| Spin Cycle |
| Summary: | More than laundry goes 'round and 'round when Sawyer and Trask meet in the laundromat. |
| Date: | 06 Oct 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | The 'game' begins in Lack of Spin; shadow puppet references are in Pinholes and Shadows & Significance; and Cidra explains the importance of hands in I Inhaled |
| Players: |
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| Laundry Room - Deck 3 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #222 |
| Industrial washers and dryers line each side of this elongated room, which typically has personnel moving in and out all day and night. These front-loading systems are designed to withstand the rigors of a military beating and still function as expected. A sturdy set of counters run the length of the room for crewmembers to fold their own laundry and dress and pins or patches before and after the process. |
| Condition Level: 3 - All Clear |
Laundry is one of life's necessities, unless you don't mind smelling like the livestock that was rescued on the planet. This happens to be Sawyer's second tour to the laundry room this week, so it seems as if only one machine is gently humming with the steady tumble of what seems to be a set of sheets in the window of the dryer. There's that smell of warm linen in the air, the room running a little warm with the effort of the machines, so the journalist is laying on the cool surface of the deck, her feet propped up on the appliance, and her fingers rubbing at her eyes in a steeple at her nose.
Can it be that the acting SL of the VAQ-141 "Harriers" lacks enough time to wash at least one load of laundry a week? The way Trask trudges in, propping open the hatch with one bag stuffed to the gills, and another sack slung over the shoulder, is suggestive of such. The thud of fabric upon fabric hitting the floor is followed by the clank of metal when the door is lightly kicked closed, and then the sound of aforementioned bag being dragged. This dragging, however, means that the man's back is to the laundry room at large, and oblivious to the blonde using the ground as a chaise lounge. Even more so when he starts assessing which machines are actually in use. Upon finding a suitable pair, he tosses the smaller sack atop one of the washers. Then, just as he's about the heft the larger and heavier duffel to an adjacent spot, he espies Sawyer in her pajamas. "For frak's sake, Averies," he exclaims, clearly not expecting to find anyone where she is, "layin' down there an' waiting for someone to trounce all over you not only won't iron what you're wearin', but it's also bound to create some blood stains."
Sawyer doesn't move her hand away from their pinch at her eyes, even at the sound of someone else entering and the possibility that they may in fact — as Trask studiously points out — trip over her or 'trounce' as he calls it. It's not until she recognizes the voice, that her hand drops away heavily, her arm falling to the deck with a meaty lifeless thud of someone not inclined to use their muscles against the force of (artificial) gravity. "As particular as I am, I don't think I'm as anal as to require a crease in my pink plaid pajama pants, thank you very much." Her voice is dry and sounding a little raw, and even though she tilts her head to look at him, it's through partially slit eyes instead of with the full force of her gaze. "And hello to you too."
"Dunno why, but I always envisioned you gals wearin' somethin' sexier when getting it on with a washer. Maybe it'd be different if these weren't all front-loading." A negligee might be more apt then. "So… how's it work with these, anyway?" he inquires, flipping open the door up an upper unit. "The vibrations travel up your legs?" How does a woman masturbate with these models? It is an answer Sawyer is left to consider while Trask starts loading the large bag's contents — all darks — into the machine. "'Cuz, however it's done, you seem like you had a rompin' good time." Which is likely his way of commenting upon her lethargy and the rawness of her voice. Perhaps the sidelong glance even holds a hint of concern.
Sawyer drags her arm up only to… no, not give Trask the finger… but to throw the meat of her bicep over her eyes. "Sawyer Averies declines making any official comment as to the nature of women, including but not limited to Miss Sawyer Averies herself, and their implied or inferred proclivities for using an automatic laundering device for the purposes of self-gratification." Her chest rises and falls with a sigh, "That said, notwithstanding my previous objection, that never did work for me. Catching up on your laundry?" She asks of the room, as with herself voluntarily blindfolded by her arm, she'll have to take it on faith that he's still standing there.
"Not a gymnast, huh?" is the sole response to Sawyer's official statement. Retrieved from the very bottom of that first bag (which is also thrown into the washer once it is emptied), is a pair of tongs. The purpose of said tongs becomes evident when Bootstrap gets to work on the second sack, for he uses them to transfer that bag's contents into a second washing machine. Why all the fuss? Maybe the sports bras and few floral-print maternity dresses that are pulled out are the answer. Despite the seeming aversion to handling these girly garments — Tongs? Seriously? — there's no fanfare about it, nor a look of 'ewww, cooties!'. Granted, with her arm draped over her eyes like that, Scoop is missing out on this particular scoop. "Sheets don't wash themselves."
