PHD #363: Bringing Her A-Game
Bringing Her A-Game
Summary: Sawyer decides to take the bull by the horns. The Cylons quickly cancel the rodeo.
(Content Warning: There is some making-out. It does not go beyond that, nor does it last very long. Reader discretion is advised for those who might take offense to a non-explicit mention of tonsil hockey and an allusion to groping.)
Date: 24 Feb 2042 AE
Related Logs: Those pertaining to this circuitous relationship. Also: The Need for Time (where Trask had been); Prom Night follows some 18 or so hours later
Sawyer Trask 
Head - Deck 4 - Battlestar Cerberus
Post-Holocaust Day: #363
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

Day 15 of Condition Two. It's been rough on everyone, but the Air Wing has suffered the most. Daily skirmishes with a swarm of enemies is taking a toll on both their ships and their spirits. There had been a few KIAs in the Mighty Lions and the Checkmates, and two of the Black Knights have sustained injuries so severe that it's possible that they'll never be fit to fly again. Just yesterday, the Harriers lost two of their own in a most gruesome fashion. Poor Mara "Mouse" Smythe was charred to a crisp, both her flightsuit and helmet melted to her flesh. Henry Launiere's demise was likewise painful and not as swift as the standard Viper explosion, the unfortunate rook ECO instead having his suit vented in such a manner that his oxygen leaked until there was nothing left to leak.

For his part, Trask has been doing all he can to assist the deckhands with repairs, and he's assigned his pilots and ECOs that have been cleared by the Chief to work on their birds to actually work on their birds. When not launching, that is, for he and all his flight-cleared people are in the fray every time the call goes out. It's been nearly two (2) weeks since he last slept in his bunk, instead opting for a cot set-up in the Starboard hangar. Thoroughly filthy from mechanic's work and a recent foray in a Raptor with Evandreus, he's decided that he has earned the right to take a few minutes to shower.

And he thought he was safe. Turns out the shower isn't a good place to hide from nosy reporters, much less nosy reporters who actually have a personal interest in the showeree. The locking mechanism is quickly dispatched by an expert hand if it was even engaged to begin with, and a fully clothed blonde steps into the stall with Trask somewhere during his rinse, lather and repeat. "Off on more suicide missions today?" Is all Sawyer has to offer by way of greeting as the water makes heavy patting noises against her silk blouse and wool trousers.

"I'm alive, aren't I?" That means it doesn't qualify as suicidal, right? Not that anyone other than he, Cidra, and Evandreus knows just where he went and for what reason. Not even a relentless investigative reporter with a personal interest in his person, regardless of how many spies said investigative reporter may have. Combing even classified memos would offer no clues, which means that this one was definitely off the books for whatever reason. Vigorously, Bootstrap is scrubbing his scalp, working up quite the froth to cleanse the oil field that had become his hair. This means his eyes are closed, at least until it dawns on him that Sawyer is actually in the stall. Then there is a sudden 'wait a minute' look that settles upon him, and he's turning to squint at the interloper through the stream of droplets. "How the— FRAK." The question is cut short as shampoo suds drip into one of his eyes. Quickly, his face is to the water, trying to flood out the stinging.

Water continues to pelt the reporter, even though she's not directly in the spray. The individual polka dots start to become Rorschach designs on her pink silk blouse, plastering the material to her torso. "It's not like a shower stall requires a retinal scan." Something small and metallic gets shoved into the pocket of her pants in a nonchalant gesture. Lockpick, what? "Will you tell me where you went?" It's a white rabbit, but Sawyer has to chase it. It's in her DNA. Speaking of which, while he's busy getting soap out of his eyes, she can't help but take a long visual drink of the showering ECO.

Weird as he can be about his personal space, Trask can't rightfully be called a prude. Not that it makes much of a difference that Sawyer is frakking him with her eyes; he's currently occupied with trying to flush soap out of his own. Wiping away some suds dripping from his hairline, he keeps his face to the shower head and resumes washing his hair. "Nope," is his reply, followed by the *ptew* of spitting water that had gotten into his mouth. Refined, he most certainly is not. "You gonna close that door? It's drafty."

Sawyer reaches behind her to pull the door closed, leaving her still in the stall, of course. The lock is re-engaged, though it was faulty just a moment ago. Tsk. Maybe they should get engineering up here to fix it. "Don't suppose you were just off joy riding, huh?" She's already damp, so leaning against the wall isn't going to do any more harm to her clothes that hasn't already been done. "No comment. I got it." Her eyes are now definitely north of the border, once she can feel the flush of color warmly rise to her cheeks.

Lathering stage completed, it's on to rinsing. "Y'know, showers really aren't intended for clothes. Just sayin'." Not that he seems to mind that she's fully clothed any more than he seems to mind that she's still in the stall. "Since you're here, might as well be useful. I'm sure you can reach spots on my back that I can't." Hanging from the faucet handle is some soap on a rope.

