Drank Your Drank (Part 1)
Drank Your Drank (Part 1)
Summary: What starts out as a quiet gathering in one of the storage rooms evolves into an Epic Party. With moonshine. And strippers.
Date: PHD141
Related Logs: Related Logs (Say None if there aren't any; don't leave blank)

Footsteps on the stairwell. Through a corridor nearly silent this time of night, lights dimmed to conserve power in this underbelly of the ship. "I'm relatively sure this will fit the top of it," Roubani's quiet voice is saying as he checks the number on a storage room and then moves on to the next. Oh, which one was it. "One they're finished using it for the alignments…" Ah, here we are. He fiddles with a couple keys.

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. A set of boots echoes just behind Roubani's footsteps, drifting throughout the metal corridors of the Kharon's lower deck. "Hm. All the same, I'm still trying to wrap my mind around those schematics. With dubious sucess." Wil says faintly. His tone is unmistakably wry. "Or rather, how to keep the seal tight enough so that the vapors don't escape. On the other hand, it looked like there might be an issue with them travelling a certain…" His voice trails off as he catches himself rambling, a little blink delivered to Roubani.

"Hm." Roubani makes this thoughtful sound in his throat, keys making a loud two clicks in the hatch. A moment of pause, then he starts to push it open. "You may have to get a touch creative with what you use for gaskets…but anyway. After you." A polite gesture for Wil to precede him in…

Somebody's been doing work inside, from the looks of things, not that this storage room has been particularly neat to begin with. All that meets the eye upon entering this corner of the ship is a wall of boxes that reaches to the ceiling, which — save for a small gap at its rightmost edge — seems constructed to prevent anybody from seeing more than a meter or so inside. The lights are off, and not a sound is audible within.

Another pause. Wil patiently waits for the storeroom hatch to slip open to admit his entrance, listening to the other man's response with careful, measured attention. "Fortunately, if there's one thing we are -not- short of, it's repurposable odds and ends. If I couldn't find -something- I'd be really surprised." He swings his ever-present satchel over his shoulder and slips inside the storage room, blinking once or twice as he peers in the darkness. How quaint. A pilot with a man-purse.

"Understatement," Roubani sounds, for some reason, amused at that. He steps past Wil and towards the blocking row of boxes, making a sound with his teeth. "I swear people just don't clean up around here before they bother off for the night. Let me just…get this light." His voice gets further away in the dark, and then *click*. Spotlight!

The lights come on to reveal a truly strange sight: two large crates pushed together in the middle of the room, which when taken together are nearly a person and a half in length. A shipping label is still visible on one of them — 'Port Cinnabar, Aquaria,' it proclaims, partially covered by a stamped notice of receipt in blue-red ink. On top of the makeshift table are twenty paper cups, ten at each end, arranged in a base-four pyramid; in its center is a single unopened handle of Stanford's Finest Ambrosia, Specially Distilled With Care.

"Port Cinnabar. Heard it was a nice place. Supposedly, if it smelled like fish. Guess that'd be Aquaria for you, right?" Wil quips, suddenly as he brings the back of his hand against his eyes, briefly rubbing at them to adjust to the sudden FIAT LUX that occurred. No doubt FIAT LULZ will be forthcoming.

"Uh. Wait a minute." Hand falling away, he strolls over to eye both the array of cups and the bottle, forehead slightly wrinkling. "Who left -this- sitting around?"

"Oh." Roubani's brows draw a little bit as he takes his hand off the light switch. Look at that little frown; see Timon, he IS a good actor. "Right out in the middle of storage, how strange. Someone must have had some rather nice plans in here."

"Either that or it looks like we stumbled upon someone's 'date night'." Wil says, brow furrowed. "I said I generally avoid this place for a reason. Too crowded." He coughs, bringing the back of his hand to cover his mouth. Roubani must be a good actor! Yes indeed. "Maybe we'd better come back later just in case…"

"Not so fast, Rebound," A gravelly voice rasps from behind another column of boxes. Thorn steps out from behind it, a cagey smile on his face. "Y' wouldn't think of leaving without a drink, would you?" He arches an eyebrow at the ginger pilot. "Lieutenant Soon-T'-Be-Hitched. You never even told me." A theatrical sigh escapes his lips.

"Poet and I were talking last night," comes another familiar voice from the back of the storage closet: it's none other than Timon Stathis, dressed in his finest blues, a faint smile on his face as he steps out from behind a column of cleaning supplies. He's holding his right palm out, in which can be seen a pair of circular ball bearings the diameter of his thumb. "Not what my roommate used to play with back at CU, these, but they'll do."

Roubani laughs quietly behind Willem, a sound he doesn't often make. "You can't leave when the plans were for you, Rebound." He reaches over and hits another switch, bringing another set of lights up. "Make yourself comfortable."

