PHD #440: The Rain
The Rain
Summary: Sometimes the road to communication is saying nothing at all.
Date: 12 May 2042 AE
Related Logs: None specifically.
Ciro Ximena 
Decontamination Showers - Deck 11
If you think you might be irradiated, check in here.
Post-Holocaust Day: #440

Deck eleven houses many things. Storerooms and faster-than-light drives, fabrication facilities and work stations. It also houses rooms with few doors, and ones that are normally out of use. Up to and including decon showers, usually for people possibly irradiated when something goes wrong, or sprayed with some hazardous chemical. One of them, far in the back of the deck is closed off to the public. Just a small room with facilities in the front and a shower in the back. Nearly always locked and entirely empty. So why there's the sound of things banging and breaking is anyone's guess.

The soft sound of Ciro's jogging sneakers comes to a stop near the collection of chemical and radiological showers. Having found yet another deck to pace around, the sweaty marine lifts his head to the sound of banging and raises one concerned eyebrow. The banging doesn't sound like the dull thud of lust, and this part of the deck seems to be mostly deserted. Unzipping his hooded sweatshirt to let in the cool air, he starts down the rows in the direction of the noise…cautiously.

Well, there's an upside. Nothing being thrown out into the corridor. But it does seem to be one of the radiological showers. The sound are erratic, as if the person or person's doing the throwing had to search and reach for whatever it is that's hitting the walls. Metal, mostly, but the sound of it. No raised voices, no arguing, just disjointed sounds of destruction.

Stepping into the room, Ciro utilizes his skills as a trained sniper to approach as quietly as possible. Rolling his feet and walking on the outside pats of his feet, he looks up to gauge the light coming from above. He turns, quietly wheeling around the opening so that he won't cast a shadow. Reaching the edge of the shower, he finds a small crate nearby and climbs atop it, peering over the top to see who's inside.

At least the shower's on, that's something, the quarantine room itself sterile and dustfree, as if it does actually get a lot more use than one would imagine. The curtain is mostly closed, but open along the lefthand side, enough for the water to be sprinkling out and creating a pool on the tiled floor. Steam and water mist give the figure of the woman sitting under the spray, water sticking the strands of her hair to her face a sodden, rather bedraggled look. or it would if she didn't look so damned pissed off, hand clenched around a canister of something or another, pulled down from one of the cabinets that line one wall of the shower. Only for a moment, if that helps, before she launches that one too out of the shower and into the bathroom proper.

Ciro's eyes take in the sight of her and a painful frown crosses his features. Lowering himself from the edge of the shower, he watches the canister roll across the floor and bang into the wall with a noise that echoes through the small room. He swallows, pulling off his sweatshirt and draping it over the crate before he turns towards the shower's curtain. He hesitates, but then he slowly brushes the curtain aside, making his presence known to her. His eyes go immediately to her face, saying nothing and seeing nothing else.

Though it's unlikely, given the way she presents herself, that Ximena would much care of he were to look at her. Two decades of marine life have all but killed what inhibitions she might have about people seeing her…right? She's seated, not standing, possibly a reason she's down here and not up in the real head. Like most of the battlestar, the facilities are no more handicapped friendly than the rest of the ship. This shower at least does have a seat built in, which is why she might be using it. That and the fact that she doesn't have to share it with anyone. Those same angry eyes shift from staring off into nothing, to staring at the man now standing in for her shower curtain. A pause, and then another canister comes sailing, this time aimed for Ciro's head. She's too close to the wall for it to be a good shot.

Leaning back quickly, away from the shower's curtain, Ciro manages to avoid having his face smashed in by the canister. It cracks against the wall behind him and rolls across the deck plating, coming to a stop at the marine's foot. Brushing it aside, he glances up at the shower head and then leans back in to catch her gaze once again. He opens his mouth, about to say something, but instead closes it and steps into the shower. Immediately spots of water start to form on his clothing, his shoes, and his fatigues. He steps forward, directly towards the seated woman.

Angry is as angry does, or something like it. But Ximena has limited options, against the invading marine, save for pushing herself further back against the wall, and lifting a hand to arm herself. No, there's no air of fear, of being approached by the man. No sense of the impending doom of being taken advantage of. It's more, she's just angry in general, and Ciro will do for a target. Mostly it's just angry. At herself, at her body, at her situation. Those sorts of emotions aren't hard to read or extrapolate from.

Ciro slows as he nears her, his head slightly tilted to keep the main spray of the shower out of his face. That doesn't keep his eyes from blinking with each splatter that ricochets past his lashes. His eyes on hers, he lowers himself to a knee, putting himself at eye level with the woman. Like a menacing creature from one of the horror movies they've watched together, he reaches an arm out, slowly stretching his fingertips to come to a stop on her shoulder.

It's not you, it's me. That's the look mostly lost inside the rest of Ximena's expression, as her hand rises, trying to slap away the touch of Ciro's hand. There's disgust there too, but not for him. Not that she looks particularly disgusting. She works hard to keep her body in as good a shape as she can. And she hasn't suffered much of the degradation one would expect from someone in her condition.

