PHD #131: Rum & Cola
Rum & Cola
Summary: Psyche and Devlin meet back up in the Observation Deck for drinks and conversation.
Date: 07 July 2041 AE
Related Logs: Nice to Meet You
Devlin Psyche 
Observation Deck!
It's the Observation Deck!
Post-Holocaust Day: #131

Psyche waits in the quiet of the observation deck, hands in her pockets, looking out at the stars. There's a bottle of coconut rum, some mid-shelf brand once popular in the bars and clubs of Caprica, sitting on the floor beside her. Still sealed, it looks like. Apparently, she's not the type to drink alone.

Devlin wanders in a little bit late, dressed in a slightly different t-shirt almost indistinguishable from the other except that it's not wrinkled (yet). He's carrying a plastic bag and looking around, and then he lifts a hand to wave to Psyche when he spots her, even if she's not really facing his way. "Hey," he greets with a smile, touching her shoulder to get her attention, "Psyche."

There's a quality to her expression that's apparent as one comes closer — something achingly melancholy, rather painful… but that expression, apparently, is only for the blackness of space and the points of light scattered across it. It dissipates as she hears Devlin's voice, gone entirely by the time she's turned to face him, replaced with a welcoming smile. "Hey, back," she greets in return, stooping to retrieve the booze. "I hope you like rum — my party supplies aren't what they used to be."

Devlin returns the smile, hoisting up the bag he carries as she picks up the rum. He eyes the bottle and chuckles, "I think I can deal with that, and!" He leans over and opens the bag so she can peek in as he whispers behind his hand, "I brought cola." And he has, two bottles of it. It's off-brand, not cold, and likely at least a bit flat, but it is cola. If he noticed her mood as she stared out the window, he's choosing not to comment on it, instead turning to look out across the room and ask, "Where should we sit?"

Psyche gasps. "You brought cola!" she glees, beaming at the contents of the bag. "I was going to say, I hope you don't mind it straight, but you brought cola!" She does a little dance. "Holy shit, I love you!" The sitting question is answered by her dash for the nearest couch-type seating. Well, not exactly the nearest — she climbs over the front row and into the second, slightly elevated row, sitting cross-legged but explaining, "Back rows are better for when we need to slouch and put our feet up later." She likes to think ahead into her drinking binges. "Rum and cola, I'm so excited!" It's the little things.

Devlin grins, a big bright smile at Psyche's glee, lifting a finger to his lips to warn, "Shhh! Everyone will get jealous and want some!" before he dashes after her, vaulting easily over that first row couch to plant himself beside her. "I knew a guy who had some, I figured it'd be a good idea since you were bringing the rum." He eyes the bottles, and the liquor, and hmmmms. "We'll have to just chase it with the cola first, I think, til there's room to pour some rum in the bottles. Maybe?"

"Mixed drinks by the mouthful, it is!" Psyche agrees, opening the rum. "I'm easy. First swig's to you, since you're so adorably thoughtful," she declares, handing over the bottle. "So are they sort of loosening up on the civvies, now? I know they were kind of being bitchy about keeping you all in certain areas, before. Or are you like Sawyer? Special dispensation because you're useful? You looked like you were being useful, with the tools and the manly griminess and all."

Devlin laughs, carefully opening one of the bottles of cola in the bag, getting just a tiny little fizzling noise as he cracks the seal. He holds it between his knees, and starts to lift the bottle of rum, but has to stop to laugh, "Manly griminess. Yeah, I signed up for that… civilian work program thing, whatever it's called?" He takes a swig of rum, and passes her the bottle, holding the liquor in his mouth until he can follow it up with a sip of coke, swallowing and continuing, "I help out with stuff, just… you know, whatever needs cleaning or fixing. And I get to wander around some in exchange."

"Oh, right. I heard about that," Psyche nods, accepting the bottle of rum. "I think it was Sawyer's idea — pretty frakking good one, too. But she's brainy like that." She takes a swig of rum, has a moment where she finds she needs both hands to loft the near-full cola bottle, fumbles to hand off the rum — and almost snarfs the mouthtful of booze in her mirth. She choke-coughs slightly as she finally manages a successful chaser. "Whew! Right. As I was saying…" she laughs. "That was considerably more complicated than it should have been. So — yeah!" She grins. "I know a lot of the guys are hoping the chicks from Aquarian Pete's on Leonis will get back to working soon. Me, not as much. I mean to win their shoes in our weekly triad games. They have awesome. Frakking. Shoes."