Clearly caught by something resembling surprise, several feelings are betrayed by his shifting expression. Shock. Embarassment. Maybe a bit of an apologetic glance is shot at Thorn. "Never seemed really like the right time. And 'soon' is still nebulous, there's no exact time frame. And —" He clears his throat and his shoulders suddenly roll back in a more relaxed posture as the bag slips off his arm and hits the floor. A glance to Thorn, then Ivory, and then back at Poet. "Heh. A setup. Pretty clever, guys. Pretty clever." Still abashed, he murmurs a hasty "Thanks!" as he eyes the bottle.

"Don't sweat it, Rebound… although I am a little miffed I had t' find out in a note from Ivory this morning." Thorn chuckles slightly; mock indignation aside, he doesn't seem put out. "But congratulations anyway." He ducks behind a shelf, and comes back out with two unmarked bottles of clear liquid. "Got these from some deck PO who decided t' quit drinking and find religion… the more fool he, even if he did charge me a carton of smokes for each one."

"Saving your lungs at the expense of our livers. I like it." Timon sets down his payload on the table, one on each side; then, he's handing the ambrosia to Willem with the corkscrew he'd been holding in his left hand. "I must have sat through at least five hundred games of this," says Ivory, gesturing to the table, "though I admit I've never played. Teams of two. If we make a cup, you drink what's in it; if you make a cup, we drink what's in it. Winner is the team that manages to clear the other side first."

"I don't know what religion he found," Roubani comments to Thorn, drily, "But I am sure Dionysus is feeling a bit miffed just now." What a shame, guess they'll have to placate him themselves. He settles himself onto a crate near the explanation going on, watching Timon's gesturing with a lofted brow of curiosity. From his front pocket he tugs his pack of cigarettes, tapping the bottom until a few poke up and holding his arm out to offer one to Thorn.

Another round of blinks at his compatriots and Wil briefly knits his hands behind his back, "I didn't want to rub it in anyone's face, Thorn. But it seems like you're doing all right." His head scans, with a twitch of his smile towards Timon. "Sat through? I don't think any of us were frat boys, Ivory. But you've probably got the advantage on any of us just from sheer experience based on observation." Stepping over to the Ambrosia bottle, he clasps his fingers about it and takes the corkscrew, smirking more and more warmly second by second and riffs on Roubani's comment. "Well. We'd better get to work, then. Before Thebes burns. Given I'm -extremely partial- to someone who carries the Thyrsus I'm not going down like that bitch Pentheus." He clears his throat as he takes the corkscrew and applies it, doing the honors on the bottle and wrinkles his nose. "Although I strongly suspect the point of that story wasn't Pentheus' narrow, twisted sense of Orthodoxy but the fact that he was an arrogant ruler and a bad king for his people." He pauses a beat. "Uh. Never mind."

Thorn grunts. "Yeah, guess so. Whatever… all th' same, I'm happy for you." He looks over to Timon with a grin. "Haven't seen this since college. I was known t' play a time or two." He clunks his two bottles of everclear down on the impromptu table for later; they can work on the good stuff first. Finally, there's a glance over at Roubani. "His loss is our gain," Thorn replies mildly, still with a trace of a smile on his lips. "Don't remember which sect he decided t' fall in with, but it was one of the more… sedate ones."
<OOC> Roubani says, "Everclear is satan. Damn."

"Lowering expectations already, Rebound?" Ivory elbows the man of the hour as he moves to take up a position at one end of the crate, making sure not to dislodge any of the cups as he does. "Red versus Black, let's say?" It's with some amount of trepidation that he watches Wil pour a shot of bubbling green liquid into each of the cups on his end — unlike some aboard this ship, Timon isn't all about the hooch — but that look rapidly fades into a rather pleased grin. Mmm. Smells like licorice. "And as my roommate used to say: 'Just remember that this is the kind of game where you win if you win and you win if you lose.' Your shot, gentlemen, and let the worship commence." Timon picks up the ball bearing on his end of the table and lobs it toward Roubani.

As the offer of cigarette to Thorn goes untaken, Roubani withdraws the pack and pulls one for himself just in time to have a ball bearing tossed at him. NEAR FUMBLE. The ball bearing gets eyed, as does the liquor with a sudden flicker of hesitant caution, then the bearing's tossed at Willem. "The guest of honour ought to start." Buck, passed. "And by the way," he adds, with a faint smirk. "We can do pink."

Setting the corkscrew down just as Roubani surprises the ginger-hued pilot who IMMEDIATELY swipes his hand outwards and catches the ball bearing in the curl of his palm with the aplomb of a circus performer. He rolls it on said open palm a little bit. Showoff. At the mention of the color though he winces, a little comically. "Pink? I'll debate telling Persephone that, Nadiv." He gives a little smirk -back- to his erstwhile teammate and then looks towards his enemies. "Prepare to be humbled. You people can't shoot, you know that?" He's actually bragging, here, and seems to look all the more self-conscious and silly while doing so. And then, right there, his own bloody tongue curses him and the ball bearing not only misses the cup on the edge he was aiming for but splatters a bit down the side. Alcohol abuse. "And mighty Pentheus - he has been humbled." That's a sigh.

