PHD #437: Bedtime Stories
Bedtime Stories
Summary: Three weeks after the mutiny and one week after Sawyer's release from the brig, Trask and the investigative journalist finally catch-up.
Date: Started on 09 May, finished on 11 May
Related Logs: With Friends Like These (Gemenon and Jelly); Au pair, Where? (searching for a sitter); Of Wolves and Gazelles (Sawyer's in the brig and promises to kiss Trask's boo-boos)
Referenced: Nobody Expects the Areion Inquisition (Sawyer has some boo-boos of her own); Clankers: Smokescreen (Centurion boarding action); Virgon's Coffin (Trask is held at gunpoint 1.0); As Flies to Wanton Boys (Trask is held at gunpoint 2.0); Interested (the pen incident); IC Memoirs: A Souvenir (the infamous image Queenie sent)
Sawyer Trask 
News Room - Deck 3 - Battlestar Cerberus
Post-Holocaust Day: #437
This compartment isn't huge by any means, an afterthought shoved into an alcove when the engineer was finishing the final plans for the ship. The long awkward rectangle is filled with several desks and those heavy pieces of machinery that are tools of the media trade — copiers, computers, printers, and of course a seemingly never-ending supply of paper of both the A4 and broadsheet variety. In the far port corner hangs a mulberry-colored hammock attached to the bulkhead — where the head-reporter-in-charge is purported to spent her nights. Three heavy desks have been moved to form an inverted 'U' for the new Editor in Chief's work station, and behind them lies the hatch to the modest closet-sized darkroom.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear

While Bannik is promoting his manifesto, Sawyer has suspiciously kept her head down since returning from Gemenon. While she's happily talked to anyone with a question, she has neither promoted nor published her account of what happened down at Lampridis Falls. The addition of a marine guard outside may be a testament to paranoia, though whose might remain the question. Despite the stern-faced man outside, with the day edging from the late afternoon into full blown evening, Sawyer is by her lonesome inside the room. She's tucked into the sling of the hammock, already donning her pink plaid pajamas, and her reading glasses low on her nose while she reads by the light of a little LED lamp clipped to the support near her head.

The presence of an MP posted outside totally cramps Trask's style of coming and going as he pleases. Never mind that he vastly outranks each and every one of the grunts who have stood watch outside the News Room door, or that he knows the entry code for the electronic lock — protocol mandates that he still has to deal with the guard. For myriad reasons, he's felt disinclined to comply, which means that he hasn't seen Sawyer since she was released.

That was a week ago.

And so it is with an amalgam of bruised ego over not being sought out and concern for the all-too-quiet journalist's well-being, he finally strolls on over much like one would approach the velvet rope of the hottest nightclub in town. "Hey," he nonchalantly greets the guard, flicking his chin upwardly in the universal expression of 'sup?'. "I'm on the list." As if there /is/ a guest list. "Kal Trask." So laissez-faire about it, like some VIP who knows he'll get in.

And, of course, Trask is let in because he is, in fact, on the list. Frankly, the marine on guard isn't really giving the job his all, as he just makes a vague head gesture for the hatch for Trask to enter as he will. Likely, he's only posted here should trouble seem to arise. Sawyer, having heard the murmur of voices outside the hatch has closed her book expectantly, but doesn't bother to pour herself out of the sling, waiting first to see what strolls into her little pseudo-secure world.

/What/ strolls in is a MIGHTY TROLL, but not before that guard receives a jocular shoulder pat, as if to say 'keep up the good work'. "Are you decent?" Trask asks, only to soon enough see that Sawyer is. Faintly, he shakes his head in mock admonishment. "In bed, no less. Well, hammock." As if she somehow should be clad in scanty lingerie or some such thing, as opposed to pink plaid flannel and a dark t-shirt. A dark t-shirt that he does not immediately recognize as the one that went missing after the blonde stopped hiding in his bunk those few days after her detainment aboard the Areion.

Years seem to melt off Sawyer's face as Trask comes through the hatch. "You know, I knew if I kept looking for you in this hammock, sooner or later I'd find you here." The blanket that's been serving as a prop next to her is shifted aside, and a spot is summarily cleared off for him to occupy. "Had I known you were coming, I might have switched up the usual. Come to hear a bedtime story about Humanoid Cylons and man living side by side in peaceful harmony?"

