanted to be seeing, at best. She looks down at the candies in her palm as last night is discussed, the glittery light in her eyes cooling toward a more pensive cast. The yellow one is picked first, popped into her mouth. "I had a terrible feeling about last night," she says as she chews, flipping the gummi-bears around in her palm like dice, not looking up from them as she does. "I'm glad I was wrong."
Presumably Stavrian didn't see, if he's having to ask. His fingers close around the precious candy and his hand retreats like some creature back into its cave. He turns one of the little bears over in his hand, eyes almost crossing with the effort to examine it — almost like he's never seen one before. Then, with painstaking care, he starts to eat it. The right ear first, gnawed off with precision. "Shom," he says, 'thank you' in whatever craptastic part of Sagittaron he's from. "Someone has looked at it, or did you do that yourself?" Bandaging indicated with his chin. His eyes flicker to Tisiphone and then back. "There are many rumours from last night."
The precision eating of the gummi bear garners a slightly raised brow from the Captain. A flicker of amusement, and perhaps a few seconds spent watching, in that way that he does when someone does something that reminds him of someone else, in another time and place. Ducking his eyes, he fishes out a couple more gummi bears and plucks them from his fingers with his teeth. Mumbled while he chews, "I dropped by sickbay. Didn't see you around, so I let one of the real doctors have a look at it." It might've been a zing, if he didn't sincerely seem to prefer the young physician's assistant in such matters. "Didn't lose anyone," he tells Tisiphone, on the heels of a tired exhale.
Tisiphone worries at the usual raw spot on her bottom lip for a long while as she flips the remaining two candies around in her palm. One red, one blue. The red one's the next to go. Her eyes fly up, startled, at Sitka's comment to the medic, jaw frozen mid-chew. A quick look between him and Stavrian, appraising, before she starts to chew again, more slowly.
Ever so languidly, Stavrian unrolls his right hand and gives his superior officer both a smirk and the finger. "Good call. You'll be back to jerking off in no time."
The Captain barks a short laugh when he gets the finger from Stavrian, coupled with that horrified look from Tisiphone. Lordy. "Shit, Jesse, I was just teasing you." He's still trying to get his grin under control, even as he chews. "Besides." He wiggles the fingers of his undamaged hand. "I'm right handed." The bandage is on the left.
ChewchewsputtercoughWHA-? AndthenWHA-?! Tisiphone's leaning back in her chair, eyes full of 'did THOSE words just come out of THAT mouth?' disbelief, cackling with laughter before her windpipe's finished deciding whether she's about to choke on her gummi-bear or not. The fit of laughter finally fades to a couple coughs, leaving her shaking her head at the both of them, face split with a wolfish-wide grin, eyes glittery with amusement.
Ears eaten so daintily, Stavrian answers Sitka's rebuttal with the gummi coup-de-grace — a chomp with his pointy canines, and off goes its head. He makes a little click-click sound at Sitka, the type that would accompany a wink (but doesn't), and looks back at the Laughing Muse of Tisiphone as he grinds gummi brains in his teeth. "She's happy to hear that." Sitka gets a rather shiteating grin.
Sitka doesn't look too shocked at what came out of Stavrian's mouth. He's Sagittarian. It's practically part of the job description. Still subtly amused, he eases back into his chair with his shoulders hunched forward, and taps a fresh cigarette out of the box. This is a momentous occasion; he's been smoking half-spent butts for the past week. "I'm not sure I want to know why," he murmurs, blue eyes darting across the table to Tisiphone in her pseudo death throes. "Going to live, there, Apostolos?"
Cof. Cof cof. Sniggermrfle. Cof. "What the frak I deserve /that/ for, man?" This to Stavrian, with another narrow-eyed grin. Wounded. So, so wounded. She starts to flick the last gummi-bear at him in mock-peevishness, then thinks better of it and keeps it for herself. It /is/ the blue one. Rolling her eyes from Stavrian to Sitka, she says, oh-so-drolly, "Yeah. Think I might." With another shake of her head, she takes a beat to catch her breath before continuing. "Shit, you follow your bliss for a couple seconds and suddenly everyone's a critic." Snort.
Stavrian gives Tisiphone a brief flash of something terrible, horrible, the GREATEST WEAPON a man has in life — puppy eyes. His big blues are soulfully suited for it too, in the one second they play-act their way out of their shell. His second gummi's set on the table and nudged towards her. "It's a dangerous road, little one. Take this." His head then tilts slightly as the intercom goes off, a woman's voice calling Junior Lieutenant Stavrian to Sickbay. He rubs his ear and exhales through his nose, humor draining back into that grinding sinus of duty at the end of the world. "I've got to go." He nods to Sitka's hand. "I'll check on that tomorrow if you want. And Tisiphone…" She's not off easy either. "I'll bring my things back in a few hours, alright?"
Wounded, indeed. Ibrahim probably hasn't smiled this much in a while, though, himself. He's still watching Tisiphone, eyes bright with an uncommon mirth, when she casts a glance his way and offers her droll response. It takes the annouuncement over the intercom, and him glancing at his watch, to finally put a frown back on his face. "Speaking of which, I've got to prep for patrol in a few hours. Guess it's time I racked out." Puff, puff. The smoke's going with him, apparently. "Here." He nudges the bag of sweets toward Tisiphone. "Knock yourself out." Stavrian gets a long look and a small nod. "I'll drop by after my shift. Thanks." And, "Have a good one, Jesse."
