Conversation Interruptus
Conversation Interruptus
Summary: Willem and Persephone discover that privacy is hard to come by on a ship this size.
Date: PHD116
Related Logs: None

<Timon entered here.>

The sound of footsteps from the hatch leading to Kharon's general lounge is the happy couple's first hint that their Moment will soon be violated. Whoever's coming — for indeed, all the ruckus is being made by one person — is evidently in a rush to get inside, judging from the rapid thwack-thunk of booted feet against hard deck that now echoes loudly in the corridor.

Laughing, Persy shakes her head. "What did he say about us before?" she asks. "It must have been something… special. You know. To get to you like that." She lifts her eyebrows, apparently keenly interested in the answer. Wil's ankle gets a nudge with her boot. "Okay, Mr. Romantic. Here's a tip. You tell a girl you love her? You don't follow it up with the words, 'I think' in any way, shape, or form." Her eyes sidelong a glance at the door. "And the winner for Most Urgent Need for Coffee is…"

"Your commanding officer has a completely different style than mine. We'll leave it at -that-." At the noise, there's a glance away from Persy on the pilot's part with a quick, sudden turn of his head towards the hatch. "Think the hatch will hold? Maybe we're being boarded." Wil addresses the immediate situation at hand with an off-color joke that he suddenly manages to pull off with aplomb. Somehow. "So I'd better make this quick. Strike the 'I think'. For once I can consign this part of myself to thoughtless madness because we may not get a second chance. Yeah, I love you." The last part is a lowered, conspiratorial whisper, followed by an easy, if only a twinge-awkward laugh at the blonde woman. "If we make it, I may have to practice some more." Some mulling occurs as he just keeps his hand there, flipping open the book on the table. "This isn't the best time for Homer."

It's not coffee that Timon needs, nor companionship, but merely a table, floor, or other large and stable surface on which he can set down his remarkably heavy load. As the hatch swings open, the lovebirds within might be able to see the true extent of his plight: in the crook of his left arm are carried three books, each about as thick as the width of his palm; in the crook of his right are a good five legal pads, between which have been shoved a box of black pens, a box of red ones, and a bottle of whiteout bearing the crest of the Fleet's JAG Corps. It's a wonder the man's able to get the door open without dropping any of what he's carrying, though it remains to be seen whether this delicate equilibrium will be able to sustain the last few meters of the journey. He has no eyes for what's going on — yet — but any delay in awkwardness is likely to be momentary at best.

"I recommend getting in some practice whenever you have the opportunity," , Persy says, grinning at Wil. Her eyebrows shoot up as Timon barrels in with his ungainly load. "Okay. Well. He might not need coffee now? But it's only a matter of time…" Then, standing, "Uhm. Hi! Help with that?" she asks the Raptor pilot.

"Opportunity." Wil just mouths the words and for a second the grin he's shooting the blonde lieutenant is pure mirth twinged with something that a passive observer could describe as stupidity. "More opportunity? There's just another reason to kill Cylons." Again with the slightly-inappropriate jokes. There's an edge of seriousness here, though, even if it is affectionate. "You, my dear, are many things. One of them being sublime motivation."

Checking the door again, he catches the approaching form of Timon, laden with his current burden. His mouth opens a little. "Good Lords, Ivory." He breaks off, addressing the other man in the distance with a humorous crinkle of his eyes. "Do you need to requisition a cart?" A glance back to Persy. "And yeah, need help?"

"I've got it," Ivory grunts, threading his way through a veritable asteroid field of chairs and tables as he speaks. For a few magical moments, the disheveled Raptor pilot looks as if he might make it to the officers' side of the general lounge before disaster strikes. But like the sprinter whose foot slips out of bounds a half-second before the end of the race, Timon feels the lip of his left boot catch on a stray bolt protruding a centimeter or so from the deck, and before he can stop himself he's flailing out his arms in an attempt to keep his balance. The result is messy, cacophonous, and utterly predictable.

"Shit," the pilot snarls from the floor. Yeah — the expletive is reflex, too.

"Crap! Ohcrap!" Persy gasps, hurrying over and kneeling beside the fallen man. "Areyouokay??" She shakes her head quickly. "Epically dumb question, of course you're not. Is anything broken? Has your spleen ruptured?"