"Ooh, a fairy tale," is the facetious reply, the jovial delivery inversely proportionate to his general misanthropy. After all, when /ever/ did /man/ and /man/ live side by side in peaceful harmony? "Is this the kind where they live happily ever after, or are we talkin' the non-cannibalized, non-bastardized, pre-rewrite cautionary tale version?" Either way, he does not appear opposed to the notion of story time. The duty jacket is removed and neatly hung off a chairback before the ECO parks his ass on a desktop to commence unlacing his boots.

"The latter, because even I can't spin something that well to make the former believable." Sawyer's bare toe pushes off the deck plate, sending her in a lazy swing while she waits for him to finish tending to his boots. It's one of those quaint every day things that seem like such fascination for the blonde, likely because it's not as if they watch each other engage in them every day. "Have I ever seen you eat? I don't think we've ever actually shared a meal." Sawyer seems to get stuck on the aside.

"Leonis, maybe." Which really isn't what she's getting at, but that's the most accurate answer he can offer. "'course, I'm not sure I'd really call an MRE a meal despite the word being in its name. Much-appreciated sustenance, sure. Meal?" He makes an iffy crinkly face. One boot off, then the other, with dark socks also removed and tucked within, then placed somewhere out of the way but within ready reach should the Fleet suddenly go to Condition Two. That he's opting for bare feet is a strong indication that he's not anticipating being woken-up by klaxons.

"There were fresh fish on Gemenon. And apples." Sawyer's eyes are fixated on his toes, gaze narrowed slightly but only in concentration. "Never thought I'd be happy for the crappy food they serve up in the mess hall again." Her stern expression lightens when her eyes drift back up to the crinkle of his face. "You slept here when I was gone." Not a question, per se, but rather an observation.

One eye narrows as the brow of the opposite quirks. "You not a fan of fresh fish an' apples?" If he had nicotine in his system, perhaps he'd better pick-up on what she meant. As it stands, Kal is six (6) days shy of one (1) month of no smoking. He'll make up for lost time once he's fully healed up and back on the flightline. In the meantime, his beloved tobacco treats are foregone in favor of augmenting his recovery rate.

Belt now unbuckled, he finally makes his way to the hammock. By the time he arrives, aforementioned belt, as well as gun and holster, are now off and in-hand. Like a seasoned pro, the man hangs the items off one of the rear D-rings, for he always make a point of sleeping with his back to the wall. In such a position, doing what he's doing, his face can't readily be seen, which means his sudden discomfort at being called out remains concealed, for this might lead somewhere messy and complicated. Never mind that he's not entirely sure how she knows that he had, in fact, been power napping here while she was in the clink, which only augments his ill-ease. "You did extend a standing offer, did you not?" is the slightly breezy reply, not quite defensive so much as heralding that it could end up that way, as is common when he be frontin'.

"I'm just glad you took me up on the offer." The response is light enough, perhaps cleverly delivered so, so as to not seem a further threat. Sawyer leans over to reach him, finger only able to tick off some part of him like his leg or hip or back. "You've been busy lately. Every time I come looking for you, you're knee deep in your regular duties or holed up looking at film footage. I guess what I'm trying to say is: I missed you. But if that makes you uncomfortable, I can follow it with something flippant like 'next time, I'll take better aim'."

"Well, seeing how the other standing offer I have means bunking with an infant…" Not that he minds babysitting his niece. Just not when he's in need of sleep. "Speaking of which, I also have private shower rights." As private as can be in the set of former QUODEL quarters transformed into a family unit for Quinn and the kid. "I'm sure Maggie wouldn't mind if you used it." Seeing how using the military head might not be the most comfortable thing for Sawyer, these days. Which reminds him, as he eases back, mission now accomplished, "You know anyone who'd be a suitable sitter? Cid's willing to make accommodations to bring a nanny on-board." That he's even asking about something so important speaks volumes, even if it's something that comes naturally, at this point.

As for the rest, he can't help but quirk a wry but good-natured smirk. "How is that different from any other day? Those where I'm in sickbay drugged off my ass, notwithstanding." And then in that way of twisting what was meant into something else, he does note, "Wouldn't hurt to hit the range more." Practice aforementioned aim. "I've been spending more time there. Finally had to accept that, these days, I'm just as likely to be shooting at someone or something /outside/ of the cockpit." He's a good shot with a Raptor's heavy weapons. That Five-seveN he totes? Not nearly so much. "You still takin' ass kickin' lessons from Maragos?" A question asked while he unzips his trousers and starts to shimmy them off.