"Ut!" Tisiphone stabs a slender finger at Stavrian's expression to accompany the sound of warning. "Don't you even /start/ with those devil-eyes of yours." And again the grin threatens to split her face. Reaching forward with a put-upon sniff, she snatches up the offered gummi-bear and draws it back toward herself. She's about to say something more when the intercom crackles to life, the broadcast words and the subsequent bowings-out all but literally wilting her. Curse you, intercom. Curse you to the pits of Erebus. Give her her bliss back. She looks to Sitka as he stands, screwing up her face somewhat petulantly. It doesn't keep her from snagging the bag of treats, though. "Ah, yeah. Okay," she says to Stavrian, her brain skipping from one gear to the next. "Sounds good."
Stavrian pops the third and final sweet treat into his mouth, tucking it inside his cheek. This one will be savoured. He stands up, picking up the satchel he'd brought in, and something clinks gently inside as he pulls it up and over his shoulder. Instead of the usual reserved nods he gives out when leaving a space, the two get a little wave, fingers wiggling. "Good night." Devil eyes. He'll have to defend his honor tomorrow.
Sitka lets his cigarette dangle from his lips while he shrugs out of his fatigue jacket, and lobs it into his bunk. He even does a quick check to see whether Sawyer's 'home' yet. Nope. Probably best not to ask why. "Oh, hey. By the way, Tisiphone.." He eases into his bunk, and reaches across to the shelf for something. "I've got another book for you, when you're done with that other one." He holds it up just long enough for her to get a glimpse of the title: Le Petit Prince. "I, uh.." He turns it over, glancing at the back, then slots it onto his shelf again. "I've got the translations written out, so let me know. All right?"
"You were smiling," Tisiphone says, by way of a (non-)answer, an odd expression accompanying the laughter-bright eyes. She pops the final blue gummi-bear into her mouth, chewing for a few moments before she pushes herself up from her chair and pads across to the Captain on bare and silent feet, chin lifted as she studies the book-cover. "Yeah, I saw it there," she says at length, spending a few moment rummaging up her own crumpled pack of cigarettes, rather than explaining just how she managed this feat. "I'm nearly done the other one. It won't be long."
And as if on cue, he lets one slip again. A smile, that is. "It's been known to happen," he offers quietly. The expression shifts to a slightly dubious one when she mentions having spotted the book previously, and he spends a few moments tugging off his boots while he watches her rummage for cigarettes. "How're you finding it?" he asks, cautiously. Like he's afraid of her answer. "I.. uh." The smile turns wry, and his blue eyes dart away. "I held onto it for my daughter. Sholeh. But she doesn't.. she didn't like most of the stuff I gave her, anyway, so.."
"It's hard to read," Tisiphone says, again stalling for time before answering by pausing to light her cigarette. "Not- /difficult/, but it- hurts. You know?" A sharp drag off her cigarette, eyes slanting away to the side as she exhales toward the rest of the room. "Homesick, I guess. Maybe that's what I'm feeling." Her cigarette bobs as her mouth purses around it. She's gnawing on some difficult statement when Shiv mentions his daughter; this brings her eyes back to his — or near them, in the same hide-and-seek as before — with a quiet but deep smile. "I saw the picture," she says. A slight tip of her head, toward the shelf. "She's the eldest?"
He looks almost crestfallen at those first words. Not gauging their meaning properly, perhaps, or seeing some shade of someone else in what she says. Opening his mouth to speak, what he hears next seems to mollify him.. somewhat. "Mmh. I understand." He finishes unlacing and sliding off the left boot, and works on the right. His brooding features compose a striking, if not entirely cheerful profile, cigarette dangling from unsmiling lips as he works. "Eldest, yeah." He withdraws the smoke once he's got the second boot off, and smiles faintly. "Fourteen." And then it's gone, smoke and mirrors. "If you want to, uh, talk some time. About home.." He seems to run out of steam, or courage, right about there.
And Tisiphone looms, if only briefly, looking down at Sitka while he unlaces his boots, her expression unknown. There's barely a sound from her at all until he falters; then a light huff of breath as she drops to a crouch, balanced on the balls of her feet, near his knee. Ducked a little, to look up at his face, somehow solemn and smiling at once. "I do," she says simply. "When you're not three minutes from racking out." The tiniest of grinflickers. She reaches out her hand, touching his leg for a moment; her fingers tighten for just a second, as she pulls herself back to a standing position. "Sleep well, Ibrahim."
The looming's met with a brief flicker of his eyes up to Tisiphone's face. He doesn't quite meet her sleety blues, even as she drops into a crouch opposite him and touches his knee. The contact's unexpected, but not refused. "Deal," he answers softly, turning his head a little to exhale smoke away from her in a stream out his nose and lips. "Shab be kheyr, Tisiphone." His accent's a rough scrawl, throaty and unkind on the ears, but holds a tenuous warmth that lingers in the blue of his eyes. Actually, they're more like green, up close. "Take care of that arm. Need you back up there." And then, grasping the top railing of his bunk, he swings himself inside and skitters the curtain shut. Flop.