PHD #462: All Bets Are Off
All Bets Are Off
Summary: More than just a debt is settled between Sawyer and Trask.
Date: 03 - 04 Jun 2042 AE
Related Logs: Upping the Ante (the high stakes bet); Haunted (Sawyer tries and fails to tell the tale of her once being engaged); Referenced: Bringing Her A-Game (scars in the shower); Stay (the definition of love) & There's No Place Like Home (Quinn family crib)
Sawyer Trask Kallistei 
Guest Quarters - Deck 3 - Battlestar Cerberus
The area here has been spiffed up for the Delegates. Bunks are kept neat as a pin, the lockers are brand new and have a beautiful shine on the fake wood. A table sits in the center with a vase of fake flowers resting in the middle. The deck has been mostly covered with a round, braided rug of multiple colors. To the back of the area, there is a private shower area. This is just one of five separate areas along Deck 3.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear
Post-Holocaust Day: #462

It's been more than six (6) weeks and Trask is still off the flight line. That also means more than six (6) weeks of not smoking — one of his few pleasures in life. The physical withdrawal symptoms have more or less abated by now, but he remains psychologically cranky about completely foregoing something he so enjoys. Being here, though, takes off some of the edge, likely because it has always been designated a non-smoking zone due to its youngest resident.

Lovingly tucked in by the man whose namesake she is, the wee one now naps in the antiquated Quinn family crib that was found in the Quinn family homestead some seven (7) months ago. In one of his infrequent showings of caring and consideration, Kal had it dismantled, brought aboard Cerberus, repaired and reassembled. Then he rather ingeniously rigged it securely in place, back when Gabrieli was still ChEng.

In the here and now, however, Bootstrap has very little to do. Idly, he drums against his chest whilst eyeing the neat stack of already completed squadron paperwork on the table.

Being off the flight line only makes him slightly easier to find, but by now Sawyer narrowed the usual suspects down to a routine of places to search. No telling where the Guest/Family Quarters fell within the list, but there is a slight rap of knuckles on the hatch just in case she's interrupting the boobie buffet.

Rap-a-tap-tap. Trask pauses in his percussion and quirks a brow, pretty certain he did, in fact, hear someone at the hatch. He's not expecting anyone, seeing how those with business here are currently on-duty. Metal doors being metal doors, though, it's not like he'd get more than a muffled reply from the person on the other side, so he heads for the hatch to see who's there. First, though, he does check his gun, getting it prepped in the holster. After all, that little someone who is sleeping is someone he'd kill someone else to protect. Only then does he crack the hatch open just enough to interact with the would-be visitor.

It's not as if the blonde was expecting a warm welcome or anything, but she still greets him with a quizzically raised brow. "Going to invite me in? Or are we going to do this through a slightly ajar hatch." 'This' gets no explanation, and even less context, as if Sawyer expects him to know precisely what she means. Her stance is somewhat guarded, her expression somewhat wary, standing out like a pink silk-clad sore thumb in the stark hallway.

By the look of him, Sawyer was not on his tiny list of people who might've bothered tracking him down at this hour. The stance of guarding the room and the child within shifts to something more self-protective when the blonde's presence registers, more or less mirroring the woman's body language. That intuitive ability to sense vulnerability, coupled with an ingrained inability to prey on that when his own exposed bits are more or less being left alone — which is presently the case — mean that he doesn't linger long in the hatchway. Tugging the door open enough to permit entry, Trask even refrains from asking if she's here to show him her tits. "Kalli's sleeping," he remarks in an odd amalgam of warning and entreaty.

In short, don't get him riled here and now. "You want some tea?" Does she even like tea? Has he any idea whether or not she does? The man's, at least, making an effort to go through the motions of being civil.

There is a pause before Sawyer enters, as if that's not entirely what she expected either; her surprise is not verbalized. After a slight sideways tilt of her head, she eventually follows him in the room after taking the time to close and secure the hatch as she tends to do when she's in with the babe. "I'll keep my voice low," she promises, even going so far as to not let her heels click loudly against the floor as she walks practically on tip-toes to the table and finds herself a seat. "Yes, thank you, to the tea." She waits further to speak until Trask has himself settled.

