| Sleeping Arrangements |
| Summary: | Air Wing style. Hijinks ensue. |
| Date: | 16 Jan 2042 AE |
| Related Logs: | Pinholes and Shadows and Significance are vaguely referenced. |
| Players: |
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| Pilot Berths - Naval Deck - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #324 |
| The battlestar's pilots call this place home. Bunks line the walls with grey curtains to cover their sleeping areas. Lockers sit between each pair of bunks and a round metal table sits in the center, furnished with simple but comfortable steel chairs. A hatch at the rear of the room leads to a communal head. |
| Condition Level: 3 - All Clear |
Being back on Condition 3 means that Trask has been able to scale-back his work day to a mere sixteen (16) hours. If he's feeling particularly lazy, he might even sleep for six (6) of those that remain. The rest of that time is generally dedicated to feeding himself, washing himself, and relieving himself. With hair still damp from the shower, he's seen to it to spend a few moments dressing himself for bed. A dark trio of t-shirt, boxer briefs, and socks shall suffice, for one never knows when those klaxons will start blaring and ass will need to be hauled to the hanger and into a flightsuit.
Conditions really don't effect Sawyer much beyond limiting some of her freedoms. Now that the shuttles are running regularly, she's even been spending a good spot of time aboard the Elpis. Some may call it 'avoidance' but she wasn't seen hide nor hair of on the day of Abbot's execution and now here she is meandering into berthings as if she still keeps a bunk in here. Oh wait, she does. Not that that curtain has opened much over the past few months. It's easy enough to spot Trask as she comes through the hatch, and it's in that direction she heads. "Going to or coming from your rack?"
"That depends on whether or not I have somewhere better to be," he smiles with mischievous mirth. By the look of him, though, that shower may have washed away the stink and grime, but the telltale signs of tiredness are curled up around his eyes. "Why? Planning on inviting yourself over?" Bootstrap smirks, adjusting one sock before grabbing a not-so-full bottle of water from the top shelf of his locker.
Sonja arrives in the pilot's bunk a few moments later, the sight of the Nugget in here isn't unheard of. The sight of a Civilian in pilot country causes the woman to pause, and not meaning to stare at the very prim and proper looking woman. She not know whom she is, Sonja assumes she's a spouse of a pilot or maybe someone whom doesn't like to live in their uniform. "Hello, Sir, Ma'am." She greets softly looking past Sawyer towards Trask.
Roland comes through the hatch from the direction of the showers. Wet hair, and regulation towel speaks of his departure point. He moves past Sonja into the middle of the bunks, pulling open his locker, and tossing a uniform on his bunk.
"You're damn right I am." Sawyer says simply to the ECO, balancing on one foot so she can pluck a heel off the other. Her height is severely diminished when she goes flat footed to repeat the process on the other side, and then the pumps get hooked on her fingers. Just like that she invades Trask's personal space, leaning past him to tuck her shoes in the bottom of his locker instead of trying to remember the combination to her old one. It's done in such a cavalier manner, she must have some acquaintance with Bootstrap. As she straightens and starts futzing with her hoop earrings to unthread it from her lobe, she regards Sonja's arrival. "Good evening." There's a glance back to Trask. "Fresh meat?" Meaning she hasn't seen Sonja before, most likely.
That not-so-full bottle of water is tipped much closer to empty. Then with all the grace, class, and fine breeding of a Black Country boy, Trask wipes his mouth with the back of that hand and starts to idly scratch his netherparts in a manly fashion. That the journalist commandeers space in his locker prompts nothing more than a faint and knowing smile of impish smugness. To Sawyer's question, he sagaciously replies, "Young, tender Nugget meat." As if Sonja were a piece of filet mignon. Speaking of Sonja, she receives an amiable enough, "Midshipman." Brown eyes flick to the passing Roland. "Blue."
Perhaps not picking up on the meaning, and having not heard the expression before, Sonja blinks. "I don't think we've had any fresh meat in months, Ma'am," she tells her. "Sure would be nice. Maybe we'll find some critters on Picon?" She shrugs her shoulders, then makes her way to Roland's bunk, sitting down so as not to disturb his clean uniform. She patiently waits for him to get dressed. Trask's acknowledgement of herself gets him a quick smile. "Fine evening, aye, Sir?"
