| Done Right |
| Summary: | Miss Ginny Juniper Wells and Major Zane Mathers become acquainted in the laundry room. |
| Date: | 12 Jun 2042 AE |
| Related Logs: | Ginny's day in the laundry room is further chronicled in Done Wrong |
| Players: |
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| Laundry Room - Deck 3 - Battlestar Cerberus |
| Industrial washers and dryers line each side of this elongated room, which typically has personnel moving in and out all day and night. These front-loading systems are designed to withstand the rigors of a military beating and still function as expected. A sturdy set of counters run the length of the room for crewmembers to fold their own laundry and dress and pins or patches before and after the process. |
| Condition Level: 3 - All Clear |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #471 |
It's not unusual to see personnel wearing their off-duty clothes when they are in the laundry room. The understated but unmistakably stylish ensemble that a certain honey-haired pixie of a young woman is wearing most certainly is out of the ordinary. Perched on a counter, Miss Ginny Juniper Wells is busy knitting, softly humming a tune to which one of her violet stocking clad legs gently swings to keep the beat.
When you're the Marine XO there are only so many times you can pass off your laundry under the guise of punishment for the men. And so it is with a heavy duffle that the toothpick chewing Zane Mathers makes his way over to the laundry room of the Cerberus, shouldering open the hatch and stepping inside with the heavy clomp of combat boots. He's part way down the row of washing machines when he lifts his eyes, catching sight of Ginny from beneath the shadowing bill of his worn ball cap. "You lost, ma'am?"
The musical refrain continues for another phrase, ending on a quizzical note. "Hmm?" Warm brown eyes lift from daffodil yellow yarn, the neat perfection of her stitching continuing even as her regard is firmly upon Zane. No insignias on this one, but she's socially savvy and fashion aware enough to recognize CMC fatigues. "No, suh," comes a voice like a cool glass of just sweet enough lemonade on a warm summer's day. "Am I not puhmitted to be here?" Ginny's hands still so that one of them can draw out the lanyard around her neck that holds the badge that denotes she's some manner of contractor in the Medical department.
Zane tilts his head slightly, as if trying to place her particular accent, or maybe this man hasn't had a cold glass of lemonade in a long time. A dimple appears like a divot in his cheek when he cracks a smile. "No ma'am. It's not about permission. Just civilians don't much like to use the machines over here. Too much military lint in the dryers." The duffel is hefted, and with a motion that comes from the hip, he tosses it up onto a washer. "Whadya making there?"
"Ah right reckon that most civilians would find it impractical," she smiles, cordial creature that she is. "T'were it mah laundry, Ah'd feel the same." As for what she's knitting, "T'was supposed to be socks. Ain't nuthin' like a quality pair of socks for military boots." Which, by the by, she is not wearing. No, she's opted for a fetching pair of two-inch ankle boots that are definitely not Fleet issue. "Such a happy yellow, ain't it?" Ginny holds up her knitting to show off the color. "But it'll shorely stain in boots, so Ah do believe it's to be a purse. Every gal can use a purty purse, and there are so many who don't have any kind a' purse a'tall."
"Ah right do apologize," she then says, returning her work to her lap. "Miss Ginny Juniper Wells," she offers as way of greeting, along with her hand, and the pronunciation of her middle name as 'joo-nih-puh'. "How do you do?"
Mathers seems temporarily mesmerized by Miss Ginny Juniper Wells, but perhaps that's only because he's trying to wade through her accent and colloquialisms to get to the meat of what she's saying. At least he has the presence of mind to wipe his hand on his cargo pants before he offers it over to the woman. "Miss Wells. Major Zane Mathers, Ex Oh of the First Battalion Ninth Marines." Which is a mouthful to say the least, but he manages it all around the pinch of his cinnamon scented toothpick. His grip is warm but firm, and he merely holds her hand for a moment instead of pumping it in a shake. "So, you're the filly of someone on board then?" Which is the logical explanation as to why she's here, as she's said it's not her laundry she's laundering.
"Like Miss Toast," she smiles before adding, "'cept she ain't a Majuh no more." All the same, the blonde is all Thalesian-style charm when she replies, "Well met, Mistah Zane of the First Battalion Ninth Marines." Which faintly sounds like 'zay-un' when it rolls off her tongue. "Y'all were the ones who boarded the Areion and brought people home, arn'choo?" And part of being all Thalesian charm is having her other hand rest atop the one the man has offered. And she holds it for more beats than most people would — but most people are not from Thales and have a different notion of good manners. By her cultural standards, Ginny is being a paragon of politeness. And even if Mathers doesn't pump a shake, she does, albeit gently. Only then does she let go, her own hands incredibly soft and smooth at the backs but callused everywhere else that would denote her trade.
