| Tits and Ass |
| Summary: | Yet another not-quite lovers squabble, this time involving tits (Sawyer flashes hers) and ass (Trask is one). |
| Date: | 05 Mar 2042 AE |
| Related Logs: | A Not So Happy Birthday |
| Players: |
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| Deck 11 - Engineering - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #372 |
| The floorplating along the corridors of the Cerberus are standard military. Their forged steel plates are welded seamlessly together to run nearly the entire length of each hallway. The hallways themselves are the typical load-bearing structural design of the angled quadrilateral. Oxygen scrubbers and lighting recesses are found at nearly perfect intervals throughout the angled passageways. |
| Condition Level: 2 - Danger Close |
It's been eight (8) days since the BSG-132 jumped to Audumbla space. Two (2) days of respite gave way to an attack and the Raiders retreating. Two (2) days after that, they returned and retreated again. Despite the best hopes of the Fleet and of the man who pushed for said Fleet's relocation to the irradiated area, the Swarms have seemingly resumed their daily attacks. The only positive point is that they are still retreating.
Condition Two is never a dull moment for the members of the Air Wing, and the ordinarily workaholic SL of the VAQ-141 is making the most of his eighteen (18) or so awake hours. CAP, research, flight footage reviews, planning for the upcoming assault on the most recently discovered foundry, and sims exercises with the Aeolus Belt program because that is where aforementioned target is located. It is this last mentioned activity that he has just concluded, finally emerging a few minutes after his practice partners have already departed. Dressed in his flight suit, he pauses outside the hatch of the Sims Room to light the cigarette dangling from his lips.
It has been a long day for Sawyer Averies, wagging herself over all the Cerberus down every manner of hallway or stairwell and poking her way into this duty area or that. She's taking advantage of Condition Two while it lasts, not being confined to certain portions as she would be on One. Her high heels click with determination on the deck plating, each strike ringing crisply off the a-shaped walls. It's only a matter of time before she finds Captain Trask, as she knows for certain he's not out on CAP. Beneath her arm is that box of cigars that was a birthday present from the man, and as squares off with him in the hallway, it gets thrust back in his direction. "I spent two days waiting for you to come back around and apologize. Then another two being pissed off that you didn't. By the fifth day I decided it's no longer worth energy. So here. Give these back when you actually mean it."
Puff-puff. With the faint sizzling sound of something burning, sweet nicotine is inhaled while smokey vapors signal the Mayday of the cancer stick's inevitable demise. Upon the sound of Sawyer's voice, large brown eyes that are a tad tired around the edges flick to the new arrival. With the utmost cool aplomb, Kal merely regards her for a moment, exhaling a steady stream of smoke. Wordlessly, the zippo lighter is pocketed. "If I hadn't meant it, I wouldn't have given them," is the impassive observation.
"See, you might have meant it when you walked into the room, but you didn't when you left. You might have said 'Happy Birthday' but what you really meant was, 'my pride cannot accept that you had naked relations with anyone'. The key word you were missing, though, is past. Past relations." If anyone is walking down the hall, for once Sawyer doesn't care about her public appearance. She's allowed to have a life, even if that life explodes once in a while in a great big ball of emotional fire.
In contrast, the man is calm. Dispassionate, even. Perhaps all this Condition Two malarky is starting to take its toll. Maybe his blow-up with Leyla a few days ago really affected him. Whether or not it is due to his lacking the energy or the inclination, what is for certain is that Trask does not rise to the occasion of getting a further rise out of the blonde. "I am entirely aware that you are no vestal virgin, Sawyer," is the droll response. "You're the one who sought to be evasive about it." The cigarette is drawn back to his lips.