"Was it? I don't remember. I don't think I met Sawyer. Talked to… an officer about it," Devlin replies, gesturing vaguely. He snickers a little as she struggles with the bottles, taking the rum back and completing another mouth-mixed drink before replying, "You mean the strippers? Yeah, I heard about them. I haven't seen their shoes. But…" he laughs, "Stripper shoes are funny. Aren't they usually about three feet tall and clear or light-up or hot pink or something?"

"When you stand but five-foot-and-a-smidgen? Three-foot-tall shoes are a good thing," opines the little pilot, reaching for the rum. "And I've made it my life's mission to preserve the color pink amidst the insidious plague of navy, olive, khaki and grey that seeks to suck all the joy out of the world. So yeah — hot pink platforms? Bring 'em on." She knocks back some rum, this time managing the cola without quite so much Vaudville. "Ahh. Oh! Also. Sawyer. She's fabulous," she nods, passing the bottle. "She was a reporter. Still is, I guess. She had a chip on her shoulder about the military junta at one point, I think? But it's like… I dunno. There just aren't enough players left in this little drama that investigative journalism makes sense, anymore — I mean, investigate what? For who? We're all in the same boat — way literally. I think she's more recording it all for posterity, now."

Devlin glances over like he hadn't realized how tall (or not) she is, and then laughs, and glances down, plucking at his grey t-shirt and navy sweatshirt, toying with the zipper on the latter as he nods, "Well, somebody's got to, I guess!" He keeps the back-and-forth of the bottles going steadily, nodding in acknowledgment as he swallows and listens, "Junta?" He echoes the word with a faint lack of recognition and then nods, "Oh, ok. Kind of, ummm… chronicling it? That's neat. And important, I guess. I'm sure I'll meet her around at some point."

Psyche smirks. "I'm not even sure I used that correctly," she admits of the unfamiliar word. "I heard it in a movie once. 'Military junta'. It sounded intimidating and in charge." Mmm! Moar RUM! She drinks. Chases. "You can't miss her. She's totally the best-dressed person on board."

Devlin laughs, "Yeah, I think I might've heard that in a movie sometime, too," he nods, "It sounds kind of familiar. But also like it might be a kind of music, or dance or something," he says, taking his turn to drink and chase. "She's not in uniform, then, I guess," he says of Sawyer, "That'll make it easier to pick her out. I guess you guys aren't allowed to wear normal clothes even when you're just hanging out?"

Psyche tsks and tugs at the green tank she wears over the grey one. "What, you don't dig my junta-couture?" she asks, dryly. She shakes her head, retrieving the rum. "Sadly, no. We're in uniform even when we're out of uniform, except for very special occasions. Like on Beltane they had a barbecue — we got to wear whatever we wanted. AND there was this lethal spiked sweet tea? Holy frakking bacchae, I think there were three sober people on board, if that." She drinks, then examines the cola level with a squinty eye. "A few more, and I think we might be able to mix. Big swallows now!"

Devlin chuckles at the tank and jokes, "You could start a line. Military was in for a while, I remember. At some point." Mention of a barbecue draws his brows upwards, expression hopeful and he replies, "That sounds fun." The lack of sober people draws a further chuckle and he adds, "Real fun. Alright, big swallows!" He grins a bit and takes the bottle back, taking a big mouthful of rum and then near-equal cola. Cheeks puffed out, he shakes his head back and forth rapidly, mixing the drink in his mouth (sort of) before gulping it down with a laugh and a cough.

"Woo! Chug, chug, chug!" Psyche crows, laughing at the hamster-cheek bit. "Noice," she approves, affecting some kind of muddled Aerilonian accent for no reason at all. Pink cheeked, she gives the whole performance vigorous applause, beaming. "Well done! Okay, I think maybe I'm feeling my drink a little…" She holds her thumb and forefinger a tiny bit apart, squinting at Devlin through the space. Like that much. "It was a good time," she says of Beltane, taking one last mixed-drink-mouthful of her own before hmmm-ing over the cola bottle in her lap, rum poised in her hand. "Except for all the loud, sloppy sex people had in the berthings. I mean, I'm sure THAT was good too. For them. I was just like — let me SLEEP, you frak-monkeys!" She shakes her head finally, handing the bottles over to Devlin. "Dude, I don't think I have the hand-eye coordination for this. It's all you."

Devlin nearly chokes in amusement at Psyche's approval, grinning, a bit red-faced once he's swallowed and taking a mock bow from the waist. "Just a liiiiitle," he grins at her, imitating that hand-gesture and then pinching his fingers shut, twisting to lean sideway against the couchback a little, watching her with the bottles. He laughs, slightly surprised, at her complaint about Beltane, "Do they do that a lot? In the berthings, I mean? Aren't there a lot of them all close together?" He gestures again with his hands, palms held a few inches apart to exaggerate the close quarters. He takes the bottles back with a chuckle as she relinquishes responsibility, taking a swig of rum and then squinting, very carefully filling the empty portion of the cola bottle with the liquor and then capping them both. "Here, you can do the shaking part," he delegates.