Roland pulls pants on and stands up. He nods over to the SL, and calls over, "Strap… I wouldn't worry about this one… She'll toughen up soon enough. I'll lay cubits it'll be faster than most of the other nuggets." He pulls a shirt over his head, and tucks in dogtags, before turning around, and tossing a wet towel towards a bin.
"There is a parrot on the Elpis…" Sawyer winces slightly, maybe because the earring pinched or the fact that Trask is scratching himself. Whichever. "…I wouldn't mind seeing plucked and roasted." Both hoops removed, she tucks them on the same upper shelf the ECO snagged his water from. His shelf. Invaded by more of /her/ stuff. Looks like the journalist is moving in, at least for one night. As Roland dresses, she nonchalantly turns her back to give him some privacy. "Stop looking so smug. You just won out by process of elimination." The verbal reprimand is to Trask, of course. "Lend me a t-shirt."
"Beautiful night for a post-apocalyptic sleepover," is quipped to Sonja. "Ain't that right, Averies?" Because it is his nature to needle pretty much everyone. Even so, his tone is lacking severity. Perhaps the snarkiness has already gone to bed. "Like an overdone brisket, eh?" Trask remarks back to Blue's comment about the 'fresh meat' toughening up. Oh, but then Sawyer is trying to 'borrow' a t-shirt. Women never 'borrow' a man's clothing. "Not this one." Meaning the snug one he intends to wear as part of his jammies. "You're not gettin' my socks or underwear either." Which, by the by, said shirt, socks, and boxer briefs are all he's wearing apart from all the tatau and his dogtags.
Now, if the blonde /really/ wants to fish out a dirty tee from the ECO's laundry bag, she can… except that Bootstrap is already closing his locker, that empty bottle plopped back on the top shelf, subsequently nudging the journalist's earrings further into the dark depths.
Sonja shakes her head a little when the eh woman doesn't seem to explain her "fresh meat" comment. Trask for his part just gets a sort of huh look before she glances at Roland. She's not naive so much as been isolated on her family's farmstead pretty much all her life. "Toughen up, I ain't tough enough? I know my ears are little green, and I roll more then I fly straight." She half protests. "But I can handle it, it's hard work taking in so much information! You guys had, what, two to four years? To learn what I have to in a matter of months. If that ain't tough, I don't know what is." She's not insulted per se, just a little peeved.
Evandreus went to Medical to beg some pills out of the stash they're keeping under lock and key where some responsible adult can keep an eye on them. That was, of course, hours ago, but with Medical in something of a momentary upheaval as it finds its way back to its regular quarters, he was drafted into helping move equipment, and now he's, yes, medicated, but a little on the sweaty side. If Bunny were meant for hard physical labor, he'd have learned to fly a Viper. Solving math equations very very quickly is definitely more his speed. "Hey, guys," he calls as he returns home.
Sawyer scoffs. "Such hospitality," gets muttered to Trask, though her voice is lacking any venom. The blonde reporter is shoeless and now jewelry-less. Next off comes her lanyard, but that precious thing gets tucked between frame and mattress of the ECO's bunk. Arms cross over her chest and she's tugging off her black sweater next. "Don't bite on that rolling comment, Kal. Too easy." Besides that, she has no comment on the nugget's insistence of her relative toughness. The black wool is now a ball, and one that gets lobbed right for Trask's face. "Hey, Bunny." The cuffs of her white blouse get undone and a few buttons at her throat, but that's as comfortable as she gets to be tonight it seems. Won't be the first time she's slept in her business attire.
Roland sits down on his bunk and pulls his boots on. He spends a few moments lacing them up before he stands again.
"You tell 'im, Tenderloin." That appears to be as far as Trask is interested in blithely encouraging the Nugget. Flashing a winsome smile at Sawyer, "Only the best at this Five-Star bunk." Said bunk is where he starts to pad over, meeting the blonde's sweater somewhere along the way. Pulling it off his face, he nonchalantly points out, "You still haven't shown me your tits." Idly, one of the sleeves is swung at her in a taunting manner. "Bunny boy, Bunny boy. What's shakin', cotton-tail?"