"You'll -debate-?" Roubani snorts quietly, his lighter flicking to life. Smoke goes curling up the side of his face and he sets the lighter down as the ball goes rolling away. "Your silence may make do with pride, Price, but my silence may need to be bought…" He picks up the ball, giving the cups a wary look before the toss is made.

There's a belated wave of 'no thanks' to Roubani as Thorn withdraws his own pack, lighting a cigarette of his own. There's a grunt as Rebound's throw goes awry. "We might not be able t' shoot," Thorn smirks, "but we know how t' jam." A hole is punctured in his smack talk as Roubani does, in fact, sink his first throw. There's a shrug and a smirk, and Komnenos grabs the cup, dropping the ball in a nearby cup of water. He downs the shot, following it with a long drag of the cigarette. After rinsing both of the bearings, he hands one to Timon, and makes his first toss. With a perfect arc, the ball bearing plunks into a cup. The smirk widens. "That's for you, Poet."

"I still think you should go with ivory," observes Timon, who jumps backwards to avoid being hit in the head by Rebound's errant shot. "But where you're going to find enough muslin, silk, and motionweave to make a veil, let alone an entire wedding dress — HAH." Ivory pumps a fist — yes, it's as awkward a motion as it sounds — before he too lines up his shot. He misses the table entirely; indeed, the ball-bearing zips past Roubani's head with remarkable velocity before clanging off the wall and settling at Rebound's feet. And he hasn't even started drinking yet.

"Name your price, Lieutenant Roubani." The reddish-haired pilot shoots at his teammate. First and foremost, Wil is nothing if not a good loser. "Fair enough." He smirks at Thorn. Maybe it was the comeback, or just the fact that Thorn pulled off an envy-inducing throw. He grabs his own cup and sighs, tossing back a round with an easy gasp. "Ah. That's how to do it," he breathes.

"Motionweave. I think I'll pass on that." Wil says succintly as he stoops downwards to scoop up the bearing and gives it a lazy toss over towards the table. It rolls around the inside rim of its target and 'plops' into the liquor. He simply finishes it with a grin. "One thing I do -not- do is tacky, sir."

Roubani shoots Thorn a bit of a glare as the DRANK comes round to him. He picks up the cup, clearing his throat quietly. "To Willem and Persephone," he intones with intense gravitas, before tipping it up. Dooown it goes, and as he coughs a bit, his face flushes a faint red. Gosh that's warm. "I will think about that!" He warns Willem with a slight shake of his index finger towards the man, then one eye squints shut towards Ivory and he comments cheekily, "I suppose they could sew the dress out of bedsheets. It would save time afterwards." Ball bearing fetched, thrown. SCORE.

Thorn groans at the epic fail that is Timon's attempt at a throw, though there's a slight grin at Roubani's reaction to the shot. "Arc, Ivory. Not a frakkin' line drive." He shakes his head, sighing as Wil and Roubani are both remarkably free of fail on the next round. The bearings come out of their respective cups, and Thorn picks both up, handing one to Ivory and slamming down the other one with a gulp. While Timon contemplates his drink, Komnenos rinses the bearings off again and makes his throw. Swish. Drink.

One for Thorn, one for Timon. The man obligingly grabs a cup and tilts his head back before gulping down the fluorescent green liquid. His eyes widen as his throat starts to burn, but somehow he manages to force it down. "Whoa," he mumbles when he recovers his voice. "Rabbit wasn't kidding about this stuff." Brown eyes blink several times to re-focus his vision before he shoots. "From what I've seen, they'll do it anywhere but the bed. Maybe you should consider an inflatable mattress for the train." Ball rinsed off, Timon shoots. Yeahhh. Looks like Thorn will be carrying this team.

It could have been the immediate effect of the drink, but Wil's pale cheeks flush a touch of red at Roubani's statement. Not the toast. He bows his head with flamboyant graciousness for that. "Thank you." But the latter statement earns a stern "Ahem." sound. As Thorn sinks another one, he sighs, as meanders on over to grab his next cup. "To a better woman than I could have asked for." He says, raising his own for a toast and downs it with another rumble in his throat. That's two drinks, for anyone counting. Grinning cheekily, he shoots Timon a -look- as he goes to line up his next shot. "What you've seen? SEEN? Seriously, Ivory. You haven't -seen- a bloody thing." The words are sharp, but the smirk and the tone delivering them are comic as intended. Oh shit, son. He takes the ball and launches it sidearm into the next cup, towards the center of the lineup. *Plop*. "YOUR TURN, SIR."

