PHD #476: The Proof is in the Pudding
The Proof is in the Pudding
Summary: Is it even 'making up' if there isn't any semblance of 'making out'?
Date: 17 Jun 2042 AE
Related Logs: This log is continued in Try A Little Tenderness. See also: What It Means (the not-quite couple's most recent fight); Annual Performance Review - Jugs (Trask also has a falling out with his BFF); Frustrations (Sawyer and Quinn gnash their teeth about Trask while Kalli is teething); Storks (Sawyer supposedly has an oral fixation)
Players:
Sawyer Trask 
News Room - Deck 3 - Battlestar Cerberus
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
Post-Holocaust Day: #476

Even though Kal has been something of a persona non grata in the Quinn residence when Maggie's around, he still watches his niece for a few hours every day, generally opting to spend that time writing and reviewing reports. Being in charge of the squadron's scheduling means that he effectively controls the sitting scheduling, which also means he has been entirely successful in dealing only with Evan and Sam when it comes to starting and ending his sitting shifts. As such, he's managed to completely avoid both the elder redhead and the blonde journalist who round out the rest of the duty roster.

When Sawyer returns to a dark News Room, the first utterance out of her mouth is a cuss word. She swings the hatch as wide as possible so the dim light from the corridor spills into the room so she can get her bearings. "Gods forsaken lightbulb…" It must have burnt out in her desk lamp again, and requisitioning the specialized low watt bulb from support was a pain last time. Her hand slaps blindly at the wall until her fingers feel the toggle of the overhead switch, and she flips it on with a huff of exasperation. Of course, that comes minutes before her heart stops at the sight of someone in the hammock. Her brain doesn't have the advantage of recognition before that punch of adrenaline kicks in to make her full fledge startled. This moment of panic is punctuated by a sharp inhale of breath and the blonde is reaching into her pocket for something in a hurried motion.

Just who is sleeping in Goldilocks' bed? A bear of a man, in certain respects, if not an actual bear. The sound of Sawyer's gasp is drowned by the soundtrack of his dreaming and the not overly loud sonorousness of his snoring. With his back facing the bulkhead corner housing the hammock, Trask doesn't stir even when the lights flash on, so well nestled is he with his right cheek burrowed into the pillow he huddles in his arms, while the other cushion is tucked betwixt his flight suit clad thighs, that topmost leg drawn out and extended as though draping across another body. Thus is how he slumbers when he has the room and the belief that he is alone.

Sawyer's hand pushes the pepper spray canister back in the pocket of her pink plaid pajama pants once she finally recognizes the slope and shape of a slumbering Trask. Of course, recognition does little to assuage the scowl that's on her features. The blonde doesn't bother to flick the light back off to preserve his sleep, but rather she just storms over to the sling. One foot raises, poised to put pressure on one side of the hammock which would surely send him spilling out. But the malicious effort stops short, and she only ends up nudging him with the toe of her flip-flop. "Kal, you need to get up."

Spilling out? Unlikely. After the night of the Borenstein execution, he made some adjustments to ensure he'd not topple out of the hammock again. Jostled, however, he is by the nudging foot, which causes a ripple of tension across his face that reverberates throughout his body. Even so, limbs don't lash out. Instead, like a little boy refusing to wake up, he further curls around the fluffy accoutrements, burying his face to block out the light. It's a lost cause, though, for he registers her voice a moment later, which he acknowledges with a muffled sound.

Oh, the conflict. It's written across Sawyer's face as if it had been freshly inked with a quill. On one hand, she no doubt seems sorely tempted to crawl into that sling with him and pretend the last few weeks never existed. On the other…

"You're getting flight deck on my pillows, Bootstrap." It seems her imagination is sorely lacking. Despite the harshness of her words, they're still delivered with a mildly hushed tone as if she's resigned to the fact that, no matter what, her heart is going to win out in this situation.

Bootstrap at least had the decency to remove his boots before he climbed in, and to hang his gun and holster in their designated place. Uncharacteristically, though, the top of his flight suit has not been sloughed off to have the sleeves tied off at his waist. "Console, not deck," he murmurs, making a distinction that might not even be intelligible in his current position. A yawn follows, as does the immature observation, "And you got News Room in my t-shirt first." Although it's actually /her/ shirt now, seeing how he gave it to her when she started sitting for Kallistei.

Blindly, his left hand then gropes for the reading light clipped to one of the sling's supports, for he's yet to peel his face from the pillow. When the device is finally found, his two forefingers crawl along the lamp to find and flick on the switch. That done, he waves over to the far wall where the main lighting controls are and gestures for them to be turned off now that Sawyer won't have to navigate in the dark.