As Trask leans backwards, almost as an afterthought, Sawyer's finger curls into the beaded chain of his dogtags running along it until it jangles the hexagonal tags. "Hmm? Oh. No, no. That dried up some months back. Good Housekeeping has been busy with his own life. It's more important the Marines stay trained instead of some silly little reporter." She blinks a few times and focuses back on his face, a serene smile on her lips. "A babysitter. Well, that's an interesting predicament. I mean there's Rose, but really, who's to say she won't just up and go blind again? Kidding. Only kidding. You could ask me, you know. I come with my own guard and everything."

That's enough to get the man to momentarily pause, bent over as he is, one foot off the ground and half out of the pant leg. For a moment, he just peers at the blonde, then blinks a few times. DOES NOT COMPUTE. "You wanna babysit during Condition One, not to mention all the hours that the fam's shifts overlap?" Skepticism… but sans sarcasm. It's definitely progress from what is likely the expected retort of 'I may not be an investigative journalist, but I can recognize a dead lead, and I'm not the sort to waste time on such wastes of time' or some such quip all about Sawyer saying she's not interested. Trust is such a fragile, blossoming thing, but it slowly uncurls through a crack in the rough terrain. Why, he even resumes undressing, slinking out of the other leg.

As an afterthought, he asks, "Who's Rose?"

"You know as much about politics as I do about your ECO console. Rose is the woman who helped spearhead the hydroponics lab, and is one of the unofficial heads of the Elpis. I believe she was also reversibly blind due to radiation poisoning or something of that ilk." Sawyer tilts her head, "I don't think I'd be that bad with a child. Better than some perfect stranger. Unless she needs a wet nurse, in which case, I revoke my offer. No baby is going to be hanging off my teat, thank you very much." She really should stop watching him take off his pants. Forcing her gaze, she looks back to his face.

"It makes sense, if you think about it. I'm already on board the Cerberus, so there is no need for special provisions for anyone else. It gives me the added security of staying on board should they decide to revoke my other clearances. I earn brownie points from you for looking after your namesake. It gives me something to do during Condition One instead of sit around and fret about you. I'm up during ridiculously long hours anyways, so the shift thing doesn't particularly matter. And, you wouldn't nearly be able to avoid me as much. Shall I keep going? Because I don't mind if you do." The last in reference to his disrobing, which has once more garnered her attention despite her best intentions.

While Sawyer rattles off qualifiers for the once-blind redhead, Bootstrap has a 'EUREKA!' moment. "Oh! Damon's girl." He may actively avoid all things Elpis beyond protecting the freighter, but he most certainly knows the knuckledragger scuttlebutt. Which means that, as far as he's concerned, G. Rose Ibbhanas is known as "the Chief's squeeze". Never mind that there /is/ a betting pool as to how long /that's/ actually going to last.

The remark about no babies at the blonde's teat garners an amused smirk. "Yeah. There's definitely somethin' about the infantile and your tits that just don't mesh." Which is as much a self-deprecating crack as it is ribbing the woman. "Do puke and spittle wash outta silk, anyway?" That may or may not be a joke. Cargo pants now folded and set aside on the nearby desk top, the actual removal of tank and t-shirt is halted, permitting only a slivering glimpse of his navel. "Don't objectify me," he sasses with faux indignation.

"You like it," Sawyer says to the quip about objectifying him, with the smirk just as much in her voice as it is in her lips. "Besides, I know better than to wear silk when dealing with tiny humans who don't know what orifice they'd rather be leaking out of. I knew your t-shirt would come in handy, more ways than one." The blonde plucks at the dark garment she's wearing, seeming quite satisfied with that particular pilfering. "Anyways. I'll only be moderately offended if you say no, so don't let that cloud your judgment. Also, c'mere. I made you a promise, didn't I? Something about kissing your boo-boo."

So /that's/ where /that/ t-shirt went. Trask's left hand is extended in a 'gimme' motion. "I suggest handing over my property before I arrest you and drag your ass back to the brig." He's an officer. A Captain, no less. He has that power. And no amount of flattery or boo-boo bribing is denting his implacable expression.