"Oh, fabulous! Easily my favorite part," Psyche takes the rum-and-cola mix, holding it in both hands and shaking it high. Then to the right. Then to the left. And around the world — whee! "If the little remaining carbonation rallies and goes 'splodey, we make a break for it and tell no one." Despite a very vigorous mixing dance, however, it seems no explosions are imminent. "As for the privacy issues — welcome to the Colonial Military…" Carefully, slowwwwwwly she twists the cap — a tiny, dying hiss escapes the bottle. "Whew! Excellent. Anyways — yeah, we sleep packed like sardines, everything's co-ed, including the showers… but, like… life goes on, right? People need to eat, sleep, and frak." She hands the bottle over, giving Devlin first go at the concoction. "Usually people try to be quiet, or get creative location-wise — the storage rooms are popular, I hear — but then there's just those times. Like Beltane."

"Thought it might be," Devlin replies, watching Psyche shake it all about. He snickers at her plan for if it explodes, shifting how he sits like he's poised to flee at any moment. He watches intently as the cap is twisted, sighing in relief when there is no explosion, nodding at the conversation, "Yeah, I guess I knew that. I hadn't really thought about it," he replies, "I'm surprised—" he pauses, drinks, considers, shrugs, and takes another little swig before passing it back to Psyche, "Well, that girls go for it, I mean." He shrugs a little, and moves on curious, "So who's the worst?"

"Well, what're we gonna do? Never have sex?" Psyche shrugs, philosophically. "Personally — like, if I had my druthers," she stops, bottle of rum-and-cola halfway to her lips, frowning. "Dude, I totally just used the word 'druthers', didn't I? Weird." She makes a face and drinks. "Ohay! Good ratio — tasty!" The bottle is passed, and she continues, "So, like, if I had my way — frak druthers — I wouldn't be sharing my sex life with several dozen other people. But it's just something everyone's used to. We chat about it in the morning while we're brushing our teeth." She grins at the question, craning around to make sure the coast is clear before scooching over conspiratorially. "Who's loudest, you mean?" She puts a hand over her mouth, stifling an inebriated giggle. "Jugs. Definitely Jugs. She was the Beltane Screamer."

"You did say 'druthers'," Devlin confirms with a nod, smiling as she approves of their new drink. He accepts the bottle back and takes a long, slow gulp, lowering it to grin back as she answers his question, snickering, "I guess with a name like Jugs…." He doesn't finish the thought, but snickers again, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, passing the bottle back again. "So, like… I mean, doesn't it cause problems sometimes? People get jealous or pissed or do something they shouldn't and everybody knows? Not that it isn't like that in the hangar," he admits after a minute, "It can get pretty tough to sleep sometimes."

"Yeah. Wow. I'm not sure," Psyche admits, shaking her head. She accepts the bottle, but doesn't drink right away. "I mean, there haven't been any crazy soap opera dramas or petty vendettas yet, but there totally could be. I mean, we can get on each other's frakked-raw screaming nerve… there are shouting matches and fist fights and the occasional throwing of things. My bunk-mate and me are constantly bickering because he hates that I make his bunk smell like girl and I find his hate hilarious…" She grins impishly, taking a swallow of the community drink. "But really?" She shakes her head. "I dunno. This… really intense shit that we're going through," her smile dwindles, her expression deep and searching. "Like, we pretty much court death every day — and we get pretty frakked up. And… we do die. A lot of us have died. And we all sort of know that… it's just a matter of time before it's our turn… and the only person who has your back? Is that mother-frakker in the other bunk who pisses you off so bad. That rude, obnoxious piece of shit will probably die for you tomorrow. So… it's like… grudges are tricky things to hold on to." She blinks at the bottle still in her hands, then passes it over.

Devlin glances at the bottle, but mostly just listens, laughing at the idea of her making the bunks smell like girl and then not-laughing at all the stuff about dying and being messed up. "Yeah, that makes sense," he nods, and nods some more, quiet for a minute or two, befitting the gravity of the concepts, and then he picks his head up and reaches for that bottle, lifting it in a sort of toast and saying, "All the more reason to drink when you can, right?" He does, deeply, shaking himself a little and taking another swig before passing it back once again. He shifts on the couch, sinking deeper and stretching his legs out in front of him, drumming a hand on his stomach absently before tilting his head up to ask, "So who's your obnoxious bunkmate?"