With a wordless series of grumbles, Wil leans out of his seat and ambles to a standing position, brushing his hand against his fatigue pants. There's still a twinge of red in his ears. He bounds over towards the now-upended Timon who clearly does not have it shortly after Persy and winds his way around the deadly chair-trap that felled his Raptor bretheren. "Careful, Lieutenant. If you take another injury, Captain will be spitting fire." Eyeing the mess of books with some mild distress, he shakes his head and simply offers the man a hand.

"I'm fine — and a bumbling idiot." While the Moment has completely and irrevocably passed, Ivory at least has the grace to apologize. A pinkish flush colors his pale complexion as he jerks himself to his knees, from which position he busies himself with retrieving all the pens scattered beneath him like shell casings from a machine gun. The books are left for last — they're hardcover, after all, and can take a fair bit of punishment, though the one splayed pages-down might have sustained a few more bumps and bruises than the rest. As far as the pilot is concerned, well: from the looks of it, he's undamaged. "Was I interrupting anything important?" The question is asked with studied but apparently unfeigned innocence.

Persy looks over her shoulder at Wil, giving the ginger-haired pilot a kind of gooey, lovey-dovey smile. Then she turns the smile on Timon—only less gooey and lovey. But still warm. "Nah. Not as important as your spleen, anyhow." She helps gather up the pens, white out, and anything else that went flying.

The look Persy gives Wil is apparently returned, although giving someone with a mean sense of humor an ample window to throw mockery at him as he blushes furiously. "Maybe -as- important." Wil says, with a slight grin that isn't quite straight and his tone is steeped in a tiny bit of wry mockery that is so innocent on his part it could hardly be construed as mean. "I thought you were a boarding party." He too helps pick up the books, after glancing between his fellow Officers and gives their titles cursory glances. "Perks of being a part-time librarian, eh? Oh. Ivory, have you met Lieutenant Tanner?" He suddenly realizes where his manners went. Along with most of his marbles.

"Not yet." Timon doesn't catch the smile the woman gives to her beau, not that he would have likely interpreted it correctly even if he had. He's busying himself with the red pens, leaving the black ones to the blonde. Back into their box they go, though, with surprising precision: he's been in this position before. "I'm Ivory. Sorry for the unexpected entrance. If you could, Rebound, set those down on a table with plenty of room? Not that I want to trouble you any further, but — " The lieutenant sweeps a hand through his receding hairline as his words peter out before he can finish his thought. As for the books, they're philosophical treatises all, the titles of which are likely unfamiliar to anybody who hasn't studied the original position until the cows come home.

Persy shakes her head. "My callsign's Fallout," she tells Timon. "I met Lieutenants Roubani and Leda when I fell out of the ceiling." She grins, shoulders shaking with laughter as she stands, bearing some of the boxes of pens and whatnot. "I know all about entrances of spectacular fail."

"Relax. I've got this. It's no trouble at all. What am I going to do? Watch you scramble all over the floor grabbing these by yourself?" Wil says, easily, with a little shake of his head as he twitches his nose, smirking over at Timon as he proceeds to scoop up a pile of discarded books, narrowing his eyes at a few titles. There are hints of recognition but nothing too strong. These things were probably 'heard of but never read'. A stack of books piled almost precariously upon the shelf made up by his outstretched arms, he glances back at Persy momentarily as she does her part in the clean-up. "And to think, I missed that grand entrance. Well, the best part of it, anyway." He sighs a faux-rueful sigh as he keeps walking his stack towards the indicated table.

"I performed the same trick a few weeks ago, only the ceiling was Scorpia's troposphere and the thing that fell was my Raptor." The words are spoken lightly, but there's an undercurrent of tension in Timon's tone and carriage that lends a discordant edge to what would otherwise have been one of his usual self-deprecating remarks. "Thanks for the help. I'll just set myself down over there and get out of your hair." His knobby finger gestures to where Rebound's about to deposit those three tremendous books — to which place he himself now walks, whiteout and red pens in hand. "So, uh — carry on, I guess, with whatever you were doing."

