Summary: Timon receives a gaggle of visitors.
Date: PHD148
Related Logs: Silence Is the Last Thing


A nurse once described working in a hospital as twenty-three hours of boredom followed by an hour of sheer terror. Tonight falls under the former category: Sickbay is remarkably quiet, as only a couple of stragglers have come in for treatment — a deckhand with a minor burn (coffee machine), a marine with a broken arm (PT accident), and a CIC bunny with a baby bump (one-night stand with aforementioned Marine). And even the awkwardness inherent in that last interaction isn't enough to raise much of a ruckus.

As for the patients in the recovery ward, they're not really in any condition to make noise either. Kept calm under an orderly's watchful eye, they're in various stages of sleep: one's snoring peacefully, another few are tossing and turning, and one's writing in a legal pad, which is to say, he's not sleeping at all. Guess which one's Timon?

Roubani has never had a problem being quiet, of course. Slipping past the orderly like a dustbunny in blues, he has a book in the crook of his arm as he winds his way along the aisles of gurneys. Skipping most, those being unfamiliar. When he spots Timon up and writing, relief twitches the corner of his left eye but other than that it's his usual mild voice. Okay, maybe there's a SMIDGE of relief in that, too. "Ivory."

Word of a certain newly-arrived patient has drifted over into the foul, fetid air of the Red Squadron berthings and reached the ear of one Willem Price apparently as said man, in his duty greens slips on through the door some few moments later. He's got his manbag slung over his arm like usual, which he adjusts with a shift of his shoulder, scanning the various inma, er, patients with a shift of his head. Target acquired. Roubani's presence seals the deal, indicating Timon's bed. Rebound strolls languidly towards them both, eyeing the downed Raptor pilot with a slight wince. "Holding up?" He inquires softly — quietly, even.

It's visitor hour in the Timon Stathis wing of the recovery ward, it seems. Thorn enters the ward a moment later, and only needs to see the presence of Willem and Roubani to know where to go. He joins the other two by the injured pilot's bedside, his arms folding over his chest as he regards Timon. "You're alive."

"Yeah," Ivory replies, his voice hoarse and dry — like sandpaper rasping against paint. He's shirtless — likely the first time any of these fine gentlemen have seen him in such a state — and very much wired up to the EKG machine beeping quietly to his left. A web of thin silver lines extends from the top and bottom of his blanket, taped to the sides of his gurney; only the faint beeping of his heart monitor interrupts the relative silence of the room. Well, that and their talking. "Disappointed?" Brown eyes glance down at his legal pad — whatever this is, it doesn't look like his dissertation — before he tries to flip it over. Weak fingers only manage to tug it closer to his chest, where his arm settles over it in a feeble attempt to obscure the text.

Roubani isn't nosy. Neither about the legal pad nor Ivory's chest, so rest easy. His dark eyes turn as more voices appear out of the recovery ward blanket of silence, not quite smiling at Willem and Komnenos. Then back to Ivory's face. "Not disappointed. It was rather harrowing trying to make guesses on which textbook you would have left me."

Of course, because it's a shiny object of attention, Wil's eyes drift slightly towards the legal pad(Oh, well, maybe it's not so shiny) but his gaze drifts away as it is obscured. He scuffs his boots soundlessly against the recovery ward floor. "Well. At least your sense of humor's intact. He notes in a bit of a dry tone before glancing at Thorn over his shoulder. Gang's all here, are they not?

"Not at all. Glad t' see all the effort I used t' drag your sorry arse back here didn't go t' waste," Thorn retorts drolly. "If that's a thank you note, no need," he adds with a slight smirk at the legal pad. There's real concern there on his face, though, behind said smirk. A chair is pulled over to the foot of the bed, and Thorn's gangly form folds into it. He quickly lights a cigarette, favoring anyone who gives him a huffy look with a venomous glare in return. It's the recovery ward, for frak's sake, not an operating room.