Sometimes it's so very hard to read one Kal "Bootstrap" Trask, and no matter how long this pseudo courtship dance of theirs has been going on, she still doesn't have the hang of it. Sawyer doesn't seem to particularly seem to believe that he'd have her arrested, but he /does/ seem peeved about the shirt. Slowly, she sits up a little more properly, balancing her weight in the precarious sling. Arms cross at her midsection and as she lifts the shirt up and off, her eyes never leave his beyond the veiling of frabric. "Try as you might, but you'll never be able to get the reporter smell out of it. It's like the smell of paper and perfectly conjugated verbs." The fight not to blush or hide her form is an almost physical battle, because if Trask doesn't sleep in pants, the blonde likewise doesn't sleep in bras.

Incorrigibly rascally creature that he is, Kal manages to keep a straight face — and unwavering eye contact — during entirety of the disrobing. It's not until the shirt is firmly within his hand that a mischievous, all-too-pleased smile forms, partially obscured with how his head drops a bit when he folds aforementioned garment. "It'll be back to smelling like me in no time," is the lightly scoffed dismissal.

So very naked, and not simply in relation to her current lack of garments. Sawyer at least folds up one leg to loosely hug her knee to her chest, leaving the other to dangle over the side of the hammock in order to keep her balance. "I'll get one of your shirts yet. I'm making it a goal, one of those things to cross off my bucket list. So…" Teeth worry the inside of her cheek, "…you getting in, or what?"

Another scoff and a mild eye roll. "Keep your knickers on." Both a ribbing about her now quasi-nakedness and an admonishment for her impatience. The man still has to remove the shirts he's wearing. The boxer briefs and dog tags remain, though. That done, he idly scratches just next to the nerve damaged skin comprising and surrounding his three-inch long gut wound. "I hope you have better items on that list." Padding over to the hammock, he climbs in and clambers over Sawyer to claim the spot against the wall. There's some shifting and rustling that causes the sling to swing, but he eventually gets settled. Eyes closed, he keeps his hands to himself and prompts, "So, where's my bedtime story?"

"You know, I'm beginning to think you don't find me attractive." Topless woman, practically naked man. Practically naked man is… practically on the verge of sleep. The words are good natured, however, followed by a poke to his ribs in some area that's not all pink from recent wounds. "Let me get a shirt, it's cold. Then I'll tell you all about my misadventures." The hammock is suddenly lighter as her form slips out of the sling, likely as she pads off to find another shirt to replace the one he reclaimed. There is the sound of her foot locker being disturbed, and then she's back shortly after shimmying into her matching pink babydoll t-shirt. "Where do you want me to start?" The blonde crawls back in beside him, this time stretching out and arranging the blanket over them both.

Practically naked man works sixteen (16) hour days, yo. Not only does he need his rest, he also requires beauty sleep to maintain his boyish good looks. When Sawyer pokes his right side, his eyes open and follow her egress. "Says the woman who ceased objectifying me the moment I got in bed." Beat. "Hammock." Beat. "Whatever." Then, recycling her remark from when he inquired about an au pair, he quips, "You could ask me, yanno." To keep her warm. When she eventually does return, wearing that pink babydoll tee, he makes room to make her comfortable… then promptly slinks his right arm underneath the pillows to curl around the blonde. "How about with something awesome I did, then go from there." The fa├žade of strutting ego has yet to nod off.

"Oh, I'm far from done objectifying you. I just thought I'd let you get comfortable first." Tucked against his side, a sigh escapes Sawyer that sounds like a mingle of contentment and relief. It's been a long couple of weeks. "I don't know how speaking to your awesomeness will segue into Gemenon, but alright. How about how you've been there for Maggie, especially when Tillman's belly suddenly got yellow. And how about the way you are with little Kalli, hmm? That's relatively awesome. You're fiercely loyal. And one of these days, you're going to even take a day of leave and spend the entire thing completely lavishing me with attention, including but not limited to, actually kissing me."

Not really what he was expecting, but it pleases him in an unfamiliar way. Even so, true to form, he downplays the sentimentality. "That's my future slave labor. Of course, I'm gonna be there to make sure I don't end up with damaged goods." Silly Sawyer should know that. "And the only days off I get are spent bed-ridden and drugged off my ass in sickbay." Which, actually, is very likely true. "Besides, /I'm/ the one owed some kisses. All these boo-boos aren't gonna kiss themselves."

