PHD #008: Fates Humor
Fates Humor
Summary: Atreus explains his situation to Quinn. They agree that the Fates have a twisted sense of humor.
Date: March 03, 2041
Related Logs: None
Quinn Atreus 
Chief's Office - Hangar Deck - Battlestar Cerberus
The room is fairly small, to maximize the area of the deck itself. It contains a smallish metal desk with locking drawers, a computer terminal, a file cabinet against one wall and metal shelves filled with tools, spare parts, and manuals. There are two chairs facing the desk, clearly scavenged from somewhere else. One area of the shelving, nearest the desk, has been cleared and is clean. This holds a coffee maker that constantly seems to have some brew or other in it. Above the chair behind the desk, in a position of prominence, a framed picture has been hung. It is an embroidered image depicting Hephaestus with his two metal helpers. The work is beautiful and almost lovingly detailed. The god is laughing, one eye bright where a patch covers the other. He is held aloft by his helpers, one done in glittering gold, the other in silver.
Security Condition 2 - Danger Close

The hatch to the Chief's office is open and the scent of fresh coffee wafts out on small puffs of air. Within, he has cleared his desk of everything but the computer monitor and even this has been pushed to the farthest edge. A… something… has been disassembled and the pieces are spread over a swath of paper. Tinkering, yes, but in a constructive sort of way.

Quinn steps into the room, having gotten word the Chief wanted to see her. It's always a bit worrisome. Was something wrong with her bird? With her flying? She thought she took that landing soft enough! So, with only the sort of fretting an over protective mother-hen pilot can do, Maggie finishes her post-flight checks from the CAP she's just gotten off of and heads straight across deck to his office, unzipping her flight suit to let it hang around her hips as she goes. She knocks on the open hatch before ducking her way in and breathing deep. "Oh frak…coffee… Can I steal some before I get a talking to for scratching up your deck?" She begs him with a half smile.

Atreus glances up from his tinkering at the knock. His smile is quick and relaxed enough. A nod toward the pot and then another to where the mugs are accompanies a quiet, "Sure. Help yourself, sir. Sorry I'm not saluting right now. I'm in the thick of it. Sit down, if you have a moment?" Indeed, his hands appear to be coated in something glistening and a bit on the black side. "Would you please toss me that rag by the pot? It's the last clean one I have in here."

Quinn shakes her head to him, "Not an issue, I'm off duty technically now anyway." Maggie pauses in her coffee run to get him the clean rag, bringing it over to his side and offering it quietly as she furrows her red brows, gazing down at whatever project he's working on. "And just what has you so wrapped up, Chief?" She inquires in that ever clipped, proper Caprican dialect. After the pieces in his hands are studied a heartbeat or two, she does turn to go for the coffee instead. The smell is too damned tempting.

Atreus accepts the rag with an almost casual, "Thanks." His gaze brushes her brows, but does not float lower. Rather, he looks again at the pieces on his desk, "One of the Mark IIs had a loose exhaust system. Seems it had been jury rigged a while back and the semi-fix forgotten. I took it apart to clean and am putting it back together." As he speaks, he claims his chair, tossing the rag on one of the pieces, "This bit isn't a big deal 'cause the pieces are small. It's the housing that's going to be a trick. Have a seat, sir. If you would?" Once the coffee run has concluded. "I need to ask you to do me a favor."

Quinn finishes pouring herself out some coffee, not bothering to doctor it. Apparently, she takes it black. She steps back over to the front of his desk and plops down gracelessly into one of the chairs, stretching out as comfortable as she can be post-shift, in a sweat flight suit. The coffee in her hands helps. "Sure thing, Chief. Anything. What's on your mind?"

Easy for her to say. Atreus watches her, his gaze steady, relaxed, shuttered, "Here it is, then. In a nutshell. I am going to be assigning Damon or Teresi to your bird for a while. They're good people and I need to not be around you for a bit." Steepling his hands, he watches the woman in the chair opposite. "See… You look too much like my wife. I see you out of the corner of my eye and think it is Chloe. It's been horribly painful." He leans back in the chair, one ankle lifting to cross over the other knee. "What makes it worse, sir, is that I loved my wife with all my heart. I can't let my feelings for her interfere in what I hope is going to be a long and important friendship. So, I need time and space to recover before I can be the kind of friend you deserve. I… hope you will understand."

Quinn's expression falls, just a bit, as she realizes this favor isn't really strictly work, and the perspective he's talking with. It's something she can't really change. She can't rearrange her face or take away her freckles. Perhaps dye her hair, but where in the colonies is their dye left? A quiet, worried sort of frown crosses her features, but there's understanding in her eyes. She stands up almost immediately again. "Of course, Chief. I should have brought it up sooner, actually. I wasn't thinking. Whatever you need to do. I'll…try to stay clear of things for a while. Take the time you need. I…" She frowns deeper, not certain what to say, how to make it any better. "I'm… Sorry?" She offers earnestly, if a bit uncertain.

Atreus looks up as the woman stands. His expression twists a bit, first toward alarm, then to resignation, "Thanks, sir." He does not move to rise, though there is a tendency there to do so. Rather, he reaches forward and takes up that rag once more. Fingernail gunk must be extracted or… something. Finally, the resignation wins out and he even offers a smile, albeit a wan one, "Not your fault, sir. If it is anyone's it is mine. Still, I appreciate your understanding. I hope that, in time, we can be friends in truth." His gaze lifts, seeks hers, and then falls to the bits of mechanical doodads that take up nearly the entire surface of his desk.

Quinn watches him quietly, nodding after a moment, that sweet, sad smile lingering upon her middle aged face. "No one's fault but the bitchiness of the fates, really. They have a… twisted sense of timing… or humor. Or what have you. We'll get there, eventually. But… you take the time you need. We'll speak again in six months, a year… however long. Until then, I'll talk to… Damon, is it? About my bird." She gives him a small nod, turning on the ball of her foot, not wishing to draw this out any longer.

Atreus does not see the sweet, sad smile, though he hears it in her voice. A harsh laugh begins, though it dies quickly, "The Fates do have a sorry-ass sense of humor at times, don't they?" Looking up quickly, a sparkle of his normal mirth gleams in his eyes. "Won't be that long, sir. Thanks." He watches the woman leave, then looks resolutely back to the pile of parts on his desk. Very softly, so that it does not carry, he curses once, and once only.

Quinn shuts the hatch silently behind her, not adding anything. There really wasn't much more to say. Fate's a bitch. So she disappears back onto the deck, her usual smile falling quietly as she walks away across the sea of snipes and ships.

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