"Greedy, Poet," the wounded pilot mumbles, chuckling — and then he buckles over as a lance of pain stabs him through the chest. Yeah, making Ivory laugh tonight would probably qualify as torture. "Though — pillow's yours," he adds when he's recovered, before fixing Thorn with something that would be a glare if his eyes weren't half-closed. "Can't believe I almost lost my lung before you." Hint hint. LUNG. WOUNDED. CIG OFF PLZKTHX.

Roubani smiles slightly, though a tinge of apology is in it as he watches Ivory buckle like that. Ouch. He twists his back, looking at what's around them, and decides on a rolling stool nearby, leaving the other actual chair for Willem. "Have they told you how long you'll stay in here, Ivory?" He asks, a mite more seriously.

Wil glances back and forth at the back-and-forth between the two fine Raptor gentlemen and settles into the empty chair adjacent to the bed. His head simply shakes. It could be at any number of things, really. "At least you're here. And not there." He finally notes. 'there' is not delineated with a gesture.

"Mm. How very clumsy of you indeed, Ivory." Hint? What hint? Thorn's at least blowing the smoke through his nose so it goes down towards the floor instead of right into Timon's face. It's not berthings, after all. Or maybe he just really is that oblivious. "In any case, though… good t' see you… y' know. Breathing."

Poet gets a brief shake of the head as Timon grabs a hold of his legal pad at last, slipping it under his blanket in slow motion — almost as if he's moving through molasses. It speaks to just how far he's gone when he pays no mind to the fact that his pages are crinkling up under the pressure. "It's something," he croaks. Funny how that's applicable to both Wil's and Thorn's respective observations. Beat. "How're you?"

Roubani keeps his hands over the book balanced on his knee. There's something in his left hand too, kept out of sight under the right. The answer to Timon's question is just a small motion of his head, presumably to sub in for the usual 'fine' he would've supplied. Talking's left to the better talkers for the moment.

Another flicker of Wil's eyes towards the pad. Damn it, he's fighting his own ingrained curiosity here. If it would kill the proverbial cat, he's probably next in line for a one-way trip into this place. It's shuffled away though and Rebound's head finally tilts back upwards to study Timon carefully. "You know. I am. We are, I suppose. No. Can't speak for anyone but me. So — what -happened- exactly?"

Being that that was Thorn's next question, he simply sits quietly in his chair, smoking his cigarette and scrutinizing Timon's wounds. Several curious glances are shot at that legal pad as well, but like Willem, Komnenos doesn't press.

Ivory meets Rebound's question in silence, though his cardio monitor speaks for him: his heart rate, previously relaxed, has increased just a touch. "Drone," is what he comes up with. "Malfunction." The pilot closes his eyes as he slumps against his pillow. "Fire."

Roubani glances at Willem as that question gets asked. Then back to Ivory as he shifts in his chair, crossing his legs. "I'm sure the incident report will come out soon," he murmurs. "Is there anything you'd want from your bunk, Ivory? Or someone else's bunk?" The corner of his mouth twitches.

"Three words put it together enough for me." Wil says, seeming a bit abashed. Maybe like he's a little unsure he should have spoken. "Likewise." He chimes in a bit after Roubani's offer. "We're pretty good at getting our hands on just about anything on this ship. Really. Except for womens' lingerie." This is accompanied by a little bit of a smirk. "Apparently that's someone -else-."

"Hnh." Thorn snorts at Willem. "Our mysterious panty bandit." His head twitches slightly. "Don't look at me, someone left that bra in my Raptor, dammit."

Careful, Thorn: you almost made Timon go LULZ — and he might have, really, if not for the fact that he's thinking. His right hand comes to rest on top of the pad he's clutching to his chest as he struggles to answer Roubani's question; then, his left makes itself visible for the first time, emerging from the blanket swathed in bandages that — fortunately for his guests — obscure the true extent of the damage. How the doctors have managed to fit an electrode under all that gauze — well, that's a modern medical miracle. "Distract her," he murmurs. Whatever that means.