A flip of the faucet and he's filling the electric kettle in what passes for the head in here. Setting that to simmer, he scrounges a clean plaid mug that probably was snagged when the West Aerilon Colonial Emporium was stripped bare. Then he brings all the items to the table, along with a few tea bags acquired from the galley. "I dunno what flavor you like." So he lets her take her pick while he takes a seat with a cultivated nonchalance that does little to dissipate the tension.

Sawyer leans forward, selecting one of the tea bags at random, and she checks the label before deciding the one she holds passes muster. She pulls the little tab and drops the bag in the mug before winding the string around the handle to await the hot water. That little ceremony aside, she's now out of idle things to do to keep herself busy, so she might as well get down to the brass tacks of her visit. Reaching beneath the table, she pulls out something that's easily concealable within the grip of her palm. Setting it down within the neutral space between them, her hand pulls back leaving a little blue velvet box in its wake. "I came to pay my debts."

Brown eyes flit to blue box, and they settle there, furrowing his brow in the process. Kal's wariness has yet to abate, and the sight of the case covered in velvet doesn't at all put him at ease. "Scheduling's been a bit tricky with the mandatory extra training, but I'll see to it." So that Sawyer doesn't have Date Night forever looming. As for the other debt, "Something of equal or greater value." So far, he does not appear at all impressed with what he's being offered, not even reaching for it despite still looking at it.

Sawyer doesn't seem concerned about the Date Night debt, as that will be paid whenever the SL so can manage it on that end. So unconcerned is she, that she doesn't even deign to comment on it. "Equal or greater value. But we never specified to whom. Looks as if you're getting a little soft, too." A smirk threatens at the corner of her mouth, with just the barest upturn at the corners. Of course, Kal'll miss that, focused as he is on the little blue box which she doesn't reach to open either. Maybe it's just a little blue velvet box on its lonesome?

"Hardly," he replies with a sardonic twist of his lips. There is an undercurrent of something suggestive that he's not merely trying to save face. Beneath that flippant façade, there truly is much depth and an uncanny cunning. Even those who are aware that there's more to the man than irreverence would probably be surprised at how much. "So, tell me, Sawyer Averies, star reporter," eyes now on the blonde, "What's so frakkin' special about this box?" Which he's now lightly tossing back and forth in his hands. "Maybe it has a candy-filled center?"

Sawyer's eyes tick-tock back and forth as the box is bandied about. "It was my bridal set." Which means there is likely an engagement ring and a wedding band tucked in that box he's juggling. "Candy sold separately." The tea kettle starts to whistle, and the reporter tears her eyes away from the blue velvet jewelry box to blissfully go off in search of hot water for her tea mug. "I thought you could melt it down for a necklace or the like for Kalli, but ultimately it's your choice." Because, of course, it now belongs to him. A bet is a bet.

There likely is a pair of rings in there, but he doesn't bother checking. "So, you ran off in the middle of the night /after/ he proposed and pocketed the jewelry, as opposed to merely jilting him. Classy." In Kal's defense, he never was told the entire story, and his conclusion is rather logical based on what Sawyer actually did share. It's still a jerkass thing to say, though. With one final toss, the box is audibly caught. "Call me old-fashioned, but if my niece is gonna snag some bling, she should be dickin' over her own lovesick sap."

And now rising unto his feet, Bootstrap presses away from the table to press the blue offering back into the woman's hand, clearly not wanting it. "Thanks for lettin' me know exactly what my stories mean to you, though." Beyond the biting bravado, he's angry, offended, and rather wounded to rate so poorly (insofar as he interprets what he's been given).

Sawyer looks at the box in her hand, having abandoned the kettle without moving to fill her cup, which leaves her free to turn the box over in fingers. The movement has no doubt been done hundreds of times before, as the blue velvet is worn away at the corners. "For your own education, as I know how much you love to learn new things, when one proposes they usually don't have the wedding band in the box. That comes on the day of the wedding. But I found it among his things when I was packing up after the funeral." She lifts her face to look at Kal, the hurt in her eyes transparently shellacked with a smile that holds no mirth.