Feeling introductions are in order, Sonja stands up from Roland's bunk and approaches the reporter and pilots. "I'm Sonja Lyon, Midshipman." She offers her hand first to Sawyer then to Trask and Evandreus. "I'm sure she'll want you to Wine and Dine her first," is commented after the tits comments. "Or at least show her yours first, Sir. Got to be proper like, something for something."
Roland blinks a little in surprise as Sonja stands up and moves over to the other pilots. He leans back in his bunk and laces his fingers behind his head to watch quietly.
Boots. Got to get rid of those. The ones on his feet, at least. Bunny progresses forward on one foot, thud, thud, while he crosses his other leg up over a slightly bent knee, tugging at the laces and finally pulling the thing up and off, chucking it up into his bunk. "If Boots isn't being a good host, you can always use my bunk, Soybean. I have a standing invitation Chez Lala. Of course, if you're looking for a cuddle, you could ask her if she doesn't mind a third," he goes on with an impish little smile, elbowing his locker while he gets his other boot loose. "Hi, Sonja Lyon," he tells the Midshipman, chucking his second boot up over his shoulder before he shakes her hand. "Evan," he introduces himself, then, tipping his chin up toward Boots (the fellow, not the footwear), "The S'bay's coming back together nicely," he remarks almost brightly.
"At this rate, you never will," comes the easy quip from Sawyer back at Trask, the pattern part of some rapport she must have with the man she is apparently going to crawl into the bunk of. There's a smile offered to Sonja, a pause on the zipper of her skirt so she can extend her hand. "Sawyer Averies. Journalist and general thorn in the collective side of… well, everyone." There's a shimmy of pinstripe material as her skirt slips to the floor, but the tails of her shirt keep her modest even while she unsnaps a pair of silk hose from their garter clips. "Thanks, Bun. Three sounds like a crowd." And she still retains a perfectly good empty bunk above where Shiv used to live. For whatever reason, Cidra let's her keep it. And empty bunk doesn't seem to fit Sawyer's bill either tonight.
Speak of the devil… or not. In through the hallway hatch comes Leyla, already in the process of shucking off her regulation deck-orange coveralls, though it seemingly is doing nothing to minimize the amount of grime on the woman's hands, face or person. The eye protection is pushed up on her head, but the ear pieces are dangling down along her front, from the loop around her neck. The only part of her body that seems devoid of grease and grime are her hands, currently being peeled out of their gloves. There's a moment, when the sheer collection of bodies moving through the open space of the berthings gives her pause, but like the bull in a china shop, she proceeds with the barreling through.
Like the rascally pain-in-the-ass that he generally is, Bootstrap 'shakes' Sonja's hand by flapping that sweater sleeve at aforementioned hand. "Lyon." Pause. "Not one of those male ones, though. They're lazy fraks. Well met, though." Genially, he smiles. Then, without missing a beat or batting a lash, he casually relays, "I'm not fat enough to have tits of my very own." Indeed, he's athletic, plain enough in that snug t-shirt. "She has seen my penis, though. I've caught her totally checking me out after I've showered." Nothing is directly said to Sawyer. There really is no need. "That's good to hear," is then said to Evandreus. "Jesse fattening you up with lollipops?"
Evandreus is… well, not as athletic as Boots. It's easy enough to tell in the form-fitting off-duty tanks, and even easier when Evan starts pulling even that overhead, opening his locker and tossing it into the as-yet-empty dirty clothes bag, still smelling of laundry detergent as it is from a trip to the laundry earlier. But as much as he seems content with his somewhat soft physique, Kal's comment draws his lips to the side in something between an indignant grimace and a pout. Hmph. "No. He did mention he was keeping some stored up for you, though," he goes on— and it's not facetious, at all, since, in fact, the medic had mentioned something of the sort. Fatigues trousers are next into the bag.
Silk stockings are handled with care, Sawyer folding them over on each other before she reaches up to tuck them into Trask's pillow case to keep them snag free. "The part he's leaving out of the story, of course, is the fact that he was trying to do shadow puppets with it at the time. You try not looking at it. By the by, he does an impressive turkey." How the two of them are managing to have a conversation where they don't actually talk directly to one another? It's a skill. Nevermind the fact that she's mincing fact so it suits her purpose. Up the ladder she goes without waiting for a proper invitation from Boots. Maybe she's just intent on beating him to the pillow so she can hog it all for herself.