Roubani's lips drift open and then close again, thinning. He nods twice and returns softly, "We'll take care of her, Ivory." Sure, he just pressed Wil and Komnenos into service with him, but what are friends for? It's then that he seems to realise what Wil and Kom just said, and he looks at both with a mild omg-no-u-di'int expression. "You mean someone's really…?"

At Timon's request, and Roubani's reponse, Willem's eyes narrow a bit as he sits back in the chair next to the bed. "She'll be fine." He says easily enough until he finally processes(simultaneously, even!) Thorn's protest and Roubani's response. "It ain't me. It ain't me." He ain't no pantythief, son, no no.

Nope, just a brathief. Thorn gives another strained smirk, this time to Roubani. "Yes, Poet, really." He shrugs. "One gets one's rocks off how one can, I suppose," Anton adds dryly. There's a look back at Timon, a belatedly quizzical expression on his face. "Her?" Poet seemed to get it, but not Thorn. Or maybe Thorn did, and he's just dreading the answer, if the sudden crinkle to his brow is any indication.

Timon slips his burned hand back under the sheets, apparently content that two out of the three seem to have deciphered his comment. His pulse is slowly returning to normal, the beep-beeping of his EKG sounding oddly comforting — to his ears, at least, but then again that's his heart he's listening to, and beeping is better than silence. "Whose?" he wonders in the meantime. "The bra." And then, to Kissy: "Nice flying," offers Ivory, trying and failing to project his voice beyond the confines of his bed. "I think." His smile is strained. Apparently it's Sentence Fragment o'Clock: less ink and more indecipherable than its mustachioed brother.

Roubani is distracted from answering Thorn by Matto's sudden existence, eyes raising. "Kisseus." A little smile accompanies that, then he's giving Thorn a curious look. "Rocks?" He says blankly, then attention turns to Willem. He smirks a touch at the protesting and just settles back as Ivory needles him about the bra.

Just play it cool, boss. Wil reclines in his chair as he crosses his hand back behind his head. "I think this was all a needless digression. I was referring to -someone- who I dimly remember from a week ago who is currently not in this room talking about something along those lines. That's all." His cheek twitches upwards into a lopsided smile. Very lopsided.

Matto gives a short, light laugh at Timon's comment: as tersely stated as it is, it retains a bit of humor that puts the Kissybear at ease. Lifting a hand to just above and to the side of the Poet's head, he gives a little 'so so' wobble of a flat palm, "Eh? Mediocre," he jokes back. "Toes was the one to jump out of a moving Raptor to wrestle you to safety," he overdramatizes the action there by about seven thousand percent, but, well, Timon wasn't awake, may as well make a good story of it. Who's an Eshu? Certainly not Kissy. He gives Roubani a sly grin in the aftermath of his embellishment.

"Lost sheep," is Timon's response to that. "Baaaaaaa." Ivory's eyes blink open only to narrow; slowly, his good hand shifts over to the side of his cot, hitting the button that clicks off the overhead light. Then: "Good drank," he murmurs thoughtfully, looking slightly more contented now that his face isn't illuminated. Darkness is better for his tired eyes. "Someone else get married?" Surely he's not being serious. "Not soon, though. Can't go."

Roubani narrows his eyes at Thorn. Note to self, pursue that later. Then he blinks at the revelation, having the grace to flush red. "It was…oh my goodness." It sounds amused, albeit guiltily so. Saved by Kissy, to whom he looks up in time to hear the once-actor's turn of phrase, and it pulls a smile out of him. Even more so at Ivory's comment which outright sparks a chuckle. "I don't think you need any more of that for about a decade, Ivory."

Not a peep out of Willem. Not one peep. About bras, their owners, or sheep or what to do with them when the ram's not around. He's all quiet here, covering the lower part of his face with an open hand. It obscures his whole mouth.