Roubani chokes a bit at Timon's response. "From what you've seen?" He exclaims softly, rather mirroring Willem's outcry. "I would ask if you had anything better to do, but I'm not certain I want to hear about it." Spared the booze this ronud, he picks up the ball bearing and lobs it smartly. POINT, and he gives Thorn a triumphant look. "And thus, revenge is a dish best served 140 proof."

"You seem t' be mistaking me for a lightweight, Poet. I'm here t' drink." Thorn smirks at Roubani, a slight alcohol-induced tinge beginning to show on his cheeks. "T' Rebound and She-who-invented-the-nickname." He picks up the cup and true to form, downs the contents with a quick swig. It's slammed down energetically into the stack with the other empties; someone's flashing back to his undergrad days. Thorn makes his throw, and just like that he's three for three. "How's it taste? Good, I hope?"

"From what I've seen." Wil's just a little red; Timon, for his part, is already brilliant crimson, blood having surged to his cheeks and ears a few seconds after the liquor hit his system. Judging from how well the Vipers are shooting, he's going to be drinking a hell of a lot more before this game is over. In the meantime: "And what I've seen cannot be unseen," Ivory avers, picking up yet another cup and raising it high. "So here's to lounges, to socks, and to locks on doors." CHUG CHUG CHUG, AIM, FIRE: and boom goes the dynamite. A winner iz he, though he has to lean back against a couple of boxes to keep his balance after his bearing hits home.

With the double-team of Black Squadron firmly in place, Wil's lips twitch a tad and he eagerly steps forward and downs another shot. "Ugh. This. This one. I'm going to be feeling this, I think." Smirking at Thorn, he snorts out a laugh. "She does that, unfortunately. R —" he doesn't actually drop the dreaded 'Rosebud' here but it was clearly telegraphed. With an aside to Timon, he twitches his nose at the older man and states, "Tell them all of what you've seen, O, wise one." He's getting a bit flippant. Maybe even tipsy. Picking up the ball bearing, he hucks the item and it not only misses the shot, but bounces as it hits Ivory square in the knee. FOUL. He just grins at the other man cheekily. "Sorry."

Roubani sighs dramatically at Thorn and picks up his cup, a vague hesitation still hitching his movements before he downs it. Teeth grit, cough hard as he shoots Willem a bit of a look. "Price, for goodness' sake. Reliving is why they came up with home video, you know." Ball bearing fished up and in hand, he aims valiantly for the cup, and at the last second crooks his wrist a bit too hard. It caps Ivory in the other knee. "Oh. My bad."

"Don't you even, Rebound. Don't you even." Thorn's grinning as he rebukes Wil, though. He's grinning even more as both of the Viper jocks' shots miss, and Thorn snatches one of the ball bearings as it bounces off the cup and back onto their 'table'. He rinses it off and raises his arm to throw; but his coordination has evidently been affected by the rapid fire slamming of shots. Well, he did say he wanted to drink… He releases the throw, but the bearing is released too early; it flies in a high, lazy arc and bounces with a dull thud off of Roubani's forehead. Sober Thorn would wince, apologize, and ask if Poet is OK; Slightly Inebriated Thorn simply starts laughing his ass off.

"For Fallout's sake, Price, I hope you've got — I hope you've got better aim than — godsdammit, Poet, that was my bad knee." Dirty joke — he's capable of those? — is set aside as Timon is PWND in not one but both of his legs. Hard, too, judging from the way he sinks to the ground, or maybe he's just trying to find the ball bearing, of which he sees not one but … two … and now one. Eventually, though, he manages to stand, and he even lets loose an air-sucking laugh as Thorn flails madly beside him. Then, bracing himself on his ECO's shoulder, he too looses volley number — whatever. The end result? It's as disastrous as one might expect, thudding squarely into Roubani's gut before dropping to the floor. "You looked like a cup, Poet," he offers, a loopy grin on his face. "And what's this Rebound shouldn't even – do?"

"I still say, for all the 'innuendo' that floats around thanks to this gracious gentleman." Wil says, wincing as the game goes Aft -fast-, and spouting off a bit of a breathy laugh as he indicates Timon with a swipe of his hand, "people really know nothing. Video. Like I would cheapen the experience." Another laugh, as he takes another shot. "Mmm. This is. Yeah." He starts snickering at nothing now, and RIGHT THEN he gets beaned in the head. "FRAK. Thorn." A hand goes up to his forehead. "Great. I have a frakking ball-stamp on my forehead." Speaking of tasteless jokes. He winces a little bit in mild pan but bends down and scoops up the ball, it bounces off a crate next to the table and goes skittering off into a dark corner. "Shit. Game over? Or game on." Walking over to take another drink now, the clearly tipsy Wil grabs a cup in each hand, drinks one and hands one blindly to the Pilot-pile, first come, first served. "Also all comments about aim will be squelched or I will tell Ariadne about your horrible secret."