That done, she resumes her knitting, eyes still upon her current conversational companion. "Someone's filly?" That conjures a merry little laugh. "Ah haven't been called that since Ah was this high." One leg is extended to measure out the height of a young girl, then lowered. "Naw. 'Tis mah cousin Beau's." Curiously, she cants her head, seeking confirmation of familiarity when she expounds, "Beauregard Wayland Burke? He's an Ensign with the Vee Eff One Five Four Black Knights." Again, the bulk of those 'r's melt. "His callsign is Breakout on account that he—" At that, Ginny catches herself. "Mah apologies, Mistah Zane," and she genuinely seems contrite, "but that ain't mah story to tell." Brightening again, she notes, "Although I'm shore Bumblebee would be happy to tell it to you if evah you asked."
Zane twists an amused little smile around the splinter of wood jutting out from his lips, the expression crooked due to the toothpick. "So, is he Bumblebee or Breakout? Lemme guess, that makes you… Junebug? At least that's what I'd call you." He shifts aside, mainly to return to his laundry. Pulling out fists of tees and tanks and pants, the good thing about the military being bland in its color choice is that you don't have to worry about separating anything. "Yeah, that was The Mountaineers. Lost some good people that day. But then again, we're always losing good people." He dumps in some detergent from the communal stores without really measuring and lets the top clang down so he can push the necessary buttons. "Burke, though, you say? I'll have to remember that name."
"He'll always be Bumblebee to me, although Miss Poppy," which sounds more like bumble-bay and pah-peh, "says that's a horrible callsign. Maybe so, but it nevah /was/ meant to be a callsign. S'just what we've always called him on account of his initials bein' bee-bee, an' 'cuz he's always buzzin' about and bein' sweetah than honey." Familial affection, she has it. "But Breakout is a mighty fine callsign. Miss Toast said so." And the CAG would know, right? As for her own silly nickname, the pixieish blonde replies, "Junebug? That's right adorable, but no. Ah've ever only been 'Ginny girl'." Perhaps somewhat oddly, the 'r' in that word is firmly pronounced, making it sound more like gurl.
Conversation is halted, however, when she sees just what Zane is doing with his laundry. In a bolt, her knitting is down and she's on her feet, and then one hand is upon his shoulder and the other gently lain atop the forearm of the fingers about to push the buttons. "Bless your heart," she smiles, "but that ain't the proper way to take care of clothes. If you'd allow me?" Ginny cants her head in an entreating manner. "S'a least Ah can do for someone who helped rescue mah cousin.
Mathers throws up his hands in capitulation as Ginny asks to take control of his washing machine. "Knock your self out there, ma'am. But just so you know, that's the way Marines have been doing their laundry since the dawn of time. When we actually have time to do laundry." He takes a few steps backwards and pushes up the brim of his hat with his index finger so he can watch her bemusedly. "That usually gets it clean enough to pass muster. There should be enough hot water and soap in there to kill just about anything."
"Do the marines also wear belts and suspenders at the same time?" she gently chides about the overkill. One by one, Ginny makes certain that all the pockets, sleeves and legs are fully extended, and she does the same with the socks no matter how rank they might smell. The nice thing about front loading machines is that the detergent gets released during the cycle, which means she has nothing to brush off.
"It's no wondah y'all like wearin' black so much. Dirt's less likely t' show." The brown fatigues she's giving the once over most certainly are in need of having some stains pre-treated, so she sets the pants aside for now and continues with the rest of the prepping. Even the underwear is taken by the elastic band and shaken out. Odds are that if there were any whites, she'd be breaking out the bleach. For some reason, though, she turns all the blacks inside out.
"All of this should be washed in warm wahtuh, not hot. Hot is fo' whites. Light colors," again, the dropped 'r', "though, and more delicate fabrics are washed in cold. Although, really, delicates are best hand-washed and hang-dried." The bulk of the clothes are then returned to the machine. "Were you to use the right amount of heat and the right amount of detergent, your blacks wouldn't be so faded," she explains.
With that handled, nothing is yet turned on because there's still some pre-treating to do. Heading to one of the sinks, Ginny fetches some manner of gel that Mathers likely did not know existed, and she gets to work on the stains that need some extra help in being removed.