With the rest of the berthing seeming occupied with… well, whatever they seem to be doing, Leyla follows suit, making headway towards her locker, the protective gear tossed inside, before she goes the rest of the way out of the coveralls, leaving her in her bra and boy briefs, which do more than enough to disguise her modesty, and not nearly enough to cover the extensive ta moko covering more than half of her body. Towel, shower bag, and she's now faced with the task of finding a way through the crowd to the head.
Roland stands up from his bunk and reaches back to tuck his shirt in. He reaches over to close his locker, glancing around his space for a moment.
"I only lay claim to the blue ones," Trask offers the quasi-pouting Bunny. "Like always, you get first dibs on the rest. In the meanwhile, have a sweater." Sure, it's Sawyer's sweater. That doesn't prevent it from being tossed to Evan. Which means that Leyla is now in his line-of-sight. "Sweet Pea," he greets. As far as shadow puppets go, he turns to tell Sawyer, "Don't be hatin' just 'cuz you lack the means to do a wicked anaconda impression." Ascending the ladder to his bunk, he adds, "Also, the turkey was well before you saw me in all my naked glory. I /did/ see your ass that day, though. Dark as it was in that prison block. Oh, and that you were busy peeing like a racehorse." Into bed, he clambers, not really giving a frak that he has company. He will lay where he wants to lay. It's up to the newsie to acclimate.
"Holy crap," is Evan's comment, out of the blue, when the deckiepillar who passes by sheds its orange cocoon and turns into a Leylafly, if the body art is any indication. "Hey, Lala," he finally tells her, "You've got a little something," he gestures toward a spot on his face, "Right," he gestures to another spot, then just sort of gestures generally to his face, "Around here." And then he's holding a sweater, moving it around in his hands until he's got it by the shoulders, holding it up to himself skeptically.
Sawyer acclimates with some well placed elbows and cold feet where cold feet should never go. "I hope you took a picture before you ruined all my film. It's the last time that you're ever going to see it." And so the arguing goes, though now at least the show's been taken off the main floor and is now incapsulated in Bootstrap's bunk. "I WANT THAT BACK, BUNNY," gets bellowed out as almost an afterthought. "Grass snake. If that."
"Licorice wand," is Leyla's contribution to the conversation that's not hers. The journey continues, from the far side of the berthings to the opposite end, "Boots. Blue." A pause, more in the line of her vision than the progress of her steps, "Who's the new fish?" A cock-eyed glance towards Evan, with more humour in it than anything else she's offered since the trek began, "This is why I never wear makeup. It started out as eyeliner and turned into blackface." The sweater? "Too drab. Maybe if you added some sequins or studs." Bedazzlers are us.
"FOR FRAK'S SAKE," is exclaimed from behind the drawn curtain of Trask's bunk. "Does all the cold in your heart go straight to your feet?" Some wrangling noises follow, the SL trying to shield himself with the Fleet-issued blanket. This means elbows and other body parts end up places Sawyer likely will not appreciate. "Not even," he ribs about the garden snake comment. "At best, you can /maaaaybe/ pull off a maggot." Yes, he just twisted what she said so it sounds like she was referring to her ladybits and not his manparts.
Sonja comes back a few moments later, having ran off to answer some call or other, or maybe she went to the head because all this talk of tits and penises was making her feel kinda uncomfortable… Not likely, though. Anyway, she comes back into the conversation. "Lively," is all Sonja comments, looking around at Bunny and the newly arrived Leyla. "Sir," she says going to offer a hand to the orange garbed woman. "You more than likely missed it, but I'm Sonja Lyon, the newest member of the air wing." Eyes glance around for Roland; she kinda left him to go mingle.
Drab or no, Sawyer's sweater gets arranged on a plastic hanger with tender care and hung in Bunny's locker for the night. Since Sonja's stepping up to introduce herself without his having to lay hands upon the task, he just free associates, coming up with a snippet of song from the surrounding bits of conversation, accompanying himself in his moment of domesticity with a few lines sung to himself. Some sprightly Aquarian tune about maggots in fish. It's been a while since Evandreus has indulged in the tuneful portion of his nature; he must be feeling better, to some degree.