Ow, what the—! Roubani flinches back as he gets cracked in with a ball bearing, feeling Timon's shot peg him in a rib right right after. Oh see, now it's on. He grabs something from his front jacket pocket, which turns out to be not one, not two, but three pens (because a true nerd never leaves home without them), which all get pitched squarely at Ivory's chest in a bunch. And after that, a dignified sniff, straightened feathers. "I told you I had more." Further "violence" is stemmed by Wil's offering of cups, which lets both Kom and Timon accept before accepting the last himself. It would probably be much more hesitant, perhaps even politely refused, if he wasn't already feeling kind of warm from the shots. Brow arched at Timon. Horrible secret?

"Ha.. hee… heh heh… almost got y'r conk.. ha ha hah…" Thorn is still laughing, though he's together enough to take a step forward to take the cup from Willem's hand. Finally, with a shake of the head, his laughter dies enough for him to swallow the shot, and the burning of the alcohol down his throat does the rest. "Should be an interesting yarn for th' lady," he remarks to Willem with a smirk. At the mention of Timon's horrible secret, Anton turns to face said Raptor pilot with an expression of mock surprise and sympathy. "Terrible secret, eh? Kinna get it up, kin y'?" As it often does when he starts drinking, Thorn's accent thickens slightly.

Timon's taken two ball bearings to the knees, three pens to the chest, and a good two — wait, make that three, now four, now five — shots of ambrosia. Yeah, he's down for the count, grabbing another cup from the table for good measure before slipping down to the ground, back resting lightly against the crate. "What secret?" he wonders aloud — and then he turns and punches Thorn in the leg. Hard. "That — that there is PROJECTION," the pilot proclaims triumphantly. "Know you are. What am I?" Schoolyard taunts: that's the best he can do.

Ding ding ding. Wil's solution and immediate answer is to swill his cup to the very last drop. There are no more ball bearings at hand and it seems he's forgotten about the basic mechanics of the game. Doesn't matter — at this point, pretty much everybody has won. Or lost, if you will. Smirking faintly, he just says in a voice contiaining a ridiculous amount of mirth, "Secret? Let's just say there's this little place on the outskirts of Murro on Tauron called 'Full Colors' and there was a certain guy who danced on Ladies' Night under the stagename 'The Lion.' Seems like he was a bit younger and spry." The joke is as ridiculous as it is impossible, for reasons of timing as well as many others.

Somebody certainly had to have warned Roubani that when a group of grown men get trashed, the conversation inevitably turns to things like this. Maybe not. It is, perhaps, a good thing that a hefty portion of the drinking occured first, or else he'd never have laughed at Thorn's jab at Timon. Red as his face still is, probably an equal combination of polite embarassment and liquor. He doesn't really have to say, per se, though as he's using the time to sip from his cup that may change sooner than later.

"Ow, y' bastard," Thorn protests as he's viciously attacked. "Use it or lose it, eh, Timmy? Don't blame me y' haven't had a chance t' dip y'r wick before now." There's certainly a salacious note in that smirk now, isn't there? He pays the lost ball bearings no mind, as the game is suddenly and simultaneously forgotten.

"You, Rebound, are absolutely full of it. And what's 'it'? It's made up of lies, of swill, of slop, of balderdash, of absolute reeking shit." Timon looks mightily offended, or as mightily offended as he can look when his face is the color of the lights in that street on the outskirts of Murro Price was just talking about. "Besides. I am. Still. Spry." Just look at him: head tilted sideways, mouth slightly open, legs splayed out like a marionette without strings. "As for you, Thorn — I'll have you know — " His reply dies on his tongue, drowned by another swig of ambrosia. "Never mind."

"She hasn't seen the world, you know. She said so, herself." Wil states, demurely, looking at the pile of pilots and starting to snicker uncontrollably. "We havn killed th'last of it." He mutters, dropping syllables as he slurs just a tad, starting to drift in his walk as he walks back over to the remaining cups and grabs a couple more. Well, three to be precise. Walking back, he manages not to spill which is sort of a testament to balance and maybe some grace of the Gods. "I can't say anything about the 'spry.' But who knows? I have an easy time believing she'd imagine you as some kind of Tauron love machine." A series of snickers ensues again, through his nose as he stoops downward to set down the remaining cups. "To Timon, 'The Lion' Stathis. Needing a pair of socks of his own." He toasts, raising his own drink before knocking it back. At least he's in better spirits.

Roubani dissolves into a couple helpless sounds of laughter at the end of Willem's toast. 'Giggling' might be more apt for the first sound or two, but for the sake of dignity we'll still call it laughter. "To Ivory," he agrees aloud, rubbing the back of his hand over his reddened nose.

"T' th' Lion, may he find his socks," Thorn echoes the toast with another smirk as he reaches for another shot, raising it in salute before it goes the way of the six others before it — burning down his throat. "And his voice…" he says with a raised eyebrow after the older man trails off saying whatever he was saying to Thorn a moment ago.