And with another sigh, Sawyer turns to pad back across the room to hit the main switch, plunging the room back into a decent amount of shadows. With a little 'everything's okay' wave to the Marine situated outside, the journalist then closes and secures the hatch. While he works on stirring, she stops at her desk, emptying out her pockets of her credentials and that canister of pepper spray, though both are left out where they can be easily accessed should they be needed. The last thing to get pulled out is her pack of cigarettes and her crappy little plastic lighter. "I appreciate that you're tuckered out after returning to the flight line…" Her lips curl in, pulling the filter of her cigarette into her mouth while she lights it. She doesn't finish her sentence, but there is a huge 'BUT' dangling off the end of it. As in 'but what are you doing in my bed'.

What's he doing? He's slowly rousing enough to reposition himself and the pillows to make room for the blonde, as if it's a foregone conclusion that she'll soon enough crawl in with him. "Kalli stop screaming, yet?" Which is kind of like asking how Sawyer's day has been.

"I figure that'll come around age eight, then start up again when she's fifteen." Which is kind of like saying 'no'. "Good thing is, it's a sure fire cure for any pangs my uterus might have for having children." Sawyer takes another drag of the cigarette, taking her sweet time about letting the smoke circulate through her lungs so that when it's finally expelled through her nose, it's thinned out to a wisp of grey. She steps back over to the hammock - not to take him up on that silent offer to share - but to flip the cigarette around in her grasp and offer him the filter.

"Your uterus gets such pangs?" Perhaps it's because he's tired and his cheek his firmly nestled against the pillow he's resumed snuggling, but he sounds more innocuous than fishing despite the fact that he has a personal stake in the answer. As the woman draws closer, Trask's lids lift just enough to notice the offered cigarette. For a brief moment, he slowly blinks with a certain bleariness, and then reaches out with his left hand. Not for the cigarette, though, but for Sawyer's wrist, which he gently tugs to draw her closer. Capricious as he can be, this might be not seem all that odd, except that his other hand does not make any overture for the tobacco treat.

"Every girl gets pangs thanks to her hormones. Having babies of my own, however, never really fit with the logistics of my chosen life." Maybe the cigarette was just an effort to rouse him back to the realm of consciousness but when his hand closes around her wrist instead of the cigarette, she murmurs, "You made it two months, I guess there is really no point in restarting," Sawyer says, the last in a mumble as she plugs the cigarette back in her own mouth so it doesn't get knocked astray. As he tugs, the tension in her shoulders slowly melts right along with her resolve. "If you're so tired, I can just sleep on the cot…"

It's not into the cot that she's being tugged, but into his arms, unless she's adamant about not supplanting the pillow he'd been using as a proxy. "The pleasure of it," would be his reason for restarting, but it's really not at the forefront of his wants. Maybe later. An amused smirk forms at the woman's offer to sleep elsewhere. "I suppose you could use more fodder, seeing how you played all you had the last time."

Sigh. The woman really should get used to sighing around Trask, as he just seems to evoke that particular sentiment. As she is summarily pulled down, she tucks her knees and rolls into the pocket created against his side and the slope of the hammock. On a swing caused by the momentum, she's depositing her cigarette into an ashtray set nearby, leaving it out of the way to smolder. "Around you, my dear, there is a constant, self-renewing, veritable natural spring of fodder." A pause ensues, during which the creak of the hammock sings to them quietly. "You're an asshole. You know that, right?"

The creak of the hammock is briefly accompanied by the creak of the flight suit material when Kal curls around the blonde much as he had the pillows. This close, he smells faintly of sage and more so of sweat and not at all of smoke. "I know," he murmurs, with neither excuse nor apology. "I'm workin' on it."

"As the saying goes: the proof is in the pudding," Sawyer says simply, legs stretching out along side of his and one of which crosses one of his at the shin due to the close quarters. There is no choice but to cuddle against the man, given these things weren't really built for anything but. "So prove it." After this latest round of fighting that reached epic proportions, there is a note of skepticism in her voice. Call it self-preservation.

At this point, they are well and truly spooned. "Pudding, huh?" There is both unmistakable amusement and innuendo in his voice. "Yanno… you never did answer my question about your self-professed oral fixation." Because the segue is not at all non sequitur in his mind.

"I'm not ready to be cute with you again, Kal, and I don't know where you're going with that. If this is your way of asking me to give you a blow job, I'm not above getting up and getting the pepper spray." Despite her words, Sawyer slings an arm up over the top of the hammock, merely getting more comfortable instead of making any movement towards the self-defense device.

"Noted," is the subdued reply, followed by five (5) seconds of silence and a tired, "'Night, Nanners."

"Goodnight, Kal," Sawyer says quietly.

No further crap is forthcoming from the jerk(ass)hole, unless one qualifies the inevitable resurrection of his soft snoring.

When they awake, though...

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