Psyche rolls her eyes and laughs. "Spiiiiiiiiiiraaaaaaal," she replies, drawing out her bunky's callsign loooong. She heaves a big sigh, taking a couple of swallows from the bottle. "Seriously. Grumpy. Old. Motherfrakker." Strangely, though she apparently means every word, there's some sort of twisted affection implied in her amused, or bemused smile. "I dunno. Sometimes we'll almost get along. And I'll suddenly realize — oh, shit! I've totally gone ten minutes without wanting to kick this person in the groin! But it's like…" she narrows her eyes, "It's like he knows the second I've started to think he might not be a complete prick. And THEN he decides to be, like, a turbo douche." She nods, passing the bottle. "I dunno. He has issues."

"I like the callsigns," Devlin comments with a smile, wandering away on a tangent for a minute, "Spiral. Jugs. They're funny. What's yours?" He starts listening again then, nodding, and taking that bottle back when she passes it. "Yeah, I bet," he replies, drinking, and then standing the bottle up on his navel for a minute, holding it there absently. "Turbo douche," he repeats, sniggering quietly, "That's a good one. Should we add more to this?" He holds the bottle up, eyeing how much is left, sihlouetted against the big windows.

"Bubbles," laughs Psyche, enjoying her callsign far more thoroughly thanks to our friend Mr. Rum. "Mine's 'Bubbles'," she repeats with relish, slouching down a bit and putting her feet up on the seats in front of her. She puts her arms over her head, reeeeeeaching and grimacing at the good stretch. Ahh. "Nobody picks their own, so… I don't entirely know why? There the really obvious bit — I don't smoke like 98-percent of the other sticks. I chew bubblegum instead. But also, when I was stationed at Tau Garrison, some pig was all like: 'You'd make a better stripper than a pilot, Bubbles!' I guess that was the ultimate stripper name, in his mind." She twirls her finger in the air. "Whoop-dee-do. Somewhere between the two, 'Bubbles' was officially adopted by the masses." Thumbs up to the More Rum proposition. "Knock yourself out. Or… you know… US out. Go for it."

"Bubbles," Devlin repeats, turning it over in his mind and his mouth for a minute, head twisting a little to look at her consideringly. He laughs at the explanation when it comes, and then laughs some more, just a little bit more amused by that than would be normal in a totally sober person. "Bubbles would be a weird stripper name. But you -do- like stripper shoes," he reminds her, wagging a finger, "So maybe that guy was on to something." He grins, and then uncaps the bottle, picking up the rum and caaaaarefully pouring more into their rum/cola mix. "Time to shake!" he announces when he's done, capping both and handing the drink back to the pilot.

Yay! Shakey time! Psyche grins and fumbles her legs down so she can sit up and give the bottle a proper throttling. "I saw this vid clip once?" she says, already laughing. Hee! Wait. No. There's a punchline in there somewhere. BREATHE! Start again. "I saw this clip once," she stands and starts bouncing around with the bottle, bounding in circles, UP onto to couch and back down again. "Where this chick was demonstrating how to pole dance?" Bouncebouncebounce! "And she did that thing where they turn upside down with their legs wrapped around the pole — " She stops bouncing, all big eyes. Pant, pant. "And she totally fell on her head." She giggle snickers, drop-flopping down to sit once more. "That would be me," she nods, presenting the dance-mixed bottle to Devlin. Taa-daa!

Devlin draws his legs back out of the way of the jumping and dancing, laughing both at her story and at her new and improved method of shaking. "I think I saw that video!" he tells her, "That was funny. You should try anyways and let me film it and you could be the next big video online." As much as there is an online anymore, he realizes next, face falling a little. But he distracts himself with the pilot flopping down next to him, taking the bottle and uncapping it for a drink. This time he licks his lips afterwards and gives himself a shake, announcing, "It's a lot stronger. Here!" It is cheerfully passed back anyways.

Psyche blinks a few times, taking the bottle as she considers this particular road to fame. "Okay — that almost sounded like a good idea for about two and a half seconds… but I'm not as think as you drunk I am." She takes a long swallow of the new-and-improved mix, nodding her approval with a gasp. "Smooth," she rasps, coughing a bit. "Oh! Wow! That totally reminds me of this thing —" She stands and turns dramatically towards the viewports, addressing herself to the stars:

"Starkle, starkle little little twink," she begins, gesturing grandly. "Who the Hell are you? I think…" She wrinkles her nose and peers at the stars, then points empahtically, decrying, "I'm not under what you call the affluence of incohol!" Nope. Not a bit. She shakes her head, continuing to the distant lights, "I'm… just a little slort of sheep — I'm not a drunk like thinkle peep." There's a snerk-snorting sound as she struggles with the giggles, trying to play her plea straight. Philosophically, she continues, "I don't know who me is yet… but the drunker I stay, the longer I get!" Wow. Deep. She nods sagely. "So one more drink to fill my cup!" she proposes, toasting the stars with the cola bottle, "'Cause I got all day sober to Sunday up!" Psyche Athenos, ladies and gentlemen! She takes a bow and passes the bottle.