Persy smirks and shoots a mirthful glance at Wil. "You probably don't want us to do that," she advises Timon. "We —" She blinks. Jumps. Gasps! Spins! Points. Clock! Ack! "Crapohcrap! Time!" She scrambles to put the pens down on Ivory's table, then sprints to Wil. Grabbing the hapless man by the shirt, she pulls herself up to kiss him — MUAH! — then dashes for the door. "LATE!"

Kai steps into the lounge with a coffee cup dangling from two fingers of one hand, the other buried in a pocket of his trousers. The scattered books and pilots sent scrambling for them elicit a glance, but it doesn't linger for long enough to embarass or draw attention to the minor altercation. If it could be called such. He's headed, unsurprisingly, for the coffee machine— and thank the gods for stick jockey reflexes, as Persy sprints past and nearly runs into him. "Lieutenant," he offers in both greeting and farewell, expression bemused.

"It's no big deal. Trust me." Wil begins, looking backwards towards Ivory with a sort of easy smirk that suddenly wavers in the face of the crash discussion. "Yeah. Well. I've done that before. In a non-combat situation." He continues to perform as instructed as he pads his way towards the final resting place for the miniature library and sets them down with a semi-graceful THUD. If he didn't have balance, he wouldn't have -anything-. Persy's statement initially earns a clockwork blush and "Yeah. Well. Practice." He gets assaulted. He's resigned to this at this point and even seems to respond appreciatively. "Um, see you later, Perseph—-" He stares after the woman as a man would just watch a tornado tossing around an entire trailer park in its wake. Except he was the trailer park here. Oh, the farewell called out in the distance as he spies his very own CAG. "Oh. Uh. SIR." His mouth is still hanging open.

"My love for you is big, sir! Please consider yourself saluted!" Persy calls, without breaking stride. And then she's gone. Poof!

"Nice to meet you," Ivory says again, rather sheepishly, as Fallout turns to flee. The kiss, though, seems to knock whatever he was about to say from his mind. Instead, the pilot shrinks back in his seat, retreating behind a wall of books and legal paper in an attempt — likely unsuccessful — to become invisible. Only when she's gone, does he speak up — not that he says anything of substance. "Were you — that is to say, you were — practicing?! — and oh." He recognizes Kai's voice, and with that recognition comes a decidedly cooler greeting. "Evening, Captain."

Kai seems oblivious, tonight, to dropped jaws and whirlwinding tactical officers. Watching after Persy for a second or two, he resumes his path toward the coffee machine. "Evening, Rebound," is offered mildly in Willem's direction. After eyeing up the piece of alien technology for a full thirty seconds, he figures out the 'brew' button and pushes it. "Stathis," is added for Timon's benefit, with a glance and a not-quite-smile. Chilly or not, the CAG seems entirely immune. Water off a duck's back, baby.

"Practicing what? Where? -Ivory.- What kind of officer do you think I -am-?" Wil finally recovers from his initial shock as shoots the CAG a quick upturned nod of his head, still looking uncomfortably like the center of some kind of unwanted attention. Timon may not be the only one trying to shrink into the background here.

He shoots a tilted glance at the Raptor pilot with a slight click of his tongue. "It's a Libran thing."

Timon's gaze follows the CAG as he stalks toward the coffee machine on the back wall, releasing only after he's sure the man's intention is to brew up a nice steaming cuppa. So the pair of them are square, at least for now. It's with some amount of relief that he turns back to Rebound while opening up the first book on his stack — the one that until recently was lying open, spine-up, on the ground. "Thank the gods nothing's ripped," he murmurs, though his eyes lift up from bent and battered pages to meet Rebound's for the briefest of moments. Whatever questions he has will keep.

Kai doesn't turn around, and doesn't interject upon the pilots' conversation while he's waiting for his coffee to brew. He rests a shoulder against the wall and folds his arms, his bulky frame inert for the time being.

Wil's indignation was clearly feigned. The more time one spends around him it may become clear that he has a difficult time stirring up and containing anger. "Relax. I was only kidding," He initially says, shooting the Raptor pilot a slight, embarassed but clearly genuine half-grin. "It's all right. I mean, our rotations aren't exactly complimentary so we have odd little exchanges at odd times. Nothing untoward was going on." Whether or not Rebound's reassurance is really needed, -he- seems to clearly believe so.