Sawyer's finger traces one of the laugh lines near the corner of his mouth, tilting up to place a little kiss there in the wake. "Don't think I'm above shanking you to get you laid up for a few days so you can spend time with me. I've done hard time, you know. I was a few days in the brig shy of getting my very own teardrop tattoo." The crook of her finger tugs down the edge of the blanket and she studies the line of his collarbone before leaning in to deposit a kiss there too. In reflection, she murmurs, "Do you always get your way?" Because here she is, kissing /him/ again, instead of vice versa. Lips make a pass of his sternum, "I don't remember you kissing the lacerations from my restraints."

"Funny enough, Doc Adair asked me the same thing, once," he reveals, eyes languidly closing. 'You're used to getting your way, aren't you, Captain?' were Cameron's exact words. The answer Sawyer receives to the question is more or less the same that the Aerilonian did, "When dealing with sensible people, yeah. Pretty much." True, his mouth quirks with a certain amusement, but he doesn't otherwise lord it over the woman.

That body of his is a canvas for countless scars, although the worst of them are along his back, shoulder blades and forearms, and are largely obscured by copious tatau. A particular ink and flesh carving on his right shoulder, however, is somewhat marred from some LMG rounds that tore into him when Centurions tore through the ship on the 11th of April in 2041. The back of his left hand has a gash acquired during the mutiny, visible with how his palm rests atop his blanket-covered abdomen.

When Sawyer mentions her own wounds from the Areion's restraints, Kal can't hep but quip, "See, that's why I always use silk stockings." As is typical with him, there's no real way of knowing how much truth is in that joke. Craning his head a bit, his eyes open. "Lemme see the damage. I bet it's nothin' and that you're just being a wuss."

Sawyer was on the verge of unwrapping the blanket further, in the exploration for new and interesting scars to kiss per her promise, but he distracts her. "I hope that the doctor wasn't kissing you at the time. Or do I? Let me work on that mental image for a moment and I'll get back to you." Her wrist is presented in his field of vision, twisting it this way and that until the shadow and light catch it just right. It's nothing more than a slight discoloration now, like a band of barely darker skin that's along the back of her wrist instead of crossing her pulse. "Am I supposed to read more into that present from Wreath of Roses than you originally let on?" There's a brief pause, followed by a non-sequitur. "At least I don't jump at every loud noise now."

"No kissing. Just a reach-around. Not that day, though." Technically, it's sorta true, in the strictly doctorly way of fondling manbits. "Cam's a cool guy, but… I dunno. He's a bit too pretty. Like, if I'm gonna go for a guy, he should be /really/ manly. A /real/ difference from a woman. Not that he's a woman, but just… a bit too pretty. Same with Mary." He knows a guy named 'Mary'? More to the point, Kal clearly has given this some thought.

Taking Sawyer's offered hand into his free one, he further twists it this way and that, conducting a thorough investigation before blithely ridiculing, "Total wuss." Even so, he draws her wrist to his lips and places a series of soft kisses on the fading scar.

There is a little tortured noise in the back of Sawyer's throat, much the same as the day he was teasing her leg with that pen, only now the hesitation of actually letting herself enjoy it has gone. "Look at that, no shanking required." She murmurs barely above the sound of her breath leaving her lips. "Being a wuss isn't so bad." Maybe, one day, she'll revisit this whole manly conquest thing again. Maybe, one day, she'll get around to telling him about Gemenon. Right now, however, she's more concerned with who is going to kiss what next.

"Being a wuss is a terrible thing," is somewhat darkly murmured, the banter having somehow turned serious with that little joke found to not be funny. Eyes still upon the scar, a callused finger gingerly caresses the area while he muses and broods, momentarily lost in whatever's the root of his ill-response. Then, just like that, it willfully dissipates when he changes the subject. "So. Gemenon."

"Hey," Sawyer says firmly, looking up until she meets his eyes. Her thumb makes a pass of his cheek, the rest of her fingers lightly curling against his jaw. A little scoot has her delivering a featherlight pass of her lips over his. As she settles back down with her head tucked close to his, she echoes, "So. Gemenon. My heart and my gut saw two different things, and they're warring with one another. On the surface, it seems to be this utopia of man and Cylon living side by side. My skepticism wants to say it's all just an elaborate hoax, like a magic trick." While she speaks, she toys with the blanket.

It's a loving gesture that he receives, but still one that highlights his less than stellar mood. At the feeling of fingertips, Kal's mouth curls into a wan smile that's equal parts chagrin and apology, that rue there in his eyes. Moving to claim Sawyer's hand, he gives it a gentle squeeze and then resettles the pair back top the blanket.