Her hand slaps against his forearm, and his arm whips away as her knuckles connect with his wrist. His intense, wordless gaze lingers on hers as his clothes mat against his body, thoroughly soaked to the point that water gathers atop the fabric on his bent knee. He looks away, seemingly deciding if he should just walk away, but then he reaches out and grabs her shoulder, sliding in closer, trying to pull her to him. He means to hold her, it seems.

The upside, is she doesn't try to claw your face off. The downside, is that mostly half of her is mostly dead weight. So when you pull, she moves, sliding along the seat, the weight of her, never much to begin with, tumbling into your lap. And scrambling to get free won't help, because, seriously, how does one get away. or perhaps she just doesn't want to. And at the end of all of it, she's just a woman, light and small, and crying angry tears into the fabric of your shirt, the saline drops spilling from her eyes washed away in the rain of water spraying down from above.

Her sobs echo in the tile shower, audible over the waterfall that sprays down at them. His powerful arms hold her near as he convulsions against his chest and the rise and fall of her sobbing shoulders tell him everything he needs to know. His eyes turn to the tile walls, staring at it before he lowers his gaze in reverence of her pain. His soft breath washes over her shoulder as his fingertips squeeze her softly, brushing a hand down her naked back as the water washes over them.

Ximena simply stays where she is, riding out the storm of her anger, her frustration, her regret, her hatred of herself and the world. She doesn't touch more than she can help, doesn't try to pull you close, or make more of this than what it is. Whether because she hasn't the desire, or doesn't feel she has the right doesn't really matter. In the end, it all comes down to the same thing. With the woman crying out the last of her tears into your chest.

His eyes darken, taking in the side of his tattooed arm wrapped around her shoulders. His propped knee fills his vision next, so healthy and strong. It makes sense to him, forcing him to close his eyes for a short moment. So many tears saved up, he lets the near steaming heat of the water consume his thoughts and his mind goes blank. His arms coil about her, pressing her into another squeeze before he lowers his head to rest at the crowd of her head, the sounds of her plaintiff cries filling his ears.

No matter how hard the storm, eventually, the clouds have to break, and, if not the sun, at least the end of the rain. Long, and long, until there isn't anything left inside to come out. Just the silence, broken by the sound of breathing, of water and in the ever present background, the ship humming along as it always does. Eternal white noise. A shift in her body, to try to sit up as best she can, eyes focused somewhere in the area of your collarbone.

Ciro's eyes glance up to find that from their position on the floor, the handle for the shower is out of reach. He'd have to disconnect from her to stretch for it. Letting it wait, he raises his head from hers, a strand of her hair hanging to his jaw until the weight of the water from the shower's head splashes it away. He leans on his knee, giving her room to shift in the cramped space. Slowly, he pulls back from her, his gaze turning to the side, staring down her shoulder, eyes averted. He says nothing.

If a person could nod with their entire body, it would look, feel, very much like what Ximena is doing now. The feeling of your own movement, the shift away from her, has her moving; mentally, if not physically, pulling back on the face she shows to the world. Hands grip the edge of the seat, as she slides off of your lap and onto the floor, freeing you as best she can, effort lining her face as she tries to pull herself back up into the seat.

Pressing his foot against the floor, Ciro's shoulder presses into Ximena and his arm wraps around her hip. Without asking if help was needed, he uses his strength to help her back up onto the chair. Whipping his head, he clears his eyes of water as he rises and turns off the flow to the shower. The last few drops fall to the floor, leaving them in an impenetrable silence. Without a word he turns and steps out of the shower, finding nothing for her to dry off with save for his sweatshirt. He grabs it and steps back inside, draping it around her shoulders.

An instinctive reaction to the assistance, the woman's hands on his shoulders, holding herself stable. At least she's learned to manage that much. Getting help from others, clearly, not her strong suit. Once she's back on solid seating, she settles, finger-combing her hair out of her face, reaching out to use the cabinets to help support her, handholds as they can be found, to get past the shower curtain. She's just got a hold of the frame closest to her when you come back. The sweatshirt gets an odd look, draping around her like a cloak. With it, the barest hint of a smile.

He comes to a stop, watching her face. His eyes lower to her lips as she gives him that small, small sign of hope. Slowly, the side of his lip pulls just a little, giving her one in return. Dripping all over the floor beside her, he reaches out to where her shoulder should be beneath his sweatshirt, and gives her arm a soft squeeze. For a few moments longer, he watches her, and then turns past her, heading back the way he came.

One of her hands escapes the sweatshirt, settling on the hand on her arm, but it doesn't linger, slipping back once the hand is withdrawn. Still, that silence, but, perhaps no longer quite so awful, as her eyes meet yours, tracking the movement back out into the hall, the woman listening for the retreat, before she returns to the never so simple business of her routine.

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