Feeding Thorn's ego flame? Bad idea, Kissy. Timon slips in his crack before Thorn can chime in with some self-satisfied comment or another, though; the mention of sheep seems to take some of the wind out of his sails, and he just leans back in his chair, shaking his head. "Being in a hospital bed doesn't save you from future retribution for that, y' know," Thorn says, pointing at Timon with mock severity.

Matto turns his attention back to Ivory after sharing the smile with the Poet, laughing, himself, as the wounded Rider's good cheer continues to show. He's still not entierly caught on to what the previous topic of conversation was. Bras, Case, masturbation? What? Well, it doesn't really matter, and the Kissybear doesn't seem overly fussed to catch on, content to stand there and listen, eyebeams roving over the collected group with a deepening sort of fondness as they josh around with one another even here in Sickbay.

Good cheer is apparently only sold in the brittle variety these days. "Future?" whispers Timon, almost inaudibly. Though it's dark, there's still enough light filtering in from the hatch to Sickbay that his smile is visible: sad, almost bittersweet. "Ten years." And then he's sinking into his pillow, legal pad tangling up in the wires and electrodes covering his body. "Party in a decade." His right hand rises — not too high, of course, tethered to his EKG as it is — in something resembling a toast.

"In a decade," Roubani murmurs. There's a slight smile along with that, if a touch bittersweet. "Perhaps Thorn will have found a way to make that concoction even more potent. Or at least we'll have come across a larger store of aspirins."

Wil simply lolls his gaze between the ever-bickering Black Squadron duo and sighs, behind his hand. "A decade." he simply muses under his breath. "Ten years. Where would we be at that point?" Silly suggestion of course and it's delivered with epic clumsiness on the Ginger's part. He probably even realizes it, given the delivery. Where would they be indeed?

Matto leans a little against the bulkhead, shouldering it as his smile grows a little lopsided in that pensive moment. "It does seem like a long time from now," he begins, "But I'm sure wherever we are we'll damned well need a drink," he chuckles. "Err. A drank, rather."

Samantha steps into the room, quiet for the moment, definitely a bit concerned. She's got three of Roubani's originally donated girlie magazines in her hand, having picked through several issues to possibly find the ones most interesting to men. And goodness, they are interesting. "…Room for one more? I bring soft core porn in the form of Roubani's girlie mags. There's some… horrifying stuff in here. Promised to give you all sorts of ideas while you're lying in bed." She offers across the room as she approaches the very dimly let bed. She nods towards the others gathered round, professional and still somewhat quiet, despite her words.

"So say we all," Roubani murmurs drily to Matto. The moment was worth a little sacrilege, there. He looks up as someone's voice comes along then - a female voice for a change - and emits a loud sigh at the mention of the magazines. "I am never giving you anything ever again."

"Kissy — perfect," says Timon, tired eyes looking up at Matto with something akin to fondness. "Conjugation." His right hand drops to his side, having poured out an imaginary libation over his lap. MOAR PENSIVE seems forthcoming, until Samantha has to bust all up in this club with her n3kk1d magazines. "Lambkin." She gets a tired wave and something just a few shades shy of a grin.

Suddenly, quite inappropriately, and earning stern looks from a glaring nurse, Wil's mouth opens as his hand falls away and surprisingly the snicker that was building along with the grin on his face positively -explodes- in a bellow of laughter as he looks from Timon to Roubani to Sam. He -howls-, for a moment until he registers that death glare and clumsily shuts up, blushing and clearing his throat. It stops as soon as it starts.

Thorn looks up at the sound of a familiar voice, offering Sam a slight smile as he brings his cigarette to his lips again. Then, a look over at Willem, followed by a perturbed glare at Timon. Lambkin, indeed. Hmph.

