PHD #031: Striking Nerves
Striking Nerves
Summary: Trask blithely pushes Quinn's buttons. She unwittingly hits one of his.
Date: 29 Mar 2041 AE
Related Logs: None
Quinn Trask 
Raptor Squadron - Naval Deck - Battlestar Cerberus
Post Holocaust Day: #31
The Raptor squadron pilots and ECO's call this place home. Berths line the walls with a locker between each one. A table and chairs sit in the center and there is a hatch to the Pilots Head, which connects to the Viper Squadron Berthings.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear

Back from CAP, shower, tracking down Temperance, and finally the day is over. It's hard when the to do list has suddenly grown empty. That's when one begins to think. So while Maggie hasn't completely shut off again, she's moving a touch slower as she stands in front of her empty bed, curtain open, changing from her off-duty sweats into a tank top and shorts, getting ready for bed it seems.

Trask has had no shortage of things to do. Between CAP, runs back and forth to Parnassus Anchorage, pitching-in on the Deck, and now being given the green light to help dissect the Heavy Raider they'd towed to the Battlestar, he has been a very busy boy. Resilient as he is, even he needs to eventually sleep. This would be one of those times. Even so, he's not so tired to not recognize an anomaly when he sees one: Quinn is changing in open view and not hidden behind her bunk curtain. "See, I always knew you just needed a phenomenal frak to loosen up."

Quinn blinks, her cheeks suddenly and very quickly pinkening as she pulls the tank top down over her body and hides that bit of flesh that -was- showing when he came in a moment before. He's actually already got her shuddering, damn embarrassed that she was caught. Finally, she manages out, "I… I jus'… no one was here… didn't feel like bangin' my head… so… You have horrible timing." She gives him a little mock glare, but it's more emotion than he's seen out of her in two weeks. "…and I did not … Frak…" Blushing harder now.

Unlike Jugs who doesn't like to display her jugs, Bootstrap has no problem removing more than his boots right there in the open. "Damn, you gotta lotta freckles." Ever so nonchalant when rubbing salt into the wound. If the way he stinks is any indication, he's been working in the hangar, sweaty and grimy as he is. Even so, he brazenly loiters and takes a drag from his cigarette. "No, see, horrible timing would be me walking in on you an' your bed buddy. Well, unless said bed buddy is a smokin' hot chick. In which case, it'd be divine intervention. You're not that nice to me, though." No hawt chick on chick action for Trask. There always is Prince's pr0n, though. As Quinn continues to blush and insist upon her innocence, he impishly declares, "You doth protest too much, me thinks. Don't worry, sweet cakes. I know that ensign," he must mean Kulko, "is far too young, but I'm not one to judge."

Quinn is blushing even harder, making those freckles almost countable, pinkened hot on her cheeks. She grumbles, not changing out of her pants, not in front of him now, even as she avoids looking at his rather nude form. She shakes her head. "You're horrible. And it's not an ensign, no. So… just no worries about it, alright? I'm an adult." She nods curtly.

Horrible? "That's part of my charm and you know it." Finishing off his smoke, he grinds the butt into the ashtray. His own butt, for the moment, is still covered. Heading for his locker, that's not bound to last long. The tank top is tossed into his laundry bag, and then Trask is unfastening and removing his belt. "I'm not worried. Good to know it's not Kulko, though. It'd be /so/ embarrassing to be thanking the wrong guy." On that one word, his eyes roll a little. As for Maggie being an adult, "I didn't get a good look, but I'm pretty sure you have boobies." Meanwhile, he is puerile. "I'll need a better look before I can verify your claim."

Quinn groans a bit, pulling herself into her bunk and tugging the curtain shut just enough that she's hidden but her head is visible so they can continue to have this conversation even as she shimmies into her own shorts. She's avoiding directly looking at him, though, not needing to be blinded by his ass, no matter how attractive it might be. "You can forget you heard or saw anything, thank you very much, and I won't spread horrible rumors about you hugging a stuffed animal in your sleep. I have pictures of you and Baby, you know. Pervy cow has a crush on you, or is it the other way around?"