There's a crane of his head as Wil settles in the chair now, glancing over at the hatch. And the CAG, narrowing his eyes. The CAG's doing his thing for the time being. Back to Lt. Stathis. He in turn studies the book with some degree of sympathy. "I'm careful with these." He peers back over at the table next to them where he was apparently sitting at the open volume left there. "Hold on a second." It's Homer. Funny enough. "Guess I'm -borrowing- this." He says with a sly smile that seems like it could be a touch more sly. He grabs his satchel from the floor, too.

"I'm usually careful with mine, too, believe it or not." Timon busies himself by smoothing out a few of the most damaged pages, rubbing out any stray wrinkles with the flats of his fingers. "Karma, I guess, for not bothering to knock, though — in my defense — you didn't have a sock on the door." The jab is returned with a faint smile of his own, though wary eyes drift over to where Kai's standing to gauge the man's reaction on the off chance that his voice is louder than he intends it to be. "Seriously, though. Next time, don't be courteous and send me packing. No reason I can't do this in the library, or my bunk, or whatever."

It's entirely possible that Kai can't hear what's being discussed. Or if he can, that he's off in la la land, and not really processing it. Either way, his back's mostly to the room and his face is only visible in roughly one-quarter profile; his hawkish features lend him a look of perpetual irascibility that may or may not be intended. Once the coffee's brewed, he slides the pot out and pours himself a cup without spilling so much as a drop.

"I believe it." Wil says at first, easily, with a slight point to the volume indicatively. "Anyway, no sock really needed. It wasn't really like that. Not in public. To get all confessional, this sort of thing is kind of maddeningly uncomfortable on a ship, but we're running short on luxuries of space and comfort." The reddish-haired pilot says, dismissively, with a purse of his lips as all the embarassment fades. "In any case,"

He hefts the previously-discussed, worn volume of his own and stuffs it in his satchel, "In any case, all this stuff probably isn't interesting to anyone but myself." He pauses a beat, grinning ever-so-slightly and changes the topic. The CAG gets another curious glance, but he can't see Wil, ha ha. Or can he?

It takes a while, but Timon eventually gives up on returning his book to its previously pristine condition. Instead, he picks up a black pen from the corner of his table, clicking it open and removing the cap covering its nib before scrawling his name onto the top right-hand corner of the nearest legal pad he has. His script is small and flowing, and while it's not exactly neat, it does get markedly bigger (and, hopefully, easier to read) as he finishes the next few words: "CHAPTER ONE," all in caps. Only when he's finished with that formality does he look back up at Rebound, a half-smile on his face. "Try the storage closets yet?" he wonders, eyebrows raised, before rising to grab himself a cup of whatever the CAG's having.

Mission: Caffeine achieved, Kai pushes away from the counter and makes his way toward the couches, ducking his head to take a stabilising sip from his cup as he goes. The spot he's chosen puts him in potential auditory range of Timon and Willem, without intruding upon their conversation. He's probably just here for some quiet time. And a bit of writing as well, if the pad of paper and pen that make an appearance next, are taken into account. He clicks the pen on and starts flipping through the pages— his blue eyes alight briefly on Willem in the midst of this. Nothing's spoken.

"Noooo. But -that- level of indelicacy is usually where I stop sharing details. Although I've found that it's not talking about things that gets rumors started." Wil says, with a sort of shaky pause. Half-smiling. "At least, that's how I found things were at Tauron. Got me a callsign." With an affable sigh, though, he continues, slightly shifting the topic. "What are you working on?" As the man proceeds to make his own coffee run, he tilts his head over towards Kai, giving him a wary, narrow-eyed but not unpleasant look.

"My lips are sealed." Timon's not the gossipy type, unless by gossiping he can needle his ECO. As he passes the CAG on his way to the machine, he shifts his body sideways to avoid running into the man's steaming mug. En route to the counter he snags a communal cup from a rack nearby, examining its lip for any signs of contamination before deciding, really, that he couldn't care less. While he pours: "Dissertation," he says, slightly louder now that he's more than a few meters away from the other two men. "Figured I might as well stop moaning about not finishing it and start putting pen to paper."