Hopping up on an unused machine, Mathers has little to do but sit back and watch the woman tend to his laundry. She handles even his most grimiest gear with aplomb, which leads him to the verbal musing, "My momma always said if I could find a woman brave enough to handle my socks, I should marry her. Better watch out, little Junebug. If word gets out, you'll be somebody's filly real quick." His bottom jaw drops, and he flips the toothpick so the other end is in his mouth with his tongue and without so much as needing the aid of his hand. "Guess I won't be needing anything hand washed, there's not an ounce of delicate in my laundry."
Like someone who truly knows and even loves fabric, it's with fastidious care that the artisan works away at whatever it is that's seeped into the material. "Did she now, Mistah Zane?" is asked with a hint of humor before the blonde banters back, "You in the market fo' a wife?"
"I have my eyes on someone," Mathers says simply, followed by a roll of his shoulders making the tattoo on one arm dance as the inked Erinyes are woken from their state of idle slumber. "So far, she has other plans." The words are spoken with a sort of eerie possessiveness that seems as if he believes it's a for certain inevitability that the woman in question will change her mind. "So, you're a contractor?" He asks, that darkening mood in his eyes quickly cleared away with the subject change.
None of this does she see, but the tone of voice is not lost to her. It's what deters her from any further playful banter. For a moment, she feels a pang of compassion for the man, as well as some concern. "In the end, only what the Three Sisters have woven will come to pass." It is simply said with the sense of solace that comes from such certainty, but yet there is still a wistfulness. It would be poor form to linger upon such, however, when her conversational companion has chosen to change topics. "Couldn't y'all come up with a nicer word? I know y'all have rules an' regulations an' all, but it just sounds so cold. Ah'd much rather say Ah'm a volunteer, or merely givin' back t' mah community… but, yes. Ah suppose Ah am."
"I saw her and I knew I had to have her. That's enough sign of the Fates for me." Mathers runs his hand over the brim of his hat, fingers curling to form it to the shape of his hand that has no doubt been done hundreds if not thousands of times before, judging by the threadbare fabric. "What sort of volunteering do you do, then?" He has no problem switching to her verbage, pandering to her out of politeness.
Something about his choice of words just seizes up her insides and squeezes until she has to draw a slightly ragged breath that may go unnoticed in light of her impeccable poise. "Spoken with the visceral passion of someone devoted to a different three sisters." Which is spoken with the rue and sympathetic melancholy that a kind soul would feel for a damaged one. Upon this, neither, does she linger. "Ah work with patients who are heavily scarred, and Ah assist Mistah Cam," she pauses and clarifies, "Doctah Adair with some homebrew remedies. Aromatherapy, primarily." Another pause, followed with the solemn note of, "Ah suppose it'd be more accurate t' say that Ah assisted him." Seeing how the man currently is in a coma. Briefly, her hands still and her head droops. There even is a soft sniffle. And then it's back to the final spot that needs some elbow grease to help get out the non-elbow grease.
"We'll catch his assailants." Which is the only comfort he can offer the woman steadfastly scrubbing at his laundry with the vim and vigor the man can appreciate but certainly not want to adopt himself. "As much as I'm obliged that you're scrubbing my knickers, I think you're going to rub a hole right through those pants legs." There is a clang as the Marine pushes off the washing mashing and clunks back down on the deck, loping over to reach out and slip his hands over hers to disentangle them from the chore. "You're a noble woman, Junebug."
It wasn't something she was expecting, but Miss Wells doesn't get startled when this barely known man seeks to put his hands on hers. Thalesians really are very touchy-feely sorts. When she lifts her eyes to look at Mathers, they are bright and shiny with silent tears, a few of which have even glided down her cheeks. "Ah keep a kerchief in mah purse, if you'd be so kind t' oblige," she notes with an amiable smile. Using his fatigues to dab away simply is unacceptable behavior. And even if her hands were free, her bag is with her knitting basket. Since Zane is talking about being noble, here's his opportunity to be gallant.
Mathers instead knocks up her chin with the crook of his index finger so he can get a good look at her, and then with that same curl of finger he drags it across her cheek to wipe away one of the trails of tears. "He'll pull through," he tells her in a voice rough when it's pitched so low and quiet. He tugs away his trousers from her tending hands and finally steps away to get the requested hankie. The pants get thrown back into the washer before he sidetracks to her knitting basket. Feeling odd about picking through one of a woman's most sacred spaces, he opens up the top and peers inside. "So, aromatherapy. Is that sort of like a spa day?"