"The only one dicking over lovesick saps, m'dear, is you." She holds up the ring box one more time for him to get a good look at. "I paid my debt." She tosses it slightly so her palm can snap over it and secure it away once more. "If you want to be the egotistical jackass to throw it back in my face like you have everything else, that's on you. Thanks for the tea." She's heading towards the hatch once her head is turned enough so that her fringe of blonde hair hides her face. "Something I'd rather not share, but am willing to give to you." She repeats his original wager. "Next time? Make sure you're deserving of it."

"What, your reluctancy is 'cuz you're afraid someone will arrest you for stealing from a dead guy? He didn't bequeath 'em to you in his suicide note?" This is quickly going somewhere downright awful. Striding to cut her off at the pass is merely one of the rest stops. Back against the door and blocking the exit, there Trask is, hands to himself, but otherwise all up in her face. "Well, screw him for assuming you'd actually marry him," is blithely shrugged, arms crossing.

That soon enough dissipates into something more resentful, though. Those big brown eyes narrow sharply, and he rather derisively (and somewhat defensively) doles, "You consider yourself a lovesick sap that's bein' dicked over? Then frakkin' /stop/ behaving like one. I've /never/ played you for a fool. Not even when you made it abundantly clear that's what you wanted. This little bit of love martyrdom, or whatever the frak you wanna call it? Stop already." Whereas Kal does not refrain. "Oh, boo-boo. You rejected some guy and now he's dead. Poor Sawyer is such a horrible person. Now she has to do penance or some shit." Can it be that's how he really feels she views him?

When the woman talks about being deserving, though, that's one step too far for many a reason. "Deserving like you were?" The way it is said, with a certain nonchalant spite, is definitely with the conscious intention to emotionally flay.

Sawyer stops in her retreat, she has little option otherwise. Eyes glossy with unshed tears lift to square off with Trask's. "I told you I've used the word 'love' in connection with a man precisely twice. So, no, Amien wasn't just some guy. And no, he didn't get jilted by me and commit suicide. My own stupidity got him killed. I got my fiancé murdered, and I'll carry the scar until the day I die." A literal scar, by the looks of it, as she lifts the hem of her blouse to the bottom swoop of her ribcage. There's the little pucker of what can only be described as a bullet wound. It's not as if Trask has ever had much the opportunity to view her naked, and the scar can get lost in the shadows. "Look at it. LOOK." She waits a beat for him to do just that, but regardless, after a second, she lets her blouse fall back to lay against her skirt.

"You are not my penance. If I wanted penance, I'd rope myself into some relationship where the most exciting portion of our day would be to discuss what was served in the mess hall for lunch. You are everything that is good and bad, and wholesome and frakked up about me. So your godsdamned right I'm deserving. I deserve to be loved, I deserve to find some screwed up semblance of happiness with you. And I also deserve for you to make up your frakking mind about me. Love me, or don't. Because while I can be as patient as a Sister about you fighting your own demons, I'll be damned if you get to keep acting like I'm the cause of them. Your father was an ass. He's dead. You loved Penelope. She's dead. But I'm not, Kal. So stop treating me as if you could take me or leave me as if I were. I'm done with it."

Since Kal Trask has to always turn things up to no less then Eleven when rising to a challenge, he does one better than Sawyer. The duty green jacket has been hanging from a chairback for more than hour, but now the tank top and tee are pointedly removed and horizontally hurled across the room. "An ass." It's seethed, coursing through his now irascibly vibrating body.

Blackies are not the sort of folk to air their dirty laundry, but she had to go and mention his father, whom he himself never so much as alluded to in any of their conversations. And she had to call the bane of Bootstrap's existence what she did, and that right and well sets him off. Anything and everything else she said is swept aside in the oncoming storm. "AN. ASS." Although he's not yelling, his voice increases in volume and causticity, and it's enough to get the still sleeping baby to kick and fidget at the onset of disturbed naptime.