Devlin just sort of stares, brown eyes going wide as the recitation continues, and then laughs, and then stares some more, gaze flicking over the pilot a bit more keenly than before, just for a moment before reaching out to take the bottle back. He takes a sip, coughs a little into the back of his hand, and takes another, capping it and then wrapping his hands around it after he's done applauding the performance. "So, is that the way the thing is written?" he asks, "With all the mistakes, I mean? Or… are you really -really- drunk and I should be ready to carry you home any second now when you pass out?"

Psyche hops back onto the couch cross-legged, grinning ear to ear. "That, my friend, was genius. Aggie Adrostos, president of Sigma Delta Nu, first gave that recitation on the roof of the PolySci building — gods I had such a crush on him. I nearly peed myself laughing." She sighs contentedly, then adds brightly, "I also know a great song about beer."

Alex laughs, though he looks relieved, admitting, "Good, since I'm not sure I'd be able to figure out where to bring you!" He takes another swig for himself, and then chuckles again, "I'll have to be careful not to make you laugh. A song about beer? I bet I know it. Or I might, anyways. I think I know some songs about beer. But Sig Delts are lame, you know," he adds, turning to wag a serious finger at her, "Psi Chis are way better."

Psyche gapes, giving Devlin's knee a shove with her boot. "Blasphemer!" she cries, batting at the wagging finger. "Don't point that thing at me, it's got a nail in it. Furthermore — stop bogarting." She makes a swipe for the bottle. "Okay, Mr. Knows-So-Much… let's hear a beer song!"

Devlin waggles his finger at Psyche a moment more, even going so far as to poke her in the shoulder with that nail and all. "I'm not bogarting! You were talking," he defends, twisting to shield the bottle from her while he takes another swig before letting her swipe it back with only mild resistance. "Hmmm. I don't know if I remember them," he demures, "Besides, they're all for more than one person. You know, like somebody sings a line and everybody else sings 'Beer!' and stuff like that."

"We're two people," Psyche argues reasonably enough, sticking her tongue out at Devlin once she has the bottle back. "I'm perfectly capable of shouting the word 'beer' at appropriate intervals. You just hate me. I understand." She sniffs and drinks. Woe is her. WOE! Like a child with ADD surrounded by shiny toys, though, she abandons the plan to badger Devlin into singing almost instantly — but not her intention to be entertained. "Now we get to hear all about you," she declares, nodding and taking another swig. "So far it's been the Psyche show! Borrrrrring. Tell me about Alex Devlin."

"We are two people," Devlin confirms with a bob of his head before he laughs, "That's right, I hate you." He sticks his tongue out right back before kicking his legs out again, sprawling off the couch. Her declaration and request that the conversation be turned towards him draws a laugh. "Has not been all about you," he protests, "I hardly know anything except you like pink stripper shoes and sucky frats. What d'you want to know about Alex Devlin?"

"Sigma Delts ruled UC3," insists Psyche, stoutly defending her boys. That would be University of Caprica, Caprica City, by the way. "If you were an Alpha Phi — and I was president, thank you — it was practically mandatory that you date a Siggy! NOT that you'd have wanted to date anyone else, obviously. Where did you go to school? Let's start there." She takes another drink, curling herself around the bottle like a greedy imp. Apparently she will not be sharing with the hater — oh no.

"Doesn't mean they weren't lame!" Devlin retorts, before making a face, "You dated them? Ugh. Contaminated!" He shifts away from her like she's got cooties, eyeing the bottle for a moment but not snatching for it yet. "Eastern Libran State," he answers her question. After a second he shrugs and adds, "But only for a couple years. I don't think we had Alpha Phis," he says thoughtfully, tilting his head as he considers and then nods, "Oh, yes we did, actually. I remember them. It was sort of the nerdy-girl house, I think. They didn't get out much."

Psyche gapes at Devlin like a fish. She snaps her mouth shut and makes an indignant little HRMPH! sound, drawing herself up into a huff. "You went to Bizarro U, obviously, where everything is the opposite of how nice, rational people know the real world to be." She nods. "Weirdo." She hugs the bottle to her like it's her woobie bear, all pouty-face. "What'd you go for?"

Devlin snorts, "Did not! Well, I hear they're each different everywhere," he tells her, "All the houses, I mean. I met some Psi Xis on Picon once, and they said it was the agricultural frat at… whichever Pikey school they went to." He wiggles his fingers like he's going to try to take the bottle from her, but doesn't yet, instead leaning his head back and squinting in thought. "Ummm…" clearly it made a big impression on him, whatever it was, "I think I said… uhh. Sociology? Or maybe Psychology? I mostly played Pyramid and did frat-stuff," he admits.