"First of all," he begins, his tone that of his usual snark, "there's no such thing as a utopia. That said, I'm not sure it's a hoax. There's no small amount of evidence that's been suggesting for quite a while that there's dissension in the Cylon ranks. Kinda like if each model were a Colony, only more united in the face of a common enemy. The rub is that there no longer /is/ a common enemy. We've pretty much been wiped-out. Lookin' at history, that's when everything changes. Now, I'm not sayin' what you saw is all on the up an' up, 'cuz I totally don't believe that, but I do think these Twos and Elevens, at the very least, won't take hostile action until they are either provoked into doing such, or they get what they need from us."

Sawyer stops fidgeting with the blanket when his hand closes over hers. "I killed a man," she says quietly, after she's nodded at his words and let a long silence drop in. "I know this isn't about me. It's so beyond that, now, with what is laying in front of mankind. But I can't help but keep thinking that I killed a man, and all my time in custody, the marines never brought him up. Not once." She gives a bit of a humorless laugh, "I already killed the mood, no reason not to drive the knife in, hmm? So, there was a shanking afterall."

"Jelly, huh?" That callused thumb lightly strokes her knuckles. Surely, he's read the report seeing how the dead pilot was a Harrier. Not to make light of the situation, Trask simply notes, "You did what you needed to do to stay alive. He killed a marine, he opened fire on /you/. Never mind that he betrayed the Fleet. He cast his lot and the outcome was not to his favor. It's unfortunate in the sweeping 'it sucks that people suck' scheme of things, but that's just the way it is." A pause, then. "What about it bothers you? That you did it? That you had to do it? That you're capable of doing it?"

"Yes?" Sawyer answers all of his questions with one all-encompassing answer. "I keep trying to play it all over in my head, to see if I should have done anything different, and I can't seem to come up with an alternative answer. It played out how it needed to play out, given the circumstances, right? And the woman I knocked out with the butt of the gun…" She shifts her head to look back to his face the best she's able. "Did you know him well? Did you know McQueen?"

"I never much cared for guns," the ECO opines, "Firing missiles an' crap like that… I dunno. It's somehow different. They're just blips on a screen. It's far more impersonal. I mean, guns are more impersonal than knives, and those are nowhere as intimate as fists." That one he definitely knows first-hand. Does not linger on it. "I've been hittin' the range a lot more, lately. I've been held at gunpoint twice and survived a boarding action. This shit with those spooks is just another reason why I really should be better than merely qualifying." A craning head tilt, as much as can be managed, to better look at the woman curled up against him. "You should do the same, if only to learn how to incapacitate someone without killing 'em."

As for the question, "Queenie? That whole 'do we really know anyone' existential stuff notwithstanding: Not really, no. I'd seen him around, exchanged a few words in passing. We both were buddies with Lasher, and when that prick died, well…" That kinda was that. "Always struck me as somewhat eccentric but not a bad guy. Tapped him for a few projects 'cuz he was a wireless engineer." That last bit prompts an ironic smirk, because a Cylon totally would be awesome at that kind of thing. "I /do/ think a lot of people are feeling hella hurt an' betrayed by that revelation. Toast especially. And I think, in a way, they want to find evidence that he did betray us beyond being what he is. Like that will somehow make it easier."

Despite all this, Bootstrap is lacking ire. If anything, he's reflective.

And what's more personal than fists? Words. But Sawyer is wise not to bring up that comparison. "Stephen Kulko was the first one to teach me how to use a shotgun. That was approximately four hours before we touched down on Leonis." The reporter tries to fight off the urge to yawn and fails, knowing then that it's time to just tuck the ECO Captain in. "You know, it was odd. But I got the impression that if the humanoid models are capable of such emotion like love? McQueen completely carried a torch for Cidra. Rejn though… my gods, Rejn. I'm still not sure what to do with that. Maybe tomorrow, I can just deal with that tomorrow." Which no doubt has been the blonde's mantra for nearly a month. With a sudden lurch, she reaches for the little reading light and clicks it off, peeling off her glasses and threading them through a loop of the weave of the hammock's edge. "Goodnight, Kal."

At the mention of Rejn, a wicked little smile tugs the corner's of Kal's mouth. After all, Sawyer has yet to see the little 'present' he received from McQueen… and he intends to share the traumatizing image. Cuddling closer to Sawyer once she's turned off the light, all he says is, "G'night, Nanners," and quickly falls asleep the expedient way military personnel can.

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