There's a strangled sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan of pain as a single bunk is turned into a double by virtue of will alone. "A maggot that you couldn't find with a map." There's a moment of silence from Sawyer that coincides with the talk of adding bling to her garment. "You owe me a new sweater." Assuming in her blindness of the room at large that there is now a team of evil elves at work, putting sparkling things on her nice wool pull-over. "Where are your smokes?" And then the tousling for position begins all over again.
Roland chuckles under his breath at the sounds coming from the SL's bunk. He leans on the bunk next to his and crosses his arms across his chest to watch as Sonja moves around introducing herself.
Leyla's eyes drop to the hand offered, but neither of her ungloved hands rises to meet it, "I'm afraid I'm not in a position to shake your hand at the moment, Sonja Lyon, but it's good to meet you." By the tone of her voice, there's nothing in it meant to be offensive. Just a statement of fact. "Nugget, or do we not have to break you in?" An uptick of her head, "Which reminds me, what happened to that raptor fish that came by a while back? We went out on one trip and I never saw him again." Oh right, Sweet Pea scared him off. Yes, apparently scary Leyla was especially scary. Leyla casts a glance in Bunny's direction, "Do you ever wonder why they don't just get it over with already? Who needs all this foreplay?" Hooray for relationship advice from the most asexual female in the fleet.
Sonja is yet again not offered a hand in return, but then some cultures don't do casual touching right? "I've got pilot training, but none of that military stuff," she explains, smiling casually over towards Trask's bunk and asking, "Is she always like that, or are the courting? Cause I agree they should just find a haystack or something and get it over with. No wonder no one gets any sleep around here." The Fish song, draws another huh from the farm girl. Perhaps the small, white-haired woman is getting one too many surprises tonight. "Eh anyway, where was I? But yeah, I've been called Nugget, Fresh Meat, Cannon Fodder, so take your pick. I'm the new gal regardless of how you wanna formally label me."
"Only 'cuz I eat fresh fish." Yes, he totally went there. Brazenly and without any semblance of shame. One would think that, by now, Sawyer would know better than to bait — har, har — Trask. When told that he owes her a new sweater, he scoffs. "You already got stockings and a bag." A designer handbag with the retail value of 2,000 cubits. Never mind that it was plundered from an uber upscale boutique on Wreath-of-Roses. "What you /need/ is a slip. What kind of frakkin' lady are you to not wear a slip under a skirt?" Oh, yeah. The kind that is NOT a lady, or so his tone implies. To the peanut gallery, he cheekily notes, "Hey, she has a standing offer to suck me off."
"Just because two people share a bunk doesn't mean they're sleeping with one another," Evan reminds Lala— though certainly Lala is already aware of the fact. "Or, rather, it doesn't mean they're doing other non-sleeping things with one another," he wrinkles up his nose as if the Colonial language and he were in a wrestling match with one another. He pulls a t-shirt from his locker and pauses a moment to regard some items therein before he closes the door and heads on toward Lala's bunk, putting the shirt on overhead as he does so. "Hey, that's cool. I had a lot of civilian flight hours logged before I joined, myself," he tells Sonja. "You'll get the hang of it soon," comes his voice from underneath the shirt as it bundles up over his face, arms flailing up into armholes.
"You and I have a different sort of arrangement, Bunny." And that's all Leyla is going to say about that, as indeed, Bunny is heading towards her bunk. "Well, welcome to the seventh level of Hades, Lyon. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. Leyla Aydin, but you can call me Sweet Pea. Raptor stick, like Bunny, so I'll probably see you in the sims. Hopefully, you won't run off like my last fish." To Trask, "And it's no wonder she hasn't taken you up on it yet. I don't think her news room has a department for the funny pages."
There goes one of those strategically placed elbows again, this time under the guise of reaching up on Trask's shelf to find some cigarettes. So what if it is well timed to the sucking comment. "Excusez, excusez." The journalist spouts in her native Virgan tongue, though it's clear there's no apology in the word. There are some more words, spouted off in rapid-fire succession, and for any in earshot that understand the language it translates roughly into 'Was that your trouser snake? Oh, I'm so sorry. Good thing you won't be needing that.' There's more tittering female laughter, likely spurred by Leyla's words, and then the distinctive sound of a lighter being flinted to life behind the curtain.