Psyche taunts with the bottle — neener neener NEE-ner! — before snatching it back. HERS. "I went for fashion design," she shrugs. "I wasn't really into it. Not like Davis." She sighs, pondering. "I mean, I obviously love fashion and all — but I dunno. I wasn't career-minded. It just seemed like the right place to meet suitable husband material."

Devlin makes a face at her as she snatches the bottle back, grumbling, "Tease." He kicks his heels against the floor a little and scratches his chest, nodding, "Ohh, that's how you knew that designer. Gotcha. So… how'd you end up here, then?"

"Why, yes!" Psyche owns it, smirking as she takes another sip from the bottle — just to rub it in. "Yes I am." She shakes her head, swinging the bottle idly. "No, I knew Archie before school, even. My family had money — we ran in the same circles." There's a pause as she considers the question, a faint frown. "Stuff happened, and I sort of had to reevaluate my life… and it wound up being kind of… embarrassing? Pointless. Soulless. Vapid. Vacuous. Vain. This monologue brought to you by the letter 'V'." Oh, look! Rum. She drinks. "I needed to do something completely different or die the same. And the Colonial navy had a really slick recruitment campaign that year."

Devlin wrinkles his nose at her, and then grins at her teasing, shaking his head and resigning himself with a sigh to not getting another drink. He just listens instead, and then nods slowly, "Ahh. So… d'you like it? The navy, I mean. Being a pilot and stuff."

Psyche rolls her eyes as Devlin resigns himself — now the game's no fun. She mutters 'bah' and hands the bottle over. "I'm good at it," she says, with a certain confidence and a vast amount of pride. "And if I die doing this, it'll mean something. And… if I don't…" THAT gives her pause. She seems to be considering the possibility of survival for the first time, however spec-fic and fantastical it might seem. "If I don't, then… I'll still have done something that matters." She shrugs, but nods. "Yeah. I like it. I mean… I can't imagine doing anything else."

Devlin grins, a big flash of white teeth as Psyche hands the bottle over, pumping his fist in victory, as if that surrender was a carefully-planned strategy all along. He takes a long drink, and then hugs the bottle to his chest, now, in turn before nodding along as she answers his question. "Yeah, it seems pretty important," he agrees, "And, I mean… well, flying's kind of fun, right? I guess fun isn't really a good word since it's been all bad stuff happening, really, but…" he shrugs, "Anyways, it's good that you like it."

"Oh, don't get me wrong — flying is wicked fun," Psyche agrees, smiling a bit wistfully. "It's an incredible rush, but… it's been a long time since I could just stretch my wings and play, y'know? Since any of us could." She shrugs and looks down, then gives her shoulders a shake, casting off the gloom settling on her. "So, I dunno… I guess, when it's like this, you have to find other reasons to love the job. Or go a little crazy." She smirks. "Maybe I've done both."

"Yeah, makes sense," Devlin nods, "On constant alert and patrol and stuff isn't much time for anything else. I was gonna do more flying, for a bit there, I think I said that earlier. But I ended up with a freighter instead. Should've done something sexier." He takes another swig of rum, and then nods, grinning, "Maybe you did. Who knows, around here. Seems like everything's crazy these days anyhow."

Psyche laughs. "Sweetie-pie, you seem to forget I've seen you strut around without a shirt on — you really don't need to do anything sexier than wake up in the morning." She blinks at the absence of a bottle in her possession, giving Devlin the hairy eyeball. "But did I mention how un-sexy bogarting is?"

Devlin laughs, his grin quick, and a little embarrassed, but mellowing into something just faintly proud after a minute. "Yeah, they make me do a lot of that. Even for the winter shows. Still, shirtless ain't so bad, it's the crazy ones that get uncomfortable. If people've seen 'em, I mean." He blinks at that look she gives him, and then laughs and passes the bottle back. "Here, greedy."

Psyche giggles, looking more triumphant than thirsty as the bottle comes back to her. She gamely takes a sip, then passes it back with the exaggeratedly innocent look of one for whom sharing is caring and rainbows and unicorns are a daily thing. See how sweet she is? Pay attention, it won't last long. "I know not this word, 'greed'," she protests, batting her lashes. "So — had you always wanted to fly? I mean, is that what drew you to frieghters and stuff? You seem like you've tried a bunch of different things — humanities, modeling, making metric fraktons of metal soar through the air…"

Devlin laughs as he takes the bottle back, taking another sip, and then screwing the top back on. He rests the bottle on his stomach but doesn't clutch it, easily taken if she wants it. The lash batting draws another laugh, bouncing the bottle and sending it slipping to the side as he shrugs, "I mean, flying always seemed exciting, I guess. But yeah, I've done a lot of stuff." He chuckles, shakes his head a little, "That's, like… not even a quarter of the jobs I've done. And the modeling wasn't, like… a calling or anything, some guy just offered me a job one day and the money kept coming and it was easy, so…." He shrugs.