Willem's narrow-eyed look is met with a somewhat perplexed one from Kai. His pen hand pauses, and then clicks the writing implement off. It's tucked away again, along with his notepad. Maybe he has someplace else to be, or maybe he's starting to get the impression that the pair need some alone time. "Night, boys," he offers quietly, flickering a smile that doesn't touch his eyes, and pushing to his feet. Off he goes, for the hatch.

Somewhat out-of-the-blue, the wordless communication between Junior Lieutenant and CAG is topped off with a brief, out-of-the-blue smile. "Good night, Sir." A moment passes, and Wil finally looks away from his CO and studies Ivory with renewed interest. "Dissertation? As in, -degree-?"

"You too, Captain." Timon's tone isn't as frosty as it was when the man entered, though maybe that's just because Kai made him coffee. "And yeah, Rebound: as in a degree."

"Huh. Graduate school." Wil mouths, in a slight whisper, bemused. Not mocking, but bemused. "All right, I'll bite? Where and what for?" The concept clearly has blindsided him. Maybe intrigued him.

"Nobody warned you about me?" Timon moves back toward his seat with tentative steps — another fall now would be truly epic fail. "I was a doctoral candidate at Caprica University for a year or so before I entered OCS. Philosophy."

"I missed that warning. Normally we only got warnings about other Viper jocks. I think there's a Marine or two who apparently wants my blood now but I'm -still- trying to unravel that story." He grunts but the attempt at dryness dissipates as he considers how the conversation has progressed. "Eh. That makes sense." Wil considers now, pursing his lips and wavering his head in a little bit of a slow nod. "The major, I mean. Wait a minute. -That- close to a doctorate?" As this fascinating little narrative of a Raptor Pilot's life is weaved in his head, Rebound steeples his fingers together atop the table and slowly nods back and forth. "It's funny. I was -this- close to ending up on Caprica too for a Masters. At Delphi, though." Somewhat inappropriately, he amends, "This close to being dead in all this."

Timon takes a sip of his coffee — glorified hot water, really, but who's counting? — as Rebound speaks; behind the steam that wreathes his face is just the smallest of smiles at the mention of Marines. "That close," he affirms when he's through, setting the full-ish cup down a safe distance away from his books. Spillage isn't a risk he's willing to take. "I like to think I'd have made tenure before getting incinerated by Cylon bombs, though — " Wil's macabre thought is met by another, which the pilot accompanies with a rueful chuckle and a long pause. "What was your concentration?"

"Yeah. Sorry." Wil catches himself in the middle of whatever he is immediately about to say next with an opening and closing of his mouth in rapid succession. He's usually -aware- of saying awkward or faux-pas-laden things. Usually after he says them. "It's hard -not- to think about where I could have been. There were so many 'where's."

Tilting his head to one side, slightly in a bird-like motion, he continues to address the other pilot. "Not a pure academic track though. Just getting a journalism degree which in itself may have been career suicide for what I was considering doing." He shrugs his shoulders lazily. "That career path committed suicide on its own."

"I doubt Actual would be particularly pleased if a muckraking journalist appeared in the gut of his ship." Timon's smile grows incrementally wider as he picks up his pen. He doesn't start writing, though, not yet. Instead, he seems content to simply twirl it absently in the air, his middle finger flipping it counterclockwise around his thumb. "Anyway." The pilot chews at his bottom lip as he considers whether to continue; then: "My father's company picked that year to go bankrupt, taking with it most of his savings. Grant funding was tight that year — but, really, I think that's just what my advisor told me to let me go with a soft landing." Ivory relates the story with a blank look on his face; his eyes, half-closed, are focused on the ceiling above Rebound's head. "Swore I'd make some money in the service, go back, and finish up. Just one of those things."