Samantha clears her throat…"Conjugation? Oh gods…what did I walk into? I think there's something on page 76 about that. But they recommend you warm your mouth up first." She then grins over to Roubani…"These were the sweetest, most thoughtful gifts every, Poet. Don't be silly. I know you only did it because you care. Dipping into your secret stash of girlie mags. I'm just passing on the love." And she rests them beside Timon's bed before settling in near Thorn, her hand seeking his out for a brief, reassuring squeeze.

Roubani turns bright red as Willem busts up like that. "Gosh," he mutters, pointedly. Hmpf. HMPF, is the sound.

"Not touching — " Timon wheezes, chest suddenly heaving — but fortunately, he stops just in time to avoid triggering a sense of duty in the orderly on call. "Those," he finishes, though it might as well be a second thought. "Germs."

"Active or passive?" Kisseus wonders in Timon's direction as he seems to demand a paradigm from him, though there's a joking note to his voice as he does so, certain that he had willfully misinterpreted the words, and letting him know as much. His brows quirk at the wheezing, but as Timon regains his voice he spares a moment to revel in Nadiv's hmph, giving him a cheeky little smile.

Komnenos grins at Poet. "Secret stash, eh? Why, Poet, I knew you were a reading type, but I never knew you had such… salacious appetites." He squeezes Sam's offered hand, his fingers lightly massaging hers even as he's smirking in Roubani's direction.

"Ever again," Roubani repeats, pointedly, to Sam. A polite sigh at Timon, leaving him to wrangle the magazine on his own, and Matto gets an index finger angled his way. "Don't start." And then Thorn. Geez. "I will have you know," he starts, pedantically, "That Passi enjoyed those, thank you very much. You know…the hair care articles…" He tacks that on lamely.

"Subjunctive." This, to Matto. "Let us drank." Roubani, for his part, receives a smile from Timon that would almost seem secret if not for the fact that all smiles under such illumination (or, more properly, the lack thereof) would seem such. "You — " is what he says aloud. "Read them?" Ivory's voice is a bare whisper. "Scandal."

"Those magazines allowed me to enact the most -perfect- of acts of revenge upon one uptight Tac officer. I think he may even thank me for it. Which is the best type of revenge." Whether or not Samantha or Roubani or whomever actually -reads- them is not commented on here at this time, at least not on Wil's part. "Well, it was an indirect act. Actually it wasn't so monumental now that I thought about it but it was hilarious to -me-." He's undeniably grinning, here.

"I'm sure she did," replies Komnenos to Roubani, still with that tiny smirk plastered on his face as he tosses a wink at Samantha. "An' I'm sure she didn't just read th' hair care articles." There's a look and a raised eyebrow over in Willem's direction as Thorn finally stamps out that cigarette. "I sense a story, Rebound."

Samantha shakes her head quietly, smirking at Will…"How have -you- put those magazines to better use than ANY of us? Though…give Thorn and I a few months. Then he can judge." She throws a sideways look to the man at her side, winking. Apparently, they're 'waiting'. She then looks back to Timon…"Maybe I should have waited a few days… can't get your heartrate up too high, and some of those articles… well, wouldn't want you hot and bothered. Though there is at least one hot nurse around here."

"Why?" Roubani answers Timon, with a catty smile. "In need of advice?" He glances over at Will at the mention of a certain poor TAC officer. That story, he'll let come from the ginger souce himself.

"Um. Er." Suddenly discretion becomes the better part of Valour as Wil leans forwards in his chair, and even gives it up, gesturing for someone else to sit as he adjusts his manpurse over his arm lazily. Stepping foward, he seems to be on the looking for someone. "Um. I really shouldn't bring it up here. Maybe somewhere else? Later?"

Matto gives Nadiv a wide-eyed look of innocennce. "I didn't say anything," he remarks, holding up his free hand as if to show himself unarmed. Ivory gets a broad grin at his choice of mood.

About that heartrate: it's accelerating again, particularly when Roubani looses that jab. "Sure," is Timon's considered response. Well that was unexpected. "Tell all, Poet." And as for Wil's backtracking: "Before Price."