No such luck, Thorn: Ivory's still sufficiently lucid that he doesn't disclose — well, whatever he was about to disclose. "I think I'd better take a break for now," Timon confesses, words spilling out of him with remarkable rapidity now that his tongue's been loosened: six drinks in thirty minutes will do that to a man. "I'm a lightweight, a featherweight — not heavy, nor welter — and Wil." His gaze swivels with remarkable suddenness to where Price has just set down a trio of cups. "The lion? I like it." His grin threatens to split his face in two. "It rhymes, the way I say it: TIE-mun, not ti-MOAN. Rhymes more than 'Ivory', anyway, or 'Aaaahvry' — that last, if you ask Kissy, which makes it rhyme even less." And then, inexplicably, he reaches for one of Price's drinks. "While we're on the subject — to Anton Komnenos. He's not the fabulous first, nor the sloppy second, but — only the third's the charm." Gulp, hiss, ahhhhhh. That was a short break.

"Oh shit. Heh. Did I just do something clever? That's terrible. I'll be sure it won't happens again." Wil simply pipes up, his cheeks flushed pink as he lets out a ridiculous stream of laughs into his cup, muffling his voice with another sip as it goes down. "Whoah. Haven't done this in a while. Haven't been this -happy- about anything either." He flat-out confesses, without any of his usual circumlocution.

"You can even go home and practice it in copperplate," Roubani tells Timon, with a smirk touching his half-smile. "How is that going, by the way? Someone did mention some books of highly questionable literary integrity had gone checked out from the library not long after you left one day. Not using those for 'practice', are we?" He drains the rest of his old cup - not even having got to the new one yet, and coughs softly, looking at Willem with a slight grin.

There's a slight nod to Timon at the acknowledgement as Thorn drains another cup, yet the other two men seem to be distracted and don't notice that, like, a toast was made. THANKS GUYS. Whoa, he still has a cigarette. He flicks the ash of the tip and takes a deep drag, puffing a smoke ring or two from pursed lips. He's not feeling it like Timon undoubtedly is at this point — Komnenos actually has some tolerance — but his head is starting to swim around a bit itself.

"Someone mentioned what, now?" Timon looks up at Poet, a little surprised. Wil's note on being happy will just have to wait. "Highly questionable literary integrity? That could be anything, really — though was this somebody talking about that trash I borrowed a few nights ago? The one book I managed to find about epistemology? Because that was questionable, and hardly literary, and — " Ivory blinks, crumpling up the paper cup in his hand. "You said 'practice' like it was a dirty word, and you don't say dirty words. Something is up." Thorn gets a glare entirely devoid of malice or resentment as a smoke ring drifts into his airspace.

Wil's hands just fly upwards, palms out and open in a gesture of 'I got nothin' to do with this' after Timon speaks. Really, he doesn't. Yeah. The guest of honor goes back, stumbling only once as he manages to grab the very last round. Congratulations, this bottle has been K I L L ED. Almost.

Roubani's slight grin shows some teeth at Timon. "I do say dirty words. Ask Thorn, I've said one to him before." An index finger raises quickly in Thorn's direction. "I'm sorry about that by the way. Mostly." Then he abruptly flips topics and looks back at Willem, his eyes making a slight drift as he attempts to pin down exactly which of several Willems is WILLEM. "What exactly are they going do with you after the wedding?" The question just rolls out, assisted no doubt by liquor. "I mean…I suppose we could convert a storage closet and hang 'The Tanners' on the front, but it might get a little cramped."

There's a wave of cheery dismissal from Thorn over in Roubani's general direction. "Not like you've not heard one or two from me before, Poet," he says with a disarming, slightly inebriated smile. He chortles loudly, looking over in Willem's direction. "Ah, th' erstwhile Mr. Persephone Tanner." Thorn smirks over at the ginger pilot. "Couldn't be any more cramped than berthings, an' I'm sure the bliss of married life will make up for any shortcomings in their living space, eh?"

"Damnably hard to find a bunk big enough for two on board this ship," mutters Timon, rocking back and forth in time to a beat only he can hear. "Hardly big enough for one, those things, let alone two — or two with a vid player — can't even put that thing on the shelf — " Timon would turn more red as he understands the implications of this disclosure, except he doesn't really have any further to go on the scale of pale to blushing like mad. "Or you could try Persephone Price," he offers altogether too quickly. "Alliteration, see, that's critical, absolutely critical. It's how my entire family was named: Ts and Ss, all of us." Blink. "And wait a minute there, Rebound, waaaait a minute: did Poet just say he talks dirty to Thorn?"