Not that he seems to notice, because he is caught up in the throes of the mania that comes with his emotionality. Which means he's advancing, giving no quarter. "Maybe it's a language barrier, seeing how Standard isn't my native tongue and all, but I'm pretty sure that 'ass' isn't the right word." Out go his arms, covered in moko and faded defensive scars. "Maybe you need a closer look to see what I mean." Those limbs now all up in her face, followed with sarcasm. "Or maybe I'm just biased. You tell me. I can't really get a good look at my back, so maybe it's not as bad as I think it is." Beneath all the ink, some of them really are quite severe.

Sawyer grits her teeth as he flashes his scars in front of her sight line. She's seen his scars before. She's kissed the ones on his back and traced them with her fingertips as she massaged the coils of his muscles once in a shower. But it's never the scars you can see that are the worst. "You're right. I misspoke." Why is it that they only really talk when they are yelling? Sorry, little Kalli, not yelling, but speaking forcibly. "You are the ass; he's just the bastard that saw to it you turned out that way. So while you're lucky enough for me to believe that I deserve you? I don't deserve this."

"Damn right, you misspoke," is the tight reply. There is no protest when he's the one being called an ass, though. It's a true statement, and he knows it. Yet, for all he is capable of being cruel the way children can be, he's not one to bust chops for the sake of hearing cracking sounds. "I'm lucky?" he sasses, somewhere between derisive and incredulous. "That you believe that you deserve me?" Kal pauses, just leveling an 'are you insane?' look.

"See," he blithely bowls through, "that's a large part of your problem. I know I'm incredibly awesome and all, but it really only applies to an itty bitty scope. Yet, somehow, you've come to believe it goes beyond that. More of a problem than this misguided assumption of yours is that, not once, have you ever said anything about anyone being deserving of you." Which maybe he's not so sure that he is.

Whatever the case, he drives his point home with, "Do you deserve me? I dunno. Is masochism one of your kinks? Do you deserve this?" Arms fan out and hands wave about in some manner of all-encompassing gesture encapsulating their relationship dynamic. "I'm not sure anyone does. And that's the rub, Sawyer. You talk and talk and talk, and never are the words 'you don't deserve me'. Instead, it's all 'why are you such a jerk?'" Voice now calmer, but nowhere near sensitive, he point blank tells her, "Because you let me get away with it. You can't /ever/ let someone get away with treating you awfully. I don't care who they are. You just can't, because they will, and that's on you." And that's spoken as a hard-learned lesson, which it was for him.

"You… you're a jerk, because you can be? See, that's what I got out of all of this. You're a downright dickwad to me at times because… I let you be? Really? That's your stance. So this was all," There's that same all-encompassing gesture he just did, "Just another one of your tests to see if I would fail? Well, I'll tell you exactly what you can do…" And that's when Sawyer gets up in his face, her words a sudden blur of perfectly polished Virgan, rattling off a litany of phrases that he may well know, seeming how his grasp of the language is centered around cuss words. She has some very flavorful ways of phrasing exactly what portions of his anatomy he can shove up various other portions of his anatomy.

Without so much as batting a lash, Trask endures the verbal assault with a vaguely bland expression. Men do, after all, have a knack for tuning out when a woman babbles. Every so often, though, his head faintly cants and his brows quirk. Occasionally, he even looks faintly impressed by the blue streak of blue language that she's spewing. Because, really, after living eighteen (18) months on Virgon, he actually did learn most of the most vulgar terms and little else. "Okay, first of all? I'm not /that/ limber. Points for creativity, though."

"Second of all, /this/…" No revisiting of wild gesticulating, merely a flourish of his left hand, "was not some test. You gave me something you looted from some dead guy you wouldn't even marry. /That/ was a dick move." It's very possible that he honestly doesn't comprehend just why he was given those rings. After all, being emotionally stunted and self-absorbed has a way of skewing one's perspective and interpretation of things. Even so, he no longer sounds angry. If anything, he seems more calm despite Sawyer going off on him. (Or perhaps /because/ she's doing so.)