"But… does anything really grab you? You know… inspire you?" Psyche wants to know, tilting her head curiously. "I once thought playing hero might — the idea of it did, anyhow. And for a while, just accomplishing the highly-unlikely-if-not-impossible… not washing out, getting my wings… that really did it for me. Now, it's… I dunno. The danger and the impossible frakking odds, and knowing that what I do, it keeps us safe. It protects people, and I'm kind of finding I love people… I love life. That it happens, not just to me but around me." She chews her bottom lip. "If the war were over, though… I don't know if I'd be a career pilot. 'Cause it's not the flying, per se, it's what the flying does." A sigh and a shrug. "I guess I'm a frakking philanthropist or something. Sounds like work." She doesn't look too happy about it.

"I mean…" Devlin tips his head back and forth indecisively, and then chuckles briefly, "I guess the short answer's no, not really. Nothing's every really grabbed me enough that I wasn't happy enough to move on after a few months or so. Modeling was easy money and I got to travel and party and stuff, but if it ended I wouldn't be heartbroken or nothing." He shrugs a little, rolling his head to face her as she talks, listening. "Philanthropist might be a fun job," he replies, "Just give away money to charity all the time. Can't really do that now, though." He shrugs, "I dunno. For the moment I'm just fixing stuff. Not sure what's next."

Psyche groans, as though realizing something about herself — to wit: she's quite doomed. "No, I mean… if I live — it WE live — I'll probably wind up building houses for homeless orphans or something. Habitat for Humanity. Callouses and splinters and sensible shoes." She falls back against the opposite arm of the couch, sprawling, draping her legs over Devlin's. "Frak. My. Life."

Devlin laughs, lifting the bottle out of the way and settling his arms back down over Psyche's legs. "Well that's not so bad!" he tells her, "I did some construction for a while, I mean, not for charity like that, but building and stuff. It's kind of fun. Working with your hands, getting to see your progress right there. But there's other kinds of philanthropy, too. You could hold fundraisers and stuff. No splinters there."

"I could," Psyche nods, lacing her fingers together over her abdomen. She considers it a moment, then shakes her head. "No. No, no, noooo… I wouldn't feel involved enough. It would be too much like my mother. I know me now — I'm a miserable do-gooder." She throws an arm across her eyes, dramatically. "WOE." Le sigh. "I guess you're going to have to teach me to build shit."

Devlin laughs, shaking his head, "Not involved enough? You -are- a miserable do-gooder." He gives her shin a comforting pat, and agrees, "I'll just have to teach you t'build shit. You'd look cute in a hardhat. Lessee, you couuuulllld…." he draws the word out as he ponders, then suggests, "Bring clothes to poor children. Collect them and bring them. That wouldn't be too hard but you could go right to 'em so it's still direct."

Psyche makes a non-committal 'mmmrgmphle' sound, then moves her arm slightly to peer down the couch at Devlin. "Could it be a pink hardhat?"

Devlin laughs, and gives one of Psyche's booted feet a playful shove as he nods, "I figured it would be."

Psyche sighs dramatically. "I guess that's okay, then," she replies, sounding a bit mollified. "Okay. It's a deal. You can be the foreskin or foreman or whatever."

Devlin laughs, the sound a surprised burst before he covers his grin with a hand for a second, just a second, and then drops it to shake his head as he snickers, "Foreman. Definitely foreman." Not that he can resist repeating her slip in another snickery mutter, "Foreskin."

"Well? Like I know…" huffs Psyche as Devlin laughs it up at her expense. Mirth tugs at the corners of her mouth, though, and there are dimples on her cheeks. Perhaps the damsel is not so blonde as she doth pretend? Only the gods know for certain. "Cool. You. Me. Building junk. It's a date." The word 'date' is semi-mangled by a yawn she can't quite suppress.

Devlin snorts in more laughter, shaking his head, "I -hope- you know foreskin isn't directing construction sites!" he replies, snickering taking him a little bit longer. When she yawns, he yawns, though he nods through it, adding as it ends, "Sounds good."