"Maybe, Ivory. Maybe. I have this rule, you see? I don't judge. Really. " Wil looks between Roubani and Komnenos pointedly as he mumbles, pink-cheeked as he knocks back probably the last cup -he- is going to have for a while as he stumbles a moment and just leans against a crate to avoid a messy, fail-ridden and fall-ridden accident. "Kidding, Nadiv. Kidding." There's a cough there. "My mother hyphenated her last name. And her mother did. That's just. Well, supposedly a tradition. There was one decent Price man in the family and maybe a second." He raises an open hand in indication, beaming a sort of cheesy, crooked, askew smile. "So I'm only semi-attached to it. Not that any of this is a really big, important consideration. But you bring up a good point. We don't really mess around in this room. Or the Lounge." Gee, Timon got a big pointed glance RIGHT THEN AND THERE. "Or the Berthings. Although, well, I'm not discounting the possibility something -might- have happened once in her quarters." Again, he repeats. "Sorry, Nadiv." Poor guy's rack is diagonally adjacent, after all. "But. Well, the rest is a closely guarded secret. Suffice to say that I haven't thought ahead, and as I've said before, were our prospects in a 'normal' world I'd be waiting a year or more before even considering this. But I want to just go ahead and do it now. Because I know I'd do it anyway." There's an implication here based on life expectancy but he doesn't elaborate. "Who knows? Were this a NORMAL ship we might have a few extra unused quarters for such things. I heard that's what happened for Officers on full-fledged Battlestars. Right? It wasn't like I ever planned on finding someone aboard a ship anyway."

Roubani gives Timon a squinted look at the Thorn comment and hmpfs, pointedly. "While I'm sure that would suit one, two, or possibly more of Case's fantasies picked up from a lifetime too many of those awful girl magazines of hers, don't get your hopes up." He downs another swallow of liquor, now quite surely past where he ought to have stopped. The mock glare turns onto Willem, but it quickly evaporates as the man talks. And talks. And talks some more. "Just once?" He asks, drily. "I remember throwing a shoe on two occasions, Mister Price." It only sounds half-serious, and he sniffs before he goes on. "Well I suppose one could —." Pause. His eyes cut back at Timon. "You had relations in the Lounge?"

Thorn groans over at Roubani and Timon. "My girlfriend's fantasies are, I'm sure, nothing you'd want t' be exposed t', Ivory… nor would I think would Poet wish t' be involved." His face flashes an even darker red than it was before. Ah, alcohol. "My girlfriend… that… still feels a little odd t' say." Thorn smiles embarrassedly. He looks over at Timon with an interested — and somewhat horrified — expression. "The Lounge, Ivory? Gods, that room will be forever tainted in m' mind now." That look turns into something of a smirking leer. "What's she like? Way she fights, I bet she's a hellcat, eh?"

"Be that as it may, Rebound, I still think you should call her Persephone Price," says Timon mulishly. It's as if Wil's argument has slid off him like water off the back of a duck — a duck who now weaves left and right in agonizingly slow motion, as if the pond beneath him were cresting with waves. "And as for you, Thorn, and you, Poet, you cheeky twits: we haven't had relations anywhere, if that's what you're asking." Well SHIT. Uh, quick! Hide. Or drink — which he does, with aplomb. "You didn't ask that," he mutters. "That really wasn't what you were asking." Then, louder, and altogether more brightly: "SO, Poet. How's your love life going?" It's accompanied by a wide smile that would be genuine if not for the terror that manages to seep through his drunken haze: please let this work.

Oh no he DI-INT. Wil's response to this is a soft, pointed, almost -indignant- 'Ahem' which is followed by a sweetly presented protest in an affected patrician dialect, one would assume. "Shoe? That was you, Nadiv? Oh. Um." He seems almost abashed at first. "I will have you know, that the lounge, the Head on Deck One, the Game Room, the Mess Hall, the Laundry, the Library, and almost —" he coughs, not being able to keep this up. "No, no no, you're all wrong. None of these places. ESPECIALLY not the Lounge. I'm assuming Ivory didn't. And I -especially- did not." The arguement about names goes untouched. Wait. "So, Ivory. Did you? Or didn't you?" He collapses into a fit of snickers. Still, the redirect sort of worked, his gaze goes to Roubani now.

Roubani is laughing by the time Thorn's done with that, a hiccup punctuating the laughter. "The LOUNGE LION! Ha ha!" He even makes those two distinct syllables of laughter before dissolving again into near hysterics. His head even drops back and bangs the wall, which he barely notices as he rubs his flushed face. Timon's flipping the topic onto him prompts a hitch where his eyes flicker. Willem, though, provides a rolling train to stay on, and stay he firmly does. That way. "Don't even try it, Ivory." Squint. "So…you haven't?"

Thorn cackles at Timon's sputtering protests. "Why do I suspect you're as bad a liar as Kissybear, Ivory?" he says with another smirk, as soon as the laughter subsides. One of his fingers wags in Ivory's direction. "It hurts that you don't feel you can be truthful with us, Lounge Lion," he continues in his best pedantic-shrink voice before snickering again. His eyes slide over to regard Roubani as Timon asks his question. "Now there's an interesting question," he remarks. "How about it, Nadiv?"