Because she just gave a litany of expletives in her native tongue, when Sawyer switches back to Standard, it's still heavily accented so her 'l's sound heavy and her vowels are rounded out. "You imbecile! For a smart man you can be extremely dense. I called him my fiancé because I said yes. Because I loved him. We never had a chance to have a wedding because I got the man killed with one of my stupid stories." She cracks open the box, shoving it right underneath his nose. Inside is a modest engagement ring: a gold band with a diamond that couldn't be more than half a carat. A matching wedding band is nestled next to it.

"Your wager was for something that I would rather not share," Her Virgan accent is slowly melting away, with the way she forcibly moves her lips and reshapes her tongue until it disappears correctly, "but I would give to you. I wanted you to have this. I wanted you to have this piece of my heart because I was ready to give it to you. But all you do is throw it back in my face as if my affections are beneath you." She pulls the box back, only to peel the first ring out of the box and pelt him in his bare chest with it. "But you should be so," Ping goes the second ring, having little more effect than if it were a ball of tin foil, "lucky to have me. So here." The box doesn't get thrown at him, but back further into the room (and no where near Kalli). "Choke on it."

And that's enough to upset the baby, who commences with the fussy noises that give way to crying.

Which now has the man well and truly annoyed. Back comes some of the defensiveness, although it manifests more as impudence than irateness. "I suppose the gold complements your hair, but I somehow saw you as the sort who'd rather have platinum. More to the point: HOW THE FRAK WAS I TO KNOW you actually agreed to marry him when the only part of the story I've had up until now is that he proposed and you frakkin' bolted?!" Sawyer started with the yelling, which woke up the baby, so now there really is no sense in keeping his own voice down. The damage has been done.

When those rings pelt his chest, it doesn't matter that not even the piddly diamond (or is it cubic zirconia?) makes a scratch. It's the principle of the matter that she threw anything, and those damnably emotive eyes of his flare with a mingling of anger, surprise, and 'oh, no, you did NOT just do that'. The LOOK he levels and the way he points his finger at the blonde convey that this is not over. There will be words about it. Right now, though, he has wailing redhead to console.

"Now, now, Dumplin'. It's okay. The grown-ups are just bein' stupid. Consider it an abject lesson of what not to do." Carefully, Kal reaches into the crib to collect and comfort his niece. "C'mere you." He's no Evandreus, but he's learned a trick or two, and he certainly keeps his composure. In fact, he's in his element dealing with the chaos as much as he is in creating it. "Auntie Sawyer brought you a gift."

Normally, this is the time where Sawyer would just leave, but for some reason she just crosses her arms over her chest and takes the position against the hatch that he just vacated. Any look he gives her is only complemented by the daggers she's glaring at Trask, even while he picks up and coddles Kalli. That'd be enough to melt any girl, under normal circumstances. Of course, they are far from normal circumstances. "And Uncle Kal should have taken a moment to ask, but instead he flexes his big old machismo and tries to make Auntie Sawyer feel like dookie. And if he succeeds, he then blames Auntie Sawyer for being a big old mushy girl even after he previously called her out for not loving him as he was," she says in the same lullying sing-song voice she would normally use to soothe Kalli. "So when she gave him the nearest and dearest thing she had left, instead of asking about it, he just assumed. And you know what they say about assuming. It makes you a giant A-S-S." Even though that's not how the saying goes. And yes, she spells it.

"Auntie Sawyer's forgetting the part where Uncle Kal told her that loving someone is accepting that someone as is, but still /trying/ to help them be the best person possible," is the undaunted, like clockwork rebuttal. "And /she/ fails to realize that allowing herself to be treated like crap is helping no one. Especially herself." Trask, too, adopts that tone of a sagacious elder seasoned with a dash of coochie-coo. "See, instead of sharing her strength, she gives away her power, and that's wrong. She doesn't have to be a big meanie about it, like I am — in fact, she shouldn't," is the somewhat wry addendum, "but she /does/ have to stand up for herself. If she can't do that, how can she stand up for anyone else? If she can't stand up /to/ me when I'm outta line, she can't rally to my defense were I to ever need it. No one will take her seriously."