"I know that fact all too well. Thankfully, I'm on the tail end of my fluffing." Sawyer makes an ungodly sound, somewhere between a groan and whimper, and she's once more rubbing at her face. Maybe because she figures it's finally time to put on a face for company, the Journalist finally starts scraping herself off the floor in a lengthy process. Somewhere in there, maybe she catches the distinctly feminine clothing, though the fact they are maternity is hard to determine without picking them apart herself. For a moment she just fixates on those tongs, and her being just seems to pause as she mentally works over the implication of Trask laundering female clothes. Blissfully (for once) whatever sluggishness Sawyer is portraying weighs out over her curiosity in the fact that it's not voiced in some query. "Not a gymnast," she only confirms, then pads over in her flip-flops, which make the appropriate flipping and flopping noise as she walks. "Let me see your hands." Her voice is fighting the gravel in her throat.
Oh, there was going to be a joke about 'fluffing'. There is no way that the pr0n definition of fluffing would not immediately come to a smartass' mind when on the tail-end of masturbation jokes. That particular joke, however, gets blitzed when the blonde requests to see his hands. For a brief moment, Trask peers at her, trying to assess why she wants to see them, but his uncertainty of the answer doesn't prevent him from smirking, "Yanno, I honestly can't decide whether to go with a spin cycle quip, or back to the whole 'fluffing' thing, or if I should come full-circle with one about proclivities for using an automatic laundering device for the purposes of self-gratification…" Decisions, decisions.
With the bulk of the obviously womanly items tossed inside the washer, the tongs are unceremoniously stuffed into a side pocket of Kal's fatigues, and the rest of the bag's contents are dropped in with the already deposited load when he turns the bag inside-out. Then, like he did with his own, the sack is also added. Closing both doors, he asks, "Intending to read my future, or maybe see if my palms are covered in stubble or razor burn?"
"You told me to be an investigative reporter," Sawyer comments with little inflection in her voice, "so this is me, investigating." She holds out her hand, palm up, as if expectant for him to comply.
A certain amusement curls into the corners of his mouth. To refuse would be breaking a rule of this silly game that they somehow started playing on Sagittaron. "I expect a thorough report, even if it's off-the-record." That said, Kal complies.
One needn't have a discerning eye to realize that his hands are strong and well-formed, even if not particularly large. They show telltale signs of a very long history of manual labor, including the calluses and the wear and tear scarring to be expected of a highly experienced mechanic.
Sawyer takes his hands none too gently in her own, turning them this way and that with the lack of grace that someone shows when they're distracted. Indeed, her face is pinched with something akin to discomfort, even as she stands there with him, running her thumb over the lines and creases in his skin, the rough and abused patches of flesh, and the shape of his fingers. Even though her initial gestures were jerky, the movements smooth out and become almost gentle. "Yes, well. I never reveal a partial story, and certainly not until the facts are checked and double checked. You'll know when the public knows." She unburdens herself by offering him a teensy smile that can't forge its way to her eyes. "You need a manicure," Sawyer sternly informs him before slipping her hands off his in a manner that seems reluctant to let go of that warmth. With that, she turns back to her machine to retrieve her toasty sheets.
"I can see the headline now," he mirthfully muses, lifting both hands as though making some great reveal, "Kal Trask Genetically Incapable of Making Shadow Puppets." At least he finds his self-deprecating joke to be funny. Off to fetch some detergent, he wryly remarks, "Well, even if I can't make shadow puppets worth shit, just make certain that the record reflects that there's no shortage of things my hands are most adept at doing." If there's innuendo there, it's an insidious kind. As for needing a manicure, "You need to do more research, Scoop. My nails are the epitome of knuckledragger style. All the cool kids on the Deck have ragged cuticles."
"I bet." It's a blanket statement in response to all his claims, that leaves Sawyer with enough plausible deniability that she could shrug it all off later. The door of the machine clicks open with a yank from the Journalist and she paws inside until her fresh sheets are gathered in a clot next to her chest. "But /for/ the record? I happen to like your shadow puppets. Gods awful as they are." She's about to start off, but she pauses. "Goodnight, Kal."
In goes the first packet of cheap, military-grade powder into the first washer, followed by the second in the second. A good-natured yet no less self-deprecating smile forms. "Kal Trask: King of Kitsch." Yeah, he's amused. On goes washer number one. "I'll stick to my day job but good to know I always have a back-up career." On goes washer number two. "See ya, Sawyer," is replied. "And see 'bout gettin' a decent night's sleep. That /is/ what a bed is for." Not a desk, or the laundry room floor. That sardonic smirk lacks any semblance of levity, as do those big, brown, emotive eyes of his.
Sawyer murmurs. "I'll see what I can do." Before she slips out of the laundry room. She /does/ have fresh sheets, so that means she has historically used them at some point in time, right? Find out next time, on As the Cerberus Turns.