"I liked the Lion straight up much better, Poet, even though this one's got alliteration — oh my. That's clever, I'll give you that, and — " Only now does Timon realize Poet's dodged his question. "Somebody get that man more alcohol. Thorn? Moonshine? Go. And I am telling you the truth." Looks like Ivory's pride just took a hit. "Rebound's list? All of those places, they're safe. Storage rooms? All safe. Lounge, too, even though that was on his list, it's most assuredly safe. Black Berthings — also assuredly safe, bathrobe incident aside. Ready room? Also safe. Nothing, not for her lack of trying, but — " DAMMIT. Internal monologue, meet outside world. Cough. "Well, Poet?"

There's a cough. A rather dry cough on Willem's part as his lips curl upwards in a wry smirk as he laughs like a drunken buffoon. At this point, he very clearly matches that description too, it would seem. A flash of teeth ensues and his eyelids flutter closed and then a ridiculous-sounding stream of laughter ensues. "What was that advice one of you mentioned? GET IT BOY."

"In all seriousness. If you haven't yet, you'll probably be sorry." Rebound amends, lightly. He -almost- sounds sober here. Almost. Poor Poet is spared the Ginger Inquisition, for now.

Wow watch that eye contact dissolve. Yo cup, how YOU doin. Roubani lifts said cup for another swallow, if only because his brain registers that his mouth just went dry. "Oh, it…" The hesitation sounds uncomfortable even through the haze of alcohol, and he turns all his fuzzy focus on Willem. Follow the ginger, guys, follow the ginger.

"Well, if you put it that way…" Thorn grabs one of the bottles of the clear rotgut from their 'table' and cracks the seal. He cocks an eyebrow at Timon. "Y' know, it's not usually th' woman who's the one trying t' get the man in the sack. Seems a little backward, eh?" He shakes his head. "Your deplorable taste in women aside, maybe you should just let her have her way with you." He smirks, bringing the bottle back over to the gathering. "As for you, Poet… spill." He begins pouring the everclear into Roubani's cup. "The quicker you talk, the sooner I stop pouring."

"Same guy gave me that advice who gave us that drink over there." Timon lifts his hand as he gestures toward the ambrosia sitting somewhere off in the distance — everything's all vague, now, and swimming in the air. "So here's to Rabbit, with appreciation, and — appreciation, yeah, that's the word." An imaginary cup is poured out beside him, the sleeves of his blues wrinkling as he raises his hand. And then, suddenly, he's stumbling to his feet, lashing out with his arms as he tries to find something — anything — with which to brace himself. That crate over there — that'll work. "I like that idea, Thorn — but just who are you calling deplorable?" Ruh-roh. Hackles are rising. "Look at me. Keep on giving that stuff to Poet, but look right here." Two fingers go from pointing to Timon's eyes to pointing at Thorn's. "She kicked the shit out of you." Ivory's smile is a little smug. "I'll tell her to gloat more."

"Seems like Rabbit is a veritable -fountain- of advice." Wil suddenly says, smirking outrageously. "Listen to him. At least on this. Seems like he knows what he's talking about. Guess he's a ladies' man. Or something." Snicker-snort on the part of Willem as he nurses his basically empty cup, as something of a comforting gesture. "That ring and all." Now his tone gets a bit confessional. "Can't believe I had that thing lying around all this time." His foot scuffs against the floor of the storage room. "Wait. Thorn? Kicked the -shit- out of him? I hope you didn't tell Martin this."

"You think I can't drink all that?" Roubani tells Thorn, challengingly…even if the mere thought does seem to make him sound a tad bit ill. Timon, though, is then on his feet, and his fingers gently nuuuudge the neck of Thorn's bottle up till the flow stops. Convenient distractions ftw. "Ivory, settle down before you fall over. So she's aggressive, who minds. One is, one isn't, it meets in the middle of moderation - there's your alliteration for you - and how Apollan!" Makes total sense when he's not sober. Willem's comments distract him after that. "You did get the ring from Hale?" Huh?

"Um. No?" Really, Poet, what did you expect Anton to say? The cup is over half full by the time Poet manages to nudge him away, so Thorn simply shrugs and retreats, capping the bottle and sitting back down. "I didn't like her even before she kicked th' shit out of me," Thorn retorts mildly, looking over to Timon. "I mean, you like her, whatever. But don't expect me t' ever volunteer for a double date, put it that way. Listen t' Poet and settle th' frak down."

"I'm okay — " Whoa. Timon lists to port, sticking one hand back against the crate and missing entirely. Fortunately, there's that second crate beside him to extend the edge, the support from which is the only thing here that's preventing his fall. "Settled," he insists. "I'm settling." Whoo. Breathe. His face is still damnably red. "You should tell that to Dash," he says when he's sufficiently recovered from disaster. "About the