Even so, the infant is still crying, likely able to sense the tension despite the softer voices. "Hey, can you take her for a few secs?" Kal suddenly asks, looking to the blonde. "I seriously need to take a leak. Normally, I'd just multitask, but she wasn't wailing like a banshee during those occasions."

Sawyer's hand goes to her throat, where she starts unseating a series of pale pink buttons from their tiny elastic loops. "What Uncle Kal fails to realize is that Auntie Sawyer was already trying to help him past his buttholish episodes in her own way, but it turns out he doesn't take well to Time Outs." This whole talking in third person is getting weary, and so by the time Sawyer's reached Trask, she's dropped the act. Her pink silk blouse is stripped off in favor of the light cream top of a slip that obviously services both her blouse and her skirt. Interestingly enough, the blonde is sans her usual pantyhose. She tosses the shirt onto one of the empty beds, and reaches for the little wailing bundle of baby. "Hurry up and pee, already."

"Buttholish? Really?" he chides her word choice, faintly smirking. "BUTTholish." Cue the eye roll and small snicker. "Funny how you sound less of a prude in Virgan." As if that is something of a feat considering that it's, well, Virgan. All the same, the wee one is passed over, only for Trask to do his own manipulation of clothing. "Oh, and here's one for you, Sawyer," he cheekily calls out, unfastening his belt and heading for the private shower area that also happens to have a private toilet, "if your own way isn't working? Find a new frakkin' way."

"The baby doesn't speak Virgan." Not that she speaks at all, but that accounts for Sawyer's particular verbage. A wailing Kalli in hand, she tucks the baby against the curve of her neck so that those wet little cheeks dampen the blonde's skin. With one hand bracing Kalli's head, the other scoops under the little infant's bottom and she subtly starts bouncing her. "And to pick a new way, I'd need new motivation." Sawyer follows after Kal, standing in the doorway of the private head. "So far, all I've gotten are unreturned kisses, verbal abuse, and the occasional napping partner. I need more."

"Well, I don't hear her speakin' Standard, either." Cargo pants are unbuttoned and unzipped. "And for frak's sake, this is a military vessel. That kid's probably cussin' and foul-mouthed in her baby language." Which, sadly, would make her Uncle Kal proud, no doubt. To the rest, the sass does not abate. "Oh, so, you're perfectly content to keep bangin' your head against the proverbial brick wall but you need new motivation to find a way to get what you're beating yourself up over. That makes perfect sense. Well, maybe to someone who's lacking sense."

True to his word, the man really did need to pee something fierce. "You need more? Okay… how about this for starters: START ACTING IN A WAY THAT WILL ENCOURAGE THIS MORE THAT YOU SEEK." A bit of a backward glance to the baby-carrying blonde in the doorway follows. "What? You want a golden shower?"

"You don't like the way I act? Then I'm better off alone. I'll be damned if I'm going to change who I am, just to have you love me. You're right, it was just a fantasy." Sawyer bounces Kalli again, but blissfully, those little baby eyelids have started to droop again. "Shake it, wash your hands, and get back out here. I've almost got her back asleep." The blonde disappears from the doorway to leave him to the last of his business.

"What if I don't wanna wash my hands? What if I never wash 'em again? That okay with you?" Bootstrap is officially now being a willful ass. "But, no. I /don't/ like the way you act. I don't like the way you let /me/ act." Evidently, he drank no small amount of coffee, hearing how he's still whizzing away. "And can the indignation. You don't want a doormat any more than I do. If you did, you'd be cozying up with that 'friend'," the audible air quotes of the 'that guy is your friend because he wants more but is sadly willing to settle for what scraps you give him' variety, "Danny of yours. Instead, here you are, no doubt fantasizing about me frakking you senseless once I finish up in here. And I BET you'd let me put my hands all over you even if I didn't wash 'em." Cue the toilet finally flushing.