Wil's eyelids droop just a tad. Narrowing slightly. Narrowing a bit more as he juts his chin forwards and regards Timon with a level look. "Not muckraking. Wanted to do travel, politics, on-location stuff in areas of intercolonial tension. Like Sag. There was that bit with the Tauron government though that was…" He keeps studying other pilot a bit longer as if trying to gauge a reaction. "Excuse me." Clearing his throat, he just moves along. "I can comiserate about losing the opportunity though. It — If you have a calling and get torn away from it, no matter of 'well, at least you're alive' can truly make you feel fine about it. Trust me. Delphi had probably the best journalism track in the colonies. Unfortunately the Dean overseeing said department was a stuck-up, bigoted, small-minded piece of shit."

This is narrated with a slight twitch and flaring of his nostrils. He -almost- dislikes someone. Fortunately someone is very much dead now.

"Mmm." Timon takes the syllable out for a test-drive, as if he's tasting it in his mouth. The man's unusually thoughtful — and that's saying something, for as he's just confessed, he was about to spend the rest of his life navel-gazing for a living. "You know, muckraking's not necessarily a bad thing," the man says at length, voice mild. "I researched a few of the ag-sub reforms they passed on Aerilon for one of the papers I wrote as an undergrad. Don't remember much except the thesis: if it hadn't been for the press, none of them would have passed. Not — " His wan smile turns into an actual grin. "Not that it matters now, anyway, but still."

"Yeah. Sorry if I seemed defensive." Wil snaps off, sounding genuinely humble and apologetic. "I just have to remind some people that it wasn't all about trash media entertainment, celebrities, and talking heads. Sometimes my head was in the clouds, though." He pauses a beat as his fingers start drumming on the table idly.

"I guess it matters, or you wouldn't be doing it?" Rebound ventures, looking flatly at the other man, before offering more of his story unbidden. "Instead of spending time on Tauron talking about the tension, I ended up parking Vipers there. Funny world. Funny. But yah, they ate a large hate sandwich every time he thought of my mother, so that didn't help. I got waitlisted when my record was -good enough- to get in and I said 'screw it,' and just joined the Fleet. It was good enough for two generations of Price men, I suppose."

"You were stationed on Tauron and still don't recognize my name?" Timon interjects at the mention of ‘trash media entertainment’, though he doesn't say any more until the man's finished. "My family — at least my family on my father's side — let's just say it's been a tabloid sensation for the past four generations." He recalls the memory with something resembling fondness on his face. "Got worse after the company went under. Billionaire playboy laid low by Fate? Constellation loved it. Only reason they didn't come after me was because of all the gun-toting MPs entrenched around the AB."

"I knew the name, but not the specifics." Wil says, tenatively, his eyebrow arching at the other man after he absorbs the story with a little, curious nod. "Wait. That name. -TIBERIUS Stathis.-" He mouths the syllables, one-by-one. 'Ty-beer-eee-iis' in his typical, enunciated Libran dialect. There's almost a smile there.

"I don't pay attention to a lot of that junk. But I -do- remember the name." He mouths that same full name one more time before he continues. "Tantalus. Tantalus Transports. Yeah. You can relax. My mother never touched that story. Not -just- because she was from and working -on- Libran. She was busy bitching about Adar. Trying to defend Zarek while still denouncing the bombing. Complaining about governmental corruption and fleet waste. Yet she and dad stayed married." Bemusedly, he chuckles himself. "People do funny things when they think they're in love with someone. Or are."

"He would have hated you for that pronunciation," Timon notes, his eyes still half-closed. "Nouveau riche and all that: in his mind, it was Caprica first and the eleven other Colonies tied for sixty-seventh. There's a part of me that thinks he deserved everything he got — and then there's the part of me that wonders if I might have turned out like him without my mother keeping me on the straight-and-narrow." The pen has stopped twirling in his hand, which now uses it like a conductor would a baton. Ink-stained tip sweeps languid arcs in the air. "As for your mother, well. Sounds like a muckraker to me." It's a compliment.

"If that's all it would take to truly earn hatred, it must not be very valuable." Rebound begins, a little playfully. In fact, his tone is clearly joking, given the tone of his voice.

"So that's what your father was like? Your mother? And -my- mother? Yah, I guess she was something. So was my father, and not just for putting up with her." Wil elaborates, and in an odd turn, not a wistful manner. "I guess I was lucky."

