PHD #010: A Little Peace
A Little Peace
Summary: Standoffishness between Sawyer and Stavrian sees a first tiny crack.
Date: 08 Mar 2041
Related Logs: References to Feathers Up Your Butt and Stone Wall Stavrian
Sawyer Stavrian 

[ Observation Deck ]----[ Deck 3 - Battlestar Cerberus ]—

With a quiet view to the stars, this tends to be one of the more popular 'quiet areas' of the Cerberus. Up front is a small-unseated area for ceremonies or other activities while the seating rises up behind it. Each level rises up behind the one before it, comfortable chairs and couches set up for crewmembers to relax, get some work done or even take a nap. A large armored plate is lowered during Condition One to protect the interior against a breach in the glass.

-=[ Condition Level: 2 - Danger Close ]=-------—-

The observation deck has a smatter of people in here, most keeping to themselves in the same quiet reflection, their faces a twist of sorrow and thought. There's a woman up near the viewport, the Journalist, scrambling around on her hands and knees as if collecting something that spilled. Sawyer's clothes are rumpled, the fancy blouse and trousers slept in at one point and now the sleeves of her shirt are rolled to her elbows and the suspenders are pulled down off her shoulder to hang against her thighs. "Mother frakker…" She mumbles beneath her breath as she collects round black beads off the floor from where they've rolled.

Duty clothes, collar open and pulled so the JG pins barely show. Universal 'off-duty', if only for a little while. Stavrian's normally comfortable stride is stiff today, thrown off by a left shoulder that isn't moving very much. A bruise is creeping up the left side of his neck towards the underside of his jaw. Without a word extended to any of the mourning souls on the obs deck, he heads silently for the seat he's come to use a fair bit, on the second level, nearly against the wall, overlooking the first row where it meets viewport. Which, if this were any mood to care, might give him a great view down Sawyer's shirt right now. As it is, well, he just sits and rests his head back.

Sawyer isn't making much progress in finding all the pieces of whatever it is she's trying to gather, and in her frustration, she sits back on her haunches and launches one of the little beads at the starscape and her vague reflection on the thick glass. "Frak." She cusses again, this time with more of a vehement growl in her voice. Of course, if she were a physics major, she'd be able to calculate the trajectory of the little bead projectile, but as it stands it seems to ricochet wildly and ends up thunking just to the side of Stavrian as if she meant to hit him and came this (> <) close. "Shit. Sorry. Sorry…"

Stavrian is in careful study of something in his hand at the moment, rather than Sawyer. So when the reporter suddenly cusses, and something thumps the couch cushion by his shoulder and skittles into his lap? News to him. His eyes move the quarter inch from hand to little back bead nestled in the crease of his fatigues trouser hip, and he fishes the lost decoration into his palm, tilting his hand so it follows the path of his head line and back. He looks up — or rather, just over the little bit of couch below the level he's sitting on, and holds out his hand. His voice is a stark contrast to hers, low. "Here."

Sawyer shifts to pour the collection she has in her pocket, little tink of glass beads against each other as they're tucked away, then she's rolling to her feet at least enough crawl onto the couch his hand is hovering over. "Thank you." She murmurs, her voice once again respectfully mindful of the others in the room. Sawyer plucks the bead from his palm, her previously manicured nails gnawed down to nubs. "How…how are you, Stavrian?" The question is posed hesitantly, as if she expects him to just turn it around and leave her flat.

Stavrian's hands have never seen manicures in their lives. Calloused and bearing those ugly burn scars in two lash rows across the backs, they're a stark contrast to Sawyer's, different except for one thing — bitten nails. Jagged tooth-battlefields of keratin. It's that he's looking at instead of her face, talking as she may be. "You know," he says, without even the pretense of answering her question, "There's as much bacteria under fingernails as there is on a toilet seat."

"And I don't have the benefit of a janitor washing my hands on occasion." Sawyer pulls her abused hand back to her lap, tucking that bead away to join it's brothers and sisters in the fold of her pocket. "You have a bruise." If the questions won't work, she'll just resort to stating the obvious, it seems.

Stavrian withdraws his own snacked-on hand, gulf of space resumed between them. "Yeah." He answers as though she'd stated something as mundane as that she thought dinner was good last night. "And you don't want a janitor doing that anyway. Mops. Think a toilet's bad." All this is under his breath, just air. "Anyway. Not something to be telling a lady, sorry."

Sawyer ticks a little smile, just at the corner of her lips. "Usually when I get called a lady, it's in a sarcastic tone. Typically when I've being thrown out of someplace." She lays her arm over the back of the couch, picking imaginary lint off the fabric. "At least you're talking. I've had an easier time carrying on a conversation with a mute inmate. Are you afraid you'll end up in print, or do you just find conversing with women difficult?"

"My wife would have said the latter." Either flat serious, or Stavrian is just a master of deadpan humor. His eyes stay on the viewport a few moments longer, then finally flicker down to the couch edge, and then to Sawyer. "Like I told you. I don't think less of you for working. But the first time I met you, you were dishonest," he tells her quietly. "So I think it's fair that I assume I can't trust."

Sawyer mmms as she sinks back into the cushions of the couch, her eyes shifting to the viewport. "Point of fact, that was the second time you and I crossed paths. The first time was when you were in the laundry room, tearing into Alexander Aurelia for him doing /his/ job. Not that I blame you, mind. There's something distinctly…off, with that one. Now, you'd typically print a retraction and apologize to the reader's at home. Only. There aren't any, anymore."

As she focuses on the fact that it was the second time, Stavrian looks back at the viewport. Now…retractions? Lost. "What?"

The journalist stretches out her legs towards the window, "A retraction. For getting your facts incorrect." Sawyer says blandly.

"Second," Stavrian repeats slowly, as though still trying hard to figure out why she gives a crap about it. And thus, giving up, silence follows. His eyes make a slight flicker rightwards as someone trundles by, with a clipboard and slouched shoulders.

She might have a damn good reason, in fact, should he ask. But as it stands, he falls back into that silent standoffishness that eats away at a woman who's used to talking or being surrounded by it. "So." A pause as she tries to find a reason or want to continue sitting here and interacting with the man. "I have clothes." Is what she comes up with.

It's like poking a hermit crab shell with a stick. Stavrian's attention has left her completely by the time she talks again, though gods know where it went. Somewhere in his own head, eyes turned some random star. Left hand against his cheek, his wedding ring catches a little gleam of light as his chin tilts down. His blue eyes look from her face to her hands to around her, to back up. "Not the ones off your back, I hope."

"For the refugees. We were told to contact medical if we wanted to donate, which I do. Lords know I packed more then need be to begin with. I could stretch my wardrobe, though I assume you want pants and shirts not evening dresses. Consider it a peace offering? Even though I'd donate even if you did trust me further than you could toss me." Sawyer ghosts a smile back over her shoulder to him.

"She offers the man her clothes to make peace?" Stavrian's lips twitch, finally. "Last time I saw that plotline, it was on a late-night premium channel." It's minus the lecherous tones that so many men would infuse it with, leaving it as — holy crap — a joke. No, really. Get the camera. He clears his throat softly. "Really though, yes keep your dresses. Pants and shirts we do need."

"Well, anything else I offer might be considered pay per view material." Sawyer jokes right back, an easier pattern for her to fall into. "But I'll bundle up what I can live without, toss in a few items I may cry about just to sweeten the deal, then deliver them to medical this afternoon. I'm really not the bad guy. And you're stuck with me, so…" The reporter lifts herself off the couch, perhaps meaning to go and deliver that promise right now.

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