"Me, maybe. But the baby, no. So wash your hands." Sawyer leans over the crib, settling the baby back down among the blankets. She picks up a stuffed animal, making it dance for the sleepy baby's eyes. She starts singing a soft song in Virgan, which is apparently about some lad named Dominik. It has enough of a bouncing rhythm to not qualify as a lullaby, though the lyrics are sung softly.

Faucet water can be heard, but there is no way of knowing whether or not soap is being used. After all, a Blackie is bound to say that some dirt and germs are good for developing an immune system. By the time Trask emerges, he's all zipped up. En route to the two ladies, he finishes fastening his belt. "You can't be afraid of me, Sawyer. You… you just can't, okay?" It's quietly spoken, delivery and demeanor an amalgam of sad and somber and frustrated. "I don't want that. I don't ever want that." The fact that he's even bothering to engage her in conversation, contentious as it may be, is a confession that he cares. If he didn't, he wouldn't bother. And maybe the reason that he's not looking at her really doesn't have all that much to do with him and Fergus MacMutton joining the plushie animal pantomime.

Sawyer bonks the little animal's nose against Kalli's, then settles it next to her and tucks the blanket around them both. "I don't even know what you're talking about anymore." Her finger makes a swoop over the baby's brow, causing her to crinkle up the soft skin into little ridges before it settles back out with a sleepy coo. "The only thing I've ever feared when it came to you was never getting to see you again. I guess I never banked on your cunning plan of trying to make me never /want/ to." She steps away from the crib, leaving Trask there with Fergus. She doesn't step far, only enough to find that little velvet box wherever it landed. "You push people, Kal. Push and push and push to see how far they'll bend, and then get surprised when they break." Carefully, she closes the lid and leans over to slide it onto the table's top.

"Not surprised, no," is murmured with an acute sense of self-awareness and rue, "Except maybe that some people last as long as they do." To his credit, Kal neither denies nor defends his behavior. He knows it's not the way to behave, but he really doesn't know any other way. It may not have made for a happy existence, but he's capable of functioning even if in a highly dysfunctional way. With his background, that's no small feat. Most other people with similar experiences end up dead, imprisoned, or even worse.

Quietly clearing his throat, he still lingers over the crib even though the baby is no longer in a state to notice that he's still there. "So, um, we… uh…" Again with the throat clearing, "we really appreciate you takin' care of Kalli. And I know it's a dick move of me to ask, but if you could just help out for another week… it just… it'd make it easier to find a replacement." Because it sounds like Averies is finally calling it quits.

"I made that commitment to Quinn. Not you. You just got me the interview," Sawyer says quietly, no malice in her words, just exhaustion. She doesn't bother to find the rings that should go in that sweet, little, worn box, but rather she just goes to retrieve her blouse that was spared the potential of baby vomit. "If she no longer wants me to sit, just have her call me at the News Room or send Evan." A whisper of pink silk gets slipped over her head, and shaking fingers make a first, second and third attempt to button the buttons at the throat before she finally gives up on that all together. "So, do I hold the record?" Presumably for how long she's lasted. "You know what?" Sawyer says, finding some self-amusement that causes her to smile. "Don't answer that."

Nonetheless, he answers. "Nah. That'd be Dominic Gabrieli." The two men go back nearly fourteen (14) years. As for sitting, "You're great with Short Kal." Tall Kal? Well, Tall Kal is the real problem child. "So don't be expecting Evan or a call." Unlike Sawyer, who's bothered to put her shirt back on, his remains on the floor. Instead, he simply makes his way to the hatch to unlock and open the door. With the wind pretty much taken out of his sails, all he can really say is, "I suppose this is where we're supposed to have some sort of awkward goodbye, but I'm fine with handwaving it, if you want." Because this is already uncomfortable and regrettable enough.

"Couldn't be as awkward as the relationship — pseudo relationship — whatever this was." Was. How terribly past tense. The blonde merely shakes her head as she steps past and into the hall.

"Probably not," is murmured, dismayed brown eyes looking anywhere other than the departing woman.

And thus the door is closed.

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