And the more he's being empathetic about things, the more it's digging into Sawyer, "For the sake of the gods, Kal, you asked me who my new frakbuddy was and insulted my professionalism in the same breath. For all you knew, my moral quandary could have been about the slaughter of puppies or knowingly cheating little old ladies out of their rightful portion of oatmeal. I know this whole caring about other people thing is new to you, and you're not sure how to operate outside your own ego, but if you want to know about a girl's past, or present, for that matter, there are better ways to go about it. Every time I try to share something with you, you go and bullox it up turning it around and making it about you. Not even us. You."
"It was a joke, Sawyer." Beat. "Well, until I realized that what was meant to be silly had actually seriously happened." There remains little inflection, perhaps a side-effect of fatigue. There is no real way of knowing, though, how much of that is physical and not a tiredness of a different kind. "Anyway," Kal continues, just a bit more animated but not so much as to be blithe, "I don't own you. You're not accountable to me. As long as you're not compromising the safety of the Fleet and those who comprise it and those it protects, what or /who/ you do is your own business." Another drag.
"Really. My business and mine alone? You have no vested interest in me. You have no interest in being that what or who?" The box of cigars gets extended back to him once more. "Then you didn't really mean it, and I don't need these." The hammock, though, she'll damn well keep. "Give them to the next girl who is merely not compromising the safety of the Fleet."
Now, he's starting to get a bit irritated, visible in his eyes. "First, you got upset because I was pissed-off, and /now/ you're pissed-off 'cuz I'm not upset enough for your liking." Aforementioned eyes roll. "Make up your frakking mind." The man's voice doesn't raise, but it sours somewhat. Ash is tapped to the floor. "And seeing that I've yet to even see your tits, yeah. Your business 'cuz even /I'm/ not /that/ presumptuous or egotistical an ass."
"Really? Really?!" Sawyer practically spits, blood starting to boil. "I must be frakking someone else because I have yet to show you my boobs? Really? Well, frak, here!" So livid is she, she doesn't even really think about what she's doing, not until she drops the box of cigars and both blouse and bra are yanked up in one irritated, swift movement. Her brain doesn't really catch up until a split second later when she's lowering her garments with her eyes rounded out in that 'oh shit what did I just do' realization. Security cameras. Red crawls to her cheeks, giving her a vicious blush, and she does the only thing she can do in a situation like this. Laugh.
With the clatter of box on metal plating, cigars start to roll across the deck floor. Involuntarily, Trask's eyes drop to follow the mess, which means he more or less misses the car wreck that is the journalist flashing her headlights. Just in time to glimpse a bit of fleetingly exposed stomach, and then upwards to witness the scarlet of Sawyer's skin. For a moment, it's with a bland look that the blonde is regarded, as though the incident is being processed. When she at last laughs, however, she does so alone. For his part, Bootstrap is sporting the onset of a scowl. "Tell you what," scathingly follows, "next time, do it when you actually mean it." The woman's own words thrown into her blushing face, he makes to depart.
Nervous laughter gets cut off abruptly; a noise in Sawyer's throat the painful combination of a startled sob and dry heave of her stomach seizing up on her. Shaking hands press out her blouse, but she can't even muster a semblance of decency. She looks frantically around the hallway, but lacking a suitable hole to climb into, she does the next best thing. Run. If she's fleet of foot, maybe she can outrun the sound of her own heart being wrenched from her chest yet again, or at the very least, that lone cigar that continues its roll down the hall.
If he truly were as insensitive as so many believe him to be, the sound and sight of Sawyer trying to not cry while she skitters towards the stairwell at high speed in high heels wouldn't mean a damn thing. Much to his distress, that is not the case, which means the scowl dissolves into a grimace equal parts annoyed and ashamed. With hard expression, he briefly watches the blonde's expedient egress before averting his eyes, boring his gaze into the floor. It is then that he notices one of the scattered cigars. After a moment of staring at it, he crouches down to retrieve it… and then another… and another… and each and every other one, carefully brushing them off before neatly returning them to the box, and then removing his cigarette from betwixt his lips just long enough to let out a heavy sigh of dismay.