There is a moment of hesitation, no doubt the result of Sawyer deciding where the line of their intimacy is drawn and in what manner this would violate it. It doesn't really last more than a drawn breath, and she is pushing off her casual lean and reaching for the soap, letting both hands get sufficiently wet beneath the steam of water before she works up a lather between them. It's a shuffle in the close quarters, and she nudges him around so she can oblige. Palms go to start at his shoulders before she even thinks to attempt the tattoo'ed and scarred landscape. "Do you know what frightens me the most?"

Palms against the stall wall, Trask leans forward the way that the weary do, trusting the traction of his flip-flop soles to prevent slipping. Eyes closed and head bowed, he remains that way even after Sawyer starts at his shoulders. Unsurprisingly, the muscles are quite tight with tension. Carrying the weight of what remains of humanity will do that to a person. And for all his glibness, the man serves as guardian as best as he's able, which means he gives it his all and then some more. "That mullets will once again become fashionable?"

"How did you know?" Sawyer replies quietly, letting the matter drop for now. What starts off as a mere sudsing turns into a massage of fingers against the knit of muscles, her thumbs doing the brunt of the work in the assault of the knots in his shoulders. The thrum of water replaces conversation for a moment as bubbles of soap slide down the line of Trask's spine and get whisked away down the drain. Hands splay out over his shoulder blades, moving the attention downward as to be thorough in both cleansing and massaging. "That I'm going to wake up one day, and you'll be gone. And there won't be anyone there to tell me the facts." At last, she finally finishes her statement.

This really wasn't what he had in mind. In truth, he really didn't think that far ahead. Even so, he most certainly isn't complaining about her attempting to work out some knots, letting out a sonorous groan that's largely drowned out by the sound of running water. It's akin to rubbing rocks, though, as Sawyer will quickly discover. "We're all on borrowed time," is the simple observation. "Anyway, I'm hardly the only one who calls a spade a spade." Evidently, he's missing the point.

And it's not one she's going to press, as it was hard enough to voice it in the first place. Now the matter really does get dropped, and washed down the drain like so many tiny bubbles. One hand leaves him long enough to obtain more soap and then it gets reapplied to his back, now bravely moving lower despite the futile notion of the massage. There is no hesitation as her palms smooth over the scar tissue of his past that tells a greater story than any tattoo could. It's only after she's successfully washed all the way down to the small of his back that she leans forward and presses a kiss at the base of his neck, the wet material of her blouse undoubtedly a chill against his spine.

If there is some semblance of chill, the man does nothing to indicate such. But the softness of what lies beneath that blouse is another matter entirely and perhaps the reason he's not so quick to move even after the assigned task has been completed. Eventually, though, he lets out the quiet grunt of someone not all that inclined to stir forcing himself into motion. "Thanks," is murmured with a tired yet genuine smile. "I can get the rest." One palm is extended to accept the soap.

Sawyer's forehead rests against the plain between his shoulder blades for a moment after his given word of gratitude, moving just as slow to peel away. "Sure." Now taskless and her questions going to be left unanswered, she's suddenly faced with the realization that she has little reason to say. And wet clothes are cold. As her teeth start to chatter despite the steam, she takes a step back, hesitates, and then forces herself to become more resolute. "Sure," she repeats, "Save all the fun bits for yourself." Locks operate much easier from the inside.

By the time the blonde has resolved to leave, Kal has already started sudsing, alternating between his arms and his chest. Smirking a little in a rascally way, he asks, "You really wanna wash my feet?" With his left hand, he continues to lather; from the forefinger of his right, he dangles the soap on a rope and gently swings it in a baiting manner. "Besides, /you're/ the one keeping all the fun bits for yourself." A very telling look denotes her lack of nakedness.

Sawyer twists around to look back at Trask, her brown eyes narrowing slightly with the… challenge? Double dog dare? With a slap of her feet on the tiles (because her suede shoes would have never stood up to bath time), she pads back over. The 'v' of her fingers slide down the rope until they snag the rectangle of soap at her palm, attempting to wrench it to the side and out of her way. She has no intention of disrobing, not yet at least, but her free hand is reaching up to roughly snag the back of his neck and pull him down and claim a kiss. To hell with waiting for him to make the first move. The frequency which he goes off to try and get himself killed, statistics are against her.

In all likelihood, he probably wasn't expecting her to be up to the challenge. Historically speaking, Sawyer's always balked before. Perhaps that would've been the case if he had named a more private body part or had been more crass in ribbing her about still being dressed. As it stands, brown eyes dart to the side with a mild display of surprise when she actually reaches for the soap. This, however, largely serves as a diversionary tactic, which means the man is caught off-guard by the attempted snag and smooch. Reflexively, Kal's hands drop to the woman's hips, undecided as to whether he will pull her closer or steer her away. For the moment, he's not resisting, but this is the split-second in which he needs to be persuaded to become an active participant.

The heavy water now beats against them both, still hot thanks to the virtue of the Cerberus' life support system. Delicate fabric of her shirt is now virtually transparent and plastered against her skin, and the wool of her pants now hangs heavily on the hitch of her hips. Sawyer's hand abandons the soap, leaving it to fall on its own tether so she can slide it in a drape over his shoulder. Fingers of her left thread into the damp locks of his freshly washed hair and by that handhold she's seeking to deepen the kiss in a mixture of a breathy sigh and a needful drag of her lips. If he needs persuasion, she's bringing her A-game.