"Mother was a whole different creature. Innocent student turned gold-digger turned determined housewife, if you'd believe that metamorphosis — and I wouldn't blame you if you didn't, as that one's so implausible Ovid didn't bother including it in his book on the matter." Timon's joking, too, though his tone doesn't change: he's still in that dreamy state between recollection and reality, it seems, books on the table long forgotten. "Just lucky, I guess." The words are wistful, if not quite sad. There's another long pause.

Wil does catch the Ovid reference, stifling a snort, just barely as he does, his fingers tightly drumming on the table now. "Heh. Gold-diggers. Funny concept, if you think about it. A lot of the women in my family tended to be overbearing, but not gold-diggers." No judgment there, it seems to be tossed out just for contrast.

"Changes are plausible in people, though. They're enacted by events, conditioning, environment, opportunity. It's no wonder." He clears his throat. "I remember what you said about Tauron girls. I had one who was worth a damn. She was a pacifist. That was, well. Implausible." As he reminisces as well, he draws in a slow sigh and shakes his head once more. "Yeah. We're lucky. Aren't we?"

"Overbearing," Ivory repeats, nodding warmly at the thought. "Yeah, that was Mother — gold and all." It's enough to bring him out of his reverie, which is just as well — give him unfettered time in which to reminisce and he might even start to get a bit misty-eyed. "Vanity of vanities," he murmurs at last. "All is vanity. This — " Pen stabs toward the still-open book on his desk. "All this — " His arms stretch expansively to encompass the strangely quiet lounge, where upended seats and long-empty vending machines rest like quiet hulks under the room's flickering lights. "And yet, like Sisyphus, we can't seem to stop pushing that godsdamned rock."

"Overbearing." Rebound mouths one word. Quite out of the blue, Wil riffs on this. Something of this, that Timon stated, causes him to hum a few ascending and descending tuneful notes. He repeats the melody only idly singing them softly.

"Clever monkeys with technology

Barely out of the caves and the trees

It's all vanity, all vanity - we try to have control."

His head shakes rapidly all of a sudden. It's a bird-like, almost animal gesture and his mouth hangs open, awkwardly. "Uh. Sorry. That just popped into my head. You know how it is." He just sighs a resigned sort of sigh and half-smiles, his shoulders slumping. "We are. But what else are we going to do?"

Willem amends, -quite- hastily. "Sorry. I do that when it strikes me. Maddens people. In any case, I'm probably not helping you get your work done. Am I?"

Timon, for his part, has fallen silent — so silent, in fact, that if not for the soft tap-tapping of pen against legal pad, he could easily have passed for asleep. But after a good minute or two passes, the lieutenant stirs, and the barest whisper of vigor is audible in his voice. "On the contrary," murmurs Ivory, "this helps." Then, on impulse alone, his pen-hand gestures at the empty chair sitting opposite him — a chair he proceeds to kick out from under the table with a firm strike of his left boot. And unspoken invitation extended, he returns his attention to work he's put off for nearly a decade —

His boulder, as the ancients might call it, and his mount.

Silence spreads like a plague, it would seem. Wil's mouth opens, silently and wordlessly has he just watches the Tauron. He gathers his satchel and slips into said empty chair with the briefest of movements.

"That work is different for everyone." He finally states. "All the same — you are a surprising individual. I kind of wonder what flying in a Raptor with you and Thorn is like. But that may be surprising, too."

"Let the Cylons shoot up your plane and you might find out," Ivory suggests, and there's an impish little smile on his lips. "I'd invite you to some of the Secret Raptor Meetings we have, but then I'd have to kill you."

"So far I've avoided—" Wil begins, actually, for whatever reason, he's quite unwilling to finish -that- statement. Anyone paying attention to his recent combat record would know why. He's been one of the lucky ones. "Forget that." He stammers, before commenting on the joke which of course is much easier to casually riff off of. "Yeah. I can't figure out whether yours would be worse than ours. Unless you want me to retread those old stories." He laughs, harshly, but sounds quite like -he- doesn't want to.

Timon helps Rebound out, rapping the knuckles on his left hand against the wood laminate of the table, but his only other response is a quiet chuckle. He’s already started to write.

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