| Prom Night |
| Summary: | 'Having coffee' is a euphemism for making out like two teenagers after prom, which is a euphemism for frakking in a fancy hotel room. There is no fancy hotel room. There also is no frakking, no making out, and no coffee had. |
| Date: | 25 Feb 2042 AE |
| Related Logs: | Bringing Her A-Game |
| Players: |
  |
| News Room - Deck 3 - Battlestar Cerberus |
|---|
| Post-Holocaust Day: #364 |
| 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 |
It's been eighteen (18) hours since the klaxons last went off. Ordinarily, by now, Condition One would have already been set, all able fighters launched, and another jump made to another section of outer Colonial space that would eventually be invaded by a swarm of those triple-hash Raiders. This has yet to happen. For the first time in more than two weeks, there is even a glimmer of hope that it might not happen. Perhaps there really is something to the radiation field surrounding Audumbla Anchorage that fraks-up Cylons. All the Fleet can do is wait and see, make whatever repairs it can, and plan its next moves.
On Condition Two, all Air Wing personnel are on Active Alert. Even so, Trask had made arrangements that permitted him to work on the Deck while still having enough time to change into his flight suit once the call to arms went out. This means that he's been wearing a whole lot of orange during these past sixteen (16) days. Today, however, he is clad in the height of Harriers haute couture: that oh so snug olive green that he wears when flying through the big black. Admittedly, it's partly undone, revealing what appears to be a non-sweaty t-shirt. It is in such form that he arrives, unannounced (as is his wont to do). "You better have not caught a cold while I was away, young missy," is mock admonishment, complete with a faux stern look.
Sawyer glances over the brim of her glasses, a smile blooming on her lips. "I caught a cold shower, does that count?" Sawyer's seated at her desk, actually typing for once. It's been a while before she's been so inspired. Now her eyes drop back down to the electronic page while she does a quick triumphant tap of control-save on the document so that nothing'll be lost. There. She peels off her glasses as she pushes back in her chair, the spectacles hanging by their arm between her fingers while she rubs ruefully at her eyes. "Ugh. I need a timer on my computer so it shuts off and tells me to go to bed after so many hours."
"You'd just ignore it after telling it to shut the frak up," the ECO cheekily notes. Advancing further into the none-too-large News Room, Trask waits for just the right moment to reach past Sawyer's defenses to tweak her nose with his left hand. "I see that it's not your birthday."
Sawyer lays her cheek on her hand, elbow planted on her desk to keep her propped up. Her nose wrinkles with the tweak, but she's all bleary smiles for the man. "Not for another three days, and I'm not going to hang around naked between now and then or I will catch a cold. Have time for some coffee, or are you headed for the barn?"
Like the insouciant rapscallion that he is, he quips, "Well, in /that/ case, this /isn't/ for you." What is it, pray tell? A box of his beloved Allegheny cigars. Granted, he stockpiled the stuff during the raid of the West Aerilon Colonial Emporium back in September, but that makes them no less beloved. Where he actually keeps his stash is something he has yet to reveal to anyone. "Nah, I'm in for the night, barring the not so lulling non-melody of klaxons. I half expect the Forces of the Universe to point and laugh at me for thinking coming out here would work. The other half then reminds said Powers That Be that I can't continue to be a form of their entertainment if I'm dead." As for coffee, "Unless it's from the Deck, I'll pass. 'sides, caffeine isn't conducive to sleeping, and I am so very keen to see if I can experience this wonderful, mythical thing called rest."
"Ooh, a present?" Well, that changes everything. It's even enough to put a little pep back into the sleepy Journalist, and her glasses get tossed with a clatter to the top of her keyboard and she's on her feet to go in pursuit of that box he's pulling back. "Gimme gimme gimme." She makes the motion with her fingers, waiting for it to be deposited. "Coffee was a euphemism for making out like two teenagers after prom. But if you'd rather do /that/ with Deck too, I understand."
The box is not deposited. In fact — and utterly unsurprisingly — he's playing keep-away. "Sorry. Can't. It's a birthday gift and it's not your birthday. Ask again in three days." Incorrigibly rascally is this one. "Prom… prom…" the man muses, still keeping the tobacco treats out of Sawyer's reach. "That's that thing, right? Where they wear those ridiculous dresses and some totally lame band plays, and the climax of the movie revolves around a bunch of horny teenagers getting a fancy hotel room so they can frak?" What Kal knows of such things is from Fleet library videos of these bad comedies full of wacky hijinks and hormones out of control. Prom? In Flint? That would require cubits. It also would require students who lasted until what would be their junior year of high school. Two things that urban cesspool really did not have. Besides, most kids were already sexually active by the age of thirteen (13). Gotta love ghetto life. "So, basically, what you're saying is that having coffee is a euphemism for making out like two teenagers after prom, which is a euphemism for frakking in a fancy hotel room. Except we don't have a fancy hotel room. Also: I don't frak like a teenage boy."
"Thank the Pantheon for that." The frakking like a teenage boy part presumably. "And who is to say I'll even get a chance to see you in three days. Better safe than sorry." Sawyer makes another unsuccessful lunge for the box, and tries the old pout until you get your way angle, which is hard to pull off when you're near thirty and your hair isn't in pig tails anymore. "I'll have you know my dress wasn't ridiculous. It was classic. Black and tailored that skimmed my hips and flared out like a mermaid… okay. So it was ridiculous. And we don't have a fancy hotel room, but we have a hammock. And I'll even drop the making out slash frakking part so you can get some of that elusive rest."
"Lies!" alleges Bootstrap. "All those dresses are fuchsia or cyan, and they have short puffy sleeves and really fwoofy skirts." Yes, fwoofy. "And the hair? I'm not even convinced it /is/ hair. More like a decapitated and dismembered poodle. I bet…" he continues in that facetious way of his, "I bet you never even /went/ to a prom." J'accuse, Averies! J'accuse! Also: nice try, still no cigar(s). Neener. As for letting him rest, he retorts, "I wonder what /that's/ a euphemism for."
"Cuddling. I'll even let you be the big spoon." Sawyer wiggles to get her rump up on the desk, leaving grey trouser clad legs to dangle. "As to prom, I would even go so far as to show you photographic proof BUT somebody isn't playing nice." Making her wait until her actual birthday for her gift, the horrors! "If I have to wait until the twenty-eighth for my present, how about a sneak peak?"
"Do I get a sneak peek of your birthday suit?" Kal is quick to quip back with a faux seriousness.
Sawyer kicks off her shoes and hops down off the desk. "Lock the hatch, hit the lights, and we can negotiate."
The final verdict? Some cuddling in the hammock, one (1) shared cigar, a much needed power nap, and the snubbing of Pop Culture convention.