Truly, it is a facade of strutting ego propped up by underpinnings of anger, self-loathing, and heartache. It certainly accounts for why he is so responsive to the display of ardency. Even so, there is a tension that permeates his body. An apprehension rooted in the fear of being overcome by the volatility of his passionate nature. A delicacy he forces through potent impulse lest he cause harm.

Unfortunately, the more Sawyer expresses her desire, the less he's able to maintain his sense of control. Motions become more forceful, his arms now wrapped around her tightly enough to cause an onset of discomfort that may or may not cut through the blonde's biochemical high, and hands roughly clutch the back of her soaked silk blouse. Surely, it's not intentional that her head bumps against metal when she's finally pressed against the wall with the urgency of kissing so fierce it would leave lips swollen and feeling bruised.

What's a goose egg in the grand scheme of things, and the need to breathe is heavily overrated. They are small sacrifices Sawyer is willing to make as months and months of this tumultuous relationship finally come to some sort of a head. If this were more of a public relationship, bets would be made and those that put money on 'blood shed' would have just lost a bundle. At least on this round.

Sawyer's hands slide over his wet skin, losing some of their freedom by his bands of steel that wrap around her ribcage. Pressing up onto her tiptoes, she tries to gain a little height to slant her mouth against his just as hungrily while her sodden clothed body moves against him of its own volition. This is want. This is need in its most base form.

Cidra has always stressed the importance of nice hands in a man, and Kal is certainly proving the CAG's point. Never mind that he's not bothering with the dispatching of Sawyer's clothes. They aren't at all a hindrance to his ministrations. A firm grip and a sense of finesse are some of the merits of a seasoned mechanic. Of course, in order for his hands to truly roam, he needs to ease his hold. Needless to say, he does, kneading womanly softness in his palms while his lips, teeth, and tongue conduct a very thorough investigation of the investigative journalist's mouth. This, however, permits her more mobility, which ultimately results in the most unpleasant sensation of wet wool rubbing against his netherbits. That's enough to transform the low moan into to a wince and sharp drawing of breath.

"Seriously," he sasses, creating some distance down below, "soaked wool trousers against non-callused skin? That shit chafes." And seeing how he possesses a Y chromosome, he has to check for damage. It's hardwired in his male DNA.

Sawyer slumps back against the wall of the shower, heaving for breath during the interlude from liplock. Her hands snake down between them, thumbs hooking on the waistband of the offending wool. As stretched as they are from the weight of the water, it takes little effort to push them off her hips so they slither down to the floor. Problem solved. "Kal?" She reaches for him again with a little smirk, tendrils of wet hair smattered to her forehead and drops of water flicking off her eyelashes as she blinks quickly against the stream. "Shut the frak up." With hands on his sides, she's reeling him back in.

The good news is that all of his parts are still working just like they should. (Damage averted!) The bad news is that he never has the opportunity to put any of those parts back to work. Before his abdomen even has the chance to press against the silk of that soaked blouse, Sawyer will likely rue that the man she just told to shut up really isn't the one she wants to shut up. No, that would be Cerberus' XO.

"ACTION STATIONS! ACTION STATIONS!" comes Tillman's voice after the onset of klaxons blaring. "Set Condition One throughout the fleet! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! All Air Wing personnel report to the deck and prepare to launch immediately!"

Warning lights in the head start to flash, and all Trask can do is quickly turn off the water, exit the shower, grab his towel, and dry off as much as he can while rushing to the locker he wisely commandeered to store his flight gear. That, and grouchily declare, "Oh, you've gone too far now, you frakkin' tin cans." Still rather damp, getting dressed is not the most comfortable process with how the fabric clings where it shouldn't.

It could be worse, though. He could still have a froth of shampoo in his hair like poor Otero Egri. "FRAK, IT BURNS," aforementioned recently graduated Nugget laments, frantically trying to wipe the suds from out of his eyes. "The bottle said NO TEARS!" Water is required, so it's then to the sink. "Lying bastards!"

That's a callsign in the making right there.

The blonde appears in the doorway of the shower in her underwear, leaning against the frame of it with a cocked hip and her arms folded over the see-through soak of her blouse. She can't help but wear a little smile of 'just my frakking luck'. As the heavy tromp of half a dozen set of feet scurry off to their action stations, Sawyer steps back out in the aisle to snag Trask on the run. It's called a drive-by kiss, and there is little finesse to it. Right before she steals it she murmurs, "One for my birthday." Followed shortly by a smack on the ass to get him moving.

It might be a drive-by, but he's a combat squadron ECO, which means he knows how to get the job done in situations where he needs to be in and out quite quickly. Well, maybe /that's/ not why he's able to pack a whole lotta passion in the span of two seconds. What matters is that he can and he does. And, really, it's only fair that Sawyer gets to smack his ass because he totally gropes hers with his one free hand during that tiny window of opportunity. With a wicked mirth at odds with the chaos and high-tension atmosphere, his parting quip as he dashes for the Deck is, "Suit or it's not true!"

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