By now, one would think Quinn would've learned how to not feed the troll that is Trask. In fact, one could argue that she's just encouraging him, even if on a subconscious level. "Okay, part of the problem is that I didn't really /hear/ anything. Which, by the way, if you don't wanna hurt your bed buddy's feelings, make /some/ noise. We may not look it but we men are sensitive creatures and our feelings get easily hurt. As for seeing anything, I still need a better look before I can verify your adult status. It's called ethics, Maggie." Because he totally can't tell someone else that it's true when it has not been verified. That would be irresponsible. By this point, the jerkass' mighty fine ass is liberated from garments. Unfazed by the threat, he counters, "You have pictures? Kinky. Really, though, Mags, if you want me to jizz all over your udders, just ask. You don't need to be vicarious about it. If it really means that much to you, I'll do it, because I'm a good friend like that, but you really should be having your bed buddy oblige you."

Quinn finishes pulling on her shorts and now she's blushed ALL The way up to her hairline, half angry, half horribly embarrassed. She grumbles, biting her tongue as she pushes the curtain back open, now in her pajamas. She walks straight up and over to him before cuffing him across the back of the head. Not enough to really -hurt- him, but enough that he sure as hell will notice it and he has a sideways cowlick for once. "Can you be respectful for ONCE in your life? Dammit, Kal… nothing frakking happened. And put it away. Before I hit more precious things." From the glare in her eyes, and the fact that she is NOT LOOKING DOWN, so she knows he has it out… she might very well do it.

It is a testament to how comfortable Trask really is with Quinn, and how much he trusts her, because his guard is completely down when she smacks him upside the head. The moment her hand connects with the back of his skull, everything changes. As a matter of pure reflex, she is immediately and forcibly grabbed. The turbulence forever lingering beneath the surface of his soft brown eyes surges to the fore. To say that she struck a nerve when she struck him would be an understatement. There even is a split-second instance of uncertainty where it's questionable as to what he might next do. For a moment, her friend is not entirely there. For a moment, he's the adolescent who was hit one too many times by his father and who started hitting back. It's not his old man in front of him, though — it's his best friend — and that manages to draw him back. Letting go, there is a flash of something pained across his face. Rue. "Don't ever do that, again," he murmurs, abruptly averting his eyes, trying his best to dismiss what just happened. Rustling comes from the locker as bathing supplies are retrieved.

Quinn gasps, her eyes widening just a moment, not having expected that reaction at all. She didn't hurt him, she was light with the swat… but apparently not light enough. She stares at him, her joking, blushing modesty suddenly all dropping away to confusion and just a moment of fear, but he doesn't fight back. He just releases her slowly, like that and moves away. She knows him well enough. She touched on something -bad- there and she's not even fully certain what. She breathes in shakily. "…I'm sorry, Kal…" she whispers, but she leaves it there, pulling back from him and retreating towards her bed. She can do no right tonight, it seems.

Flippancy is a fortress. Sardonicism is safe. Causticity is comforting. This is Trask's mantra. "It's… fine." It isn't, but he pretends as though nothing is wrong. Defiantly snubbing his personal problems has become his way of life. "I'm, uh… I'm sorry, too. Just tired, I guess." As if that somehow will explain his behavior. As long as Quinn plays along, it'll all be fine, right? That's what he tells himself, anyway. "I smell worse than Lasher's laundry bag." Which means he's going to hit the shower. Really, though, he does stink. "G'night, Maggie." With that, he departs, but not before facetiously adding, "Oh, and Baby… if you don't wanna be part of a threesome, you know where to find me."

"…Good night, Kal…" It's all she murmurs, a bit more distant than before. Guilty, sorry, confused… she isn't buying into the flippancy. She remains dead quiet otherwise as she tucks down into bed, leaving matters there.

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