PHD #411: Have At It
Have At It
Summary: Sawyer moves back into the News Room. Domestic bliss, it really is not, but it's hers and Trask's, and that's seemingly good enough.
Date: 17 Apr 2042 AE (backscened to 13 Apr 2042 AE)
Related Logs: Nobody Expects the Areion Inquisition (Sawyer is interrogated) & The Big Sleep (Sawyer tries to recover after being recovered)
Sawyer Trask 
News Room - Deck 3 - Battlestar Cerberus
Post-Holocaust Day: #411
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

For three days, Sawyer barely budged from Kal's bunk. Once she was released from sickbay, she practically fettered herself in his little cubicle, only emerging to use the Head and occasionally find something to eat. Sleep was difficult, and when the drugs she was given finally would kick in, sleep was never peaceful when found. The first day, every loud noise she'd cringe or jump, and every once in a while she'd break down and cry for no reason. That alone made journalist embarrassed enough to hide from the public eye, and thus she opted for seclusion until the worst of it passed.

Of course, that means she's read every one of Trask's books, at least twice, to pass the time.

On the third day, succumbing to the aches of spending too much time laying on a mattress, Sawyer finally tested the waters, got dressed, and went to the Mess Hall for lunch. Having survived that experience, a bit of confidence renewed, she left a note for Trask on freshly laundered bed clothes that she was going back to work. Well, as much of work she can do without all of her things.

If Sawyer had been expecting some manner of domestic bliss simply because she was recovering in Bootstrap's bunk, all she got was more of the usual: sixteen-hour work days bisected by a power nap — which he did, at least, take with her since she was holed-up in his bunk — capped off by scarcely more than five (5) hours of real rack time. If she had been expecting him to make some kind of move other than perhaps some cuddling or generally comforting and security-oriented overtures, that likewise was not forthcoming. Instead of a romp in the sack, she'd get mess hall meals in bed. In lieu of having her clothing sullied and discarded as a result of close-quarters living erupting in carnal intimacies, her wardrobe (and person) was left unmolested and merely laundered and neatly pressed while she lounged in one of his borrowed t-shirts.

Finding the note, however, merely meant what little off-duty time he had was now spent moseying to the News Room to do whatever the pair were to do there, that day. The journalist moving out did require a bit of a detour to storage to retrieve her personal items, so Trask is not as soon to arrive as the blonde may have been anticipating. "I brought you some housewarming gifts." Never mind it's just the stuff he swiped from her locked desk.

Sawyer is sitting at her desk with her glasses settled on her nose. Her recently washed hair is pulled back and pinned so neatly, she's really going for that librarian impersonator angle. Especially when she looks over the brim of her glasses at Trask in that mock disapproving look, "What I can't figure is how you got /into/ my drawers. The locks don't look tampered with." A hint of a smile touches her tired eyes, and then she's standing with arms outstretched for her baby! Her work, that is. "There has got to be something in here I can use to help fry Kepner's ass." As an afterthought, there is a, "Thanks." Tacked on for keeping her things safe, and for returning them, of course.

Indeed, he has her hard files, as well as the large, mega-cubits price-tag designer purse he got for her from Wreath-of-Roses, among other sundries. "Technically," he smiles a knowing smile, "I didn't get into 'em." No, he got them out of the desk. Literally. Although, really, it's more that he dismantled the parts of the desk encasing said drawers. As for Kepner, "I roughly know his crap shouldn't fly in a military tribunal, but the JAG has consistently made stupid decisions. Not sure how much good trying him in the court of public opinion will do, seeing how he really doesn't give a frak. Only reason he hasn't nuked Elpis is 'cuz he lacks the weapons." Which Kal might honestly mean. It's dismissed at word of 'thanks', to which he once more faintly smiles. "Just followin' orders."

Sawyer's smile threatens to grow, despite the fact of the majority of their subject matter. "You're a good little soldier." She starts to dig through the files, opening her drawer to start to stow them all away. "From what I understand of the Areion, it's a defense ship. Not an offense ship. Even the Air Wing they have is just to stave off enemy attack long enough for the Gun to gen up." And now that smile wanes and, for a moment, she's just silently unpacking all of her things. When she gets to the purse, it's flipped open as if she's looking for something in particular.

Good little soldier? "Not according to my peers and commanding officers," is smirked, the man starting to fish into a pocket to retrieve his dwindling pack of smokes. "Just an effective one." And while Sawyer starts to unpack her things, he collects a cigarette, tucks it betwixt his lips, and strikes it up.

Is she taking inventory? Sawyer flips through the little foil packs, selects one, and tucks it into the center drawer of her desk. The rest, she puts back into that lockable drawer, where her booze should be. Huh. As if she missed it on the first go around, she pulls the box closer and peers inside. All the bottles are there, but she doesn't bother unpacking them. The rest of her things are pulled out of the container, but she merely seals it back up with all the liquor inside and takes it to tuck in the little hollow of her desk where her legs go when she sits. "It's time I start being effective again. Let Flasher and Magnus know I'm ready to get to work on this project when they are."

Puffing the cherry into ignition, Bootstrap idly asks, "Sure you don't wanna check that I didn't replace the contents with urine?" A long stream of smoke is exhaled in a manner that makes it a decidedly pointed question even if his tone is artificially neutral. Because, make no mistake, he knows what's in that box even if she's trying to obscure the contents from his oh so keen eyes.

"If you did, then Herak is in for a real surprise. And you've been drinking a lot of water to fill up those bottles." Sawyer drops into her chair, making a gimme gesture for a cigarette. "That's why I was on the Elpis that night. I was going to talk to the bartender at Pete's to see if I could strike up a deal. He said he's running low on the the under the table good stuff, and so I got the idea to trade him what premium I had left in exchange for him being my eyes and ears over there. Of course, Kepner had other plans. So. Are my bottles filled with urine?"

Despite his seemingly blasé body language, those big brown eyes always betray the rest of him, and they remain guarded and suspicious, even as Kal quips, "Why not take a sip and find out?" Smoke is snorted out through his nostrils, the cigarette then removed, but not for the purpose of handing it over to the coveting blonde. No, it's simply rolled between thumb and forefingers.

"After all this shit, you're still testing me? I just said I was going to hand over all my…" Sawyer's sentence dies off as she shakes her head disbelievingly. "I don't want to. You'd happily let me swig your piss, or take a swig at all just so you can be mad at me again. I know that's easier for you, and after being all domestic for a few days where I actually relied on you, it's high time you have another break and let your disdain and distrust for mankind bubble up and ruin something you've got going for you other than work. Go ahead. Have at it, but I'm not going to give you the fodder." She yanks open a drawer, looking for her own cigarettes. The search should be easy, seeming how she just reloaded the desk herself, but she still couldn't find her ass with both hands.

He bristles a little, even carrying to the faint furrowing of his brow and crumpling of his mouth. Those eyes, though, are sad and defiant, resentful and scared, full of bravado and weakness — because she's largely right. After a moment, the only reply that's forthcoming is that nearing on empty pack of smokes of his being tossed atop the woman's desk.

Sawyer lifts her eyes at the sound of cellophane and thin cardboard plunking down on her desk. For a moment, she just studies his face, and then gives a sad smile, reaching out first to touch whatever part of him is closer. Just a brush of fingers on his hand or knee or arm. "You're stuck with me," she mutters, before reaching for the cigarettes and lighting one up.

For the remainder of the time that Trask is in her office, life returns to business as usual, and she doesn't make mention of his feelings or booze or any tender subject. So when he finally leaves for shift, her own tension has melted away and once more, she gives him the very heartfelt:

"Thank you."

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