Psyche is comfortably silent for a few long moments, breathing nice and even, probably feeling a little floaty, as a good buzz will do. Then a fit of the giggles takes her. She places her hands over her face and laughs. "Oh, my gods, I'm boring in my old age!" she laments, though if the mirth is any indication, it's far from the end of the world. "I've got a fabulous drunk going with an amazingly hot guy, and I'm all like — nap time nao! Puh-THETIC."

Devlin opens his eyes when Psyche giggles, slowly like he didn't even realize he'd shut them to begin with. He picks his head up just a little, the minimal amount, and then laughs as the reason for this ourburst of amusement is revealed. "Sounds like you're really saying -I'm- boring," he replies, making a very brief face at her before stretching out a hand and offering, "Come on, lead me to the nearest storage closet and we'll make out to make up for it."

Psyche grins, taking the hand but not immediately leading closet-ward — or any other-ward. She sits up, smirking and heavy-lidded. "That line work for you often?"

Devlin grins back, shoulders lifting in a shrug, "Dunno, first time I've tried it. Am I one for one, or should I retire it as a miserable failure?"

Psyche drapes her arms over Devlin's shoulders, resting her forehead against his, the tips of their noses touching. "I haven't decided yet," she replies coyly, a dimple deep along one side of her mouth.

Devlin grins as she moves closer, lips pulling wide for that smile and then back together, crooked, something near a smirk, but too good-natured to quite earn that name, especially with that dimple of his own making a reflection of hers. "No?" he asks, "Welllll… are you thinkin' about it?"

Psyche's shoulders shake with silent, bubbling of mirth. She purses her lips and scrunches her nose, elaborately pondering her options. "The committee is taking it under advisement," she replies. So that would be a 'yes'. Probably. Right?

Devlin laughs, surprised again, "The committee?" he repeats, clearly amused, "I had no idea there were so many of you! How many do I get, if they agree? All the yes votes?" he jokes, lips curving with barely-suppressed humor.

Psyche blinks, considers, then shuts her eyes tight with a squeak of dismay. "Zoh-mi-gods an orgy with myself — how awkward!" Creepy as she might find the idea of frolicking with Psyche-clones, she's consumed with the giggles. "Ew! What is seen cannot be unseen — I'm scarred for life." She hides her face against Devlin's shoulder while she regains her composure, then clears her throat and shakes her head. "Sorry. No. Just me."

Devlin giggles along with her, though it's more manly than giggling, so… chuckles! Or sniggers. Somewhere in between. "I… am not scarred for life," he grins, and then looks thoughtful for a second, like he's considering the matter again, and then shakes his head once more, "Nope! Not even a bit." When she's more composed, he plays at considering her offer of just one single Psyche for a while, and then shrugs and nods, "Alright, I can live with that."

"Cool," Psyche murmurs, all smiles, gazing at Devlin through her lashes. She tilts her head a little, speaking nearly against his lips. "So are you gonna kiss me, or what?"

Devlin's brows rise at that, expression all innocence as he replies, "Oh. Did you want me to?" His head tilts a little, lips pursing slightly, both moves in service to a quizzical look, rather than actually kissing her, like it might seem, though he doesn't draw back at all. "I thought the committee was still deciding," he tells her.

Psyche ohs! frowning and nodding. "Right. Frakking committee…" She pauses, then giggles again, "Or is it The Frakking Committee? The frakking Frakking Committee." Oh, the lulz. She seems to be having fun, though. "The committee has passed a motion — by a slight majority — that yes: you should totally kiss me."

Devlin nods, "Yes, the—" he laughs, "The frakking Frakking Committee," he echoes, grinning. He awaits their decision with dark brows still faintly lifted in suspense, and then grins, "A -slight- majority?" He makes an affronted noise in the back of his throat, and shakes his head a little, but does then finally kiss her. Not for very long, though, his lips resting against hers for a moment before he draws back and says teasingly, "There, a slight kiss for a slight majority."

Psyche smiles against Devlin's lips, and the smile lingers even as he withdraws. "I dunno…" she murmurs. "You're gonna have to do a little better than that if you're going to win over the undecideds…" She smooths her hands over the fuzz of his hair, trailing her fingers down the back of his neck… and this time it's her doing the kissing, far more than slightly.

"Oh, are they willing to be won over?" Devlin feigns surprise again and then smiles as her hands tickle down the back of his neck, his own settled loosely on her hips. He doesn't draw away from this kiss when she initiates it, not for a good minute or two, and then just far enough to suggest, "Wanna go somewhere?"

"Totally," Psyche nods, smiling as she steals another brief, teasing kiss. "Let's get out of here."

Devlin grins. "Good choice by the committee," he says, waiting for her to get up before he unfolds to his feet, picking up that bottle and the plastic bag with the extra cola, putting the rum in there too and then waiting for Psyche to lead the way.

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