"Oh, but then those germs would be airborne," Roubani answers Timon, having been quite ready for that one. "And you certainly couldn't have that around here."

Samantha stares at both Poet and Rebound, smirking deeply. "Come on boys, spill. Yer getting Ivory all frustrated over there."

Thorn gives Samantha another slight smile, this one with a decidedly mischevious cant to it. "We are the very souls of discretion," he chimes in after her, nodding sagely. "Do tell. For th' sake of entertaining our poor bedridden friend, here." Thorn isn't above playing the pity card, it seems.

Whoah -oh. Wil finally registers that Timon and Roubani are jabbing back and forth about, well. Something. One of his pale eyebrows arches. "Relax. It's not storytime. Not for -me- anyway."

Matto does turn a bit more, his back joining his shoulder in the lean against the wall as he looks to the Poet more directly, both brows rising for a moment in a teasing sort of expectation.

Timon grimaces as he does his best to stifle a laugh, pressing down on his chest — and then realizing this perhaps isn't the best of ideas, he lets go, allowing himself something between a chuckle and a painful cough, with emphasis on the painful part of the latter. Come on. Do it for the wounded, Poet.

Roubani hmpfs. Why's everyone looking at him? "I wasn't there!" He says, raising both hands in surrender. "Completely innocent. Get Price to tell it later." So there. "You people and your instant gratification."

Samantha almost gives a bit of a whimper. "Come on! Ivory's prolly got a few days wrapped up in here. You don't want him goin' stir crazy with curiosity. For the good of your fellow pilot, Rebound, spill." Sam just -stares- at Rebound, her fingertips still knotted with Thorn's, relaxing there for the moment.

"Not a good idea." Wil says, in repetition. "Besides. It's really not that funny to anyone but -me-." Waving a hand, he looks away from Samantha sheepishly and glances over at Roubani, as if looking for backup. "Now's not the time and the place. Right?" Bro looks to Bro for support, yo.

Matto keeps his arms folded, relaxing there against the bulkhead, eyes trailing slowly off of Nadiv and to Willem instead.

"Not the time," Ivory repeats, a touch of his usual wryness slipping serpentine into his tone. It doesn't quite manage to make itself heard above his exhaustion. "Can we wait?" As in 'Do we have the luxury?' and not 'Let's wait,' though Timon sure isn't going to clarify.

Thorn looks from person to person in the rapid-fire exchange, a look of pale amusement on his face. "An' I thought Ivory here was the only one with a massive stick up his arse."

Roubani scratches the shell of his ear with his pinky, pointedly not staring at Wil. Fend for self, betch.

Samantha is not, apparently, on the bro-code. She stares at Willem, waiting thoughtfully, though she does stifle a bit of a yawn. It's late, she has early CAP, but she wanted to see Timon, if nothing else. She allows her head to lull against Thorn's shoulder a moment. "Someone better tell a story soon or I'm gonna go curl up in bed with Ivory there and go to sleep."

Oh no he DI'INT indeed. Something of an annoyed wrinkle of the nose blooms on Wil's features as he eyes Roubani. Tsk. He then turns responds towards Komnenos with only a feigned tip of his invisible hat. "Some of us try." He says, wryly. "Which reminds me. I've got a shift coming up that I've got to get ready for. I can listen to Jester chatter about how we're all doomed. It'll have to wait." He walks over towards Timon's bed and just gives the incapacitated man a cautiously warm glance. "You're lucky to be alive, Ivory. But you know something about us? We -bounce.- Just like you said."

Roubani chuckles quietly at Wil. DUDE, HE TRIED. His mood's sobered a tad through all this confusing back and forth, fingers scratching through his hair before dropped back to the book in his lap. "Good hunting, Price," he murmurs.

"I said that?" Ivory's about ready to drift off anyway; he's not the most persistent sort to begin with, and puncture wounds to his left lung don't do much for his mood. "Sounds smart," he murmurs. And then: "Hey." This, to everybody, in a brief flash of awake-ness. "Thanks."