Sonja flashes Bunny a smile. "I know, just kinda frustrating when you think you get the hang of it, overcompensate and spend the next five minutes trying to stop yourself from spinning around and around. I like doing aerobatics, don't get me wrong, but not in the middle of a dog fight." She makes her way back to Roland's bunk. She knows he won't mind her sitting on it, and does just that: parks her ass. "Lieutenant Duncan hasn't got me killed yet during training, which can't be bad, right? And thanks, Sweet Pea," she adds.
Roland glances back to Sonja as she sits down, and smiles slightly. He pushes himself away from the bunk, and looks over to her, "All of us learned that same thing… Don't sweat it."
Evandreus doesn't see how Lala would know whether Boots' arrangement with Soybean is any different from their own, but he doesn't bring it up aloud, only giving her a faintly puzzled gaze after his head emerges from the curtain of his t-shirt. He eases himself down and back into Lala's bed, flopping onto his back and letting his spine complain to him of the heavy lifting he had to do today, grimacing with a grunt as his vertebrae settle down. He doesn't move any pillows or take up the blankets; he just lies there for a long moment.
Leyla catches Bunny's expression, and by way of offering clarification, "Not that sort of arrangement." Not that she clears up anything at all, but there you have it. "It takes time to learn. You want to use the instincts you acquired as a pilot. I had my license before I went to flight school, but I didn't spend as much time as a civvie pilot as many of the others I met, including Drips, but what I saw was that the hardest thing to do was forget what you already know. Neither a viper nor a raptor is like anything you've flown before. But acrobatics have their place. Just depends on when in the dogfight you're using them. Making it out of combat alive is as much about knowing how to splash a kill as how to avoid being one yourself."
More elbows /and/ the theft of his beloved smokes? Oh, it is so on. The cigarette is outright plucked from Sawyer's mouth before she can even light it. The rest of the pack? Trask actually stuffs it down the front of his boxer-briefs, uncomfortable as that might be. "On-vee due pay-nee, eh?" What little Virgan the man knows is limited to invectives and assorted crass language. Enough that he understands the euphemism for his shlong and accuses the woman of penis envy, albeit in that Black Country accent that butchers everything other than Taurian and Standard.
Roland rubs the back of his neck with one hand before turning back to his bunk. He crawls into his bunk behind where Sonja sits, and stretches out, lost from view.
"Only because it's currently interfering with my nic fit." Instead of vying for the one she had in her mouth that he stole, Sawyer calls Trask's bluff and goes for the pack. There are some unhappy things that occur behind closed curtains, and it's best it stays out of the public eye. "There's a cigar joke in here somewhere." And then things get eerily quiet in Bootstrap's bunk.
No… no, that doesn't clear much up at all. But whatever arrangement he and Lala have must be entirely congenial to the Bunny, since even this little blip of befuddlement doesn't stop him from falling quite asleep on top of her blankets, head tipped back on the pillow, mouth open, a soft, body-sized pillow for Lala to rest on when she's ready for bed.
Sonja brings one of her knees up to be encircled by her arms, her chin resting on the knee. "Didn't get half of what you said there, Sweet Pea. I get what your saying, though." Roland says something to her and she briefly answers him, going back to regard the other female pilot. "Still a few weeks off…" And then she's suddenly grabbed around the waist and pulled into the bunk, by Blue. "Eh, I guess it's time to sleep." She laughs.
Squirming and wriggling a bit in this bizarro game of keep-away, Trask snerks, "That's not a cigar. That's all me." And then he's actually thwapping Sawyer's hands away. "No touching without my say so."
Sawyer gives up her quest for cigarettes, as that was what she was after, after all. She has a standing offer, apparently, on the other. Eventually, she just rolls over and goes to sleep. That must account for the quiet.
And with everyone going along their merry way, so too Leyla, off towards the head with the road now clear. And to all a good night.
Yes, with that quasi-crumpled, mostly depleted pack of cigarettes still stashed down below, Bootstrap maneuvers so that his back is facing the wall of the bunk. Perhaps this is to better accommodate his overnight guest in such a tight space. This involves his right arm slinking underneath the pillow, and subsequently Sawyer's head, a tad of twisting and adjustments made in order to ensure neither one of them wakes with soreness. When his left leg and left arm drape over her, his hand and foot go nowhere untoward. His 'package' and that pack of smokes, however, press against the blonde's rear. Thus arranged, he too is soon enough asleep, but not before fondly uttering, "Salope," with a small smirk.