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Regardless of whether or not someone may find her attractive, the honey blonde really is impeccably put-together in an unpretentious way. At the very least, she's nice to look at the way a masterful work of art is, provided the person looking at her likes looking at masterful works of art. When Mathers moves to wipe away the tears, she does not seem the least bit perturbed. In a kindly manner, she even smiles. "That's for none of us t' decide," is her reply about Cameron, "but Ah hope so, if only for his li'l girl's sake." Again pronounced like gurl.
Sine he took the trousers, there really is no need for him to play fetch. Unhurried, Ginny is nonetheless not far behind him because of his detour, and she's able to reclaim her purse with a polite smile before he starts rummaging through the contents. "Thank you, suh," she graciously tells him, "but Ah only had intended that you bring me mah bag. The inside of a lady's purse is one of those places a gentleman should never journey." A polite lesson. Nothing more. And then she's retrieving a kerchief of the finest lavender linen. Even after she lightly dabs at her eyes, her makeup remains unmarred. Skillz, yo.
That done, the cloth is neatly folded and returned, and then the purse is put back with the knitting basket. While venturing to the washing machine to make certain it's on the proper setting, she answers the question. "It's one of the treatments that some spas offer, yes."
Mathers looks almost grateful when Ginny takes her purse away from him. "Thank the gods, I'm always afraid of what I might find in those things. It probably stems from some deep rooted childhood scar of when my mom used to take her purse and scuttle off to the bathroom, saying she needed to 'put her face on'. Like all women actually carry a whole second mask in there." He gives a little chuckle that rumbles deep in his chest. "Anyways." He clears his throat and ducks his head so his eyes are shadowed by the bill of his hat. "That's an interesting skill set you have, ma'am. What sort of work did you do before the worlds went black?"
"As a woman, Ah can neither confirm nor deny your suspicions, as doin' so would violate a sacred trust of Sisterhood." Which is to say them women must be permitted their mysteries. And soon after the rumble of Mathers' laugh, the rumble of the machine full of his laundry follows. With that tended to, it's back to her knitting, which means hopping back atop the counter — something she does not do with the effortless grace and ease one might expect. Eyes politely on Zane, she starts another row of meticulous stitches. "Textile arts, primarily. Auntie Myrtle thought it fit Ah also learn the ways of the Fair Ones, so their arts Ah also express."
"The Fair Ones?" That term doesn't seem to hit home with Mathers, or maybe in the same context that Ginny would tend to use it. He leans against one of the machines, his stance casual as his arms fold loosely over his chest and his legs kick out slightly akimbo to cross at his booted ankles.
"Of the three sets of three sisters, mah warp an' mah weft are the Moirae an' the Kharites. The Fates an' the Graces. The Sparing Ones an' the Fair Ones," she elaborates. Perhaps somewhat odd that she would so worship such seemingly unrelated forces. "Auntie Myrtle always stressed the importance of truest loveliness."
"Well. Sounds like your Auntie did right by you," Mathers says ruefully, one hand lifting to scratch his short stub of nails down his own set of Sisters that are on the darker side of the spectrum. "She raise you then? You speak about her like most would their mom and pops." All he has is time to spare while his clothes whir themselves clean, so he might as well make polite conversation.
"She did right by everyone, she did," is simply said with a certain amount of loving pride allotted to truly good people. A nod, then. "Ah was a new skein. Momma only lived so long that Ah could be woven into my family's fabric." Which is a poetic way of saying that her mother died while giving birth. "But, yessuh. Auntie Myrtle done help raise me, along with mah Pa, who was her brutha. She had the cancer," pronounced like can-suh, "the kind where no fruit would blossom in her womb. But she loved every child as though they were her very own flesh an' blood, which is the way every child should be loved, really."
"Should, but that's rarely the way of things is it? But my, listening to you speak, I could almost believe it was." Mathers gives another little spark of laughter, shaking his head again as if he can't believe he's done so twice in the short expanse of time. "Well, Miss Ginny Juniper Wells, you seem like the trustable sort. Can I leave you to guard my laundry while I go run an errand?" He's already on the way to the hatch, "Don't say no. I'll be right back."
"That you can, Mistah Zane. You even may," Ginny tells him with an amiable smile. And should he take too long, she'll even put his clothes in a drier, take them out when they've fully dried, and then neatly press and impeccably fold the garments before returning them to the equally clean laundry bag.
In the meanwhile, she resumes her initial humming, one leg idly swinging while she continues to knit.