Matto gives Darling Willem a mildly apologetic smile, "See you later," he replies, then he looks at Samantha, "Have you heard the one about Kubla Khan?" he asks her, offering, it seems, to tell a story.

Samantha lofts a brow towards Matto, stifling another bit of a yawn…"I haven't. But then I gotta kiss the…. handsome patient on the forehead and hit the rack myself. But I'm listenin'." Apparently, she was searching for a less savoury description, but either couldn't think of one, or thought better of it. She adds quietly…"need to get Persy to get you a nickname."

"Sounds smart. Yeah. I wonder who could have come up with it." Wil lingers a moment over the injured man. "By the way. I didn't mean to call you a ponce the other night. Heal quick and come back to us. I'll be by to check on you later." There's a bit of a grin that remains, before he acknowledges Matto, Samantha, Thorn, and even the bro-traitor Roubani as well with that same cautious smile. "I'll try, Poet. I'll try." Waving, he plods towards the exit.

"Fop," murmurs Timon to Wil, who's sufficiently tired that he doesn't even try to fend off Case's kiss — or comment on her description of him as a 'handsome patient.' Brown eyes droop closed as he sinks deeper into the pillow.

Roubani looks back at Ivory, after a few lingering glances at other faces. The man's eyes closing seems to be a hint, and he watches Timon a second or two before starting to stand. The large book he'd brought along - a note tucked into it - is set on Timon's end table. Whatever's in his left hand though, he considers for a long while…and it's tucked into his shirt pocket instead of left behind.

Thorn yawns as well, barely covering his mouth in time. "Yeah, it's getting late." He stands. "Think I've got th' early CAP tomorrow, too. Wonder who let that happen." Thorn smiles at Sam. "C'mon, I'll walk you t' berthings." A last look over at Timon. "I'll be by again, t' be sure. Maybe I'll even bring a book or something." There's a very light clap on the wounded man's shoulder as he too turns to leave.

Matto smiles at Sam, "If you're going to bed anyhow, I'll tell you it later," he decides, looking back toward Timon as he seems to be drifting off, himself. He shifts back to leaning on his elbow, "G'night, Ivory," he murmurs quietly. "Get some good rest, yah?"

Samantha does indeed lean over. Stealth kiss. It's a gentle motion, though, and then she settles back into walking with Thorn. "Night, boys… don't stay up telling each other too many stories." She calls after, like a mother ducking out of a child's slumber party, and disappears out the hatch.

"Thanks," says Ivory again, more than a little loopy — apparently he's got a timed morpha drip too, judging from the way the orderly now shuffles over to check whether it's working. But before the drugs take him, Timon's hand reaches up for Poet's wrist as he feels the younger man loom over to set down the book. He probably misses — his eyes are closed and he's got limited motor function — but the idea's there.

Roubani isn't moving quickly enough to evade. The pilot's hand does get his wrist, and it being the left it lands on top of the loop of prayer beads there. It startles him, though after a hair of hesitation he sets his right hand atop Timon's, squeezing slightly. Nothing said, letting the man drop off to sleep in peace.

Not to shake, dammet — merely to drag closer for a whisper. Whatever Timon has to say is barely audible even then, but he doesn't have a chance to clarify. Sped along by wings of happydrugs, his body goes limp, heartrate slowing as he's spirited away by unescapable Hypnos into quiet, dreamless slumber.

Matto heads for the hatch, though he loiters on this side of it, letting Timon and Roubani have a bit of privacy while still subtly waiting to wander out with the Poet when he goes, looking back at them both with a quietly fond look.

Whatever's whispered causes Roubani's eyes to flicker down. Pensive or something else, hard to say. He nods his assent, even if Timon's not looking - more a gesture to cement something for himself, perhaps, then turns away and slides his hands into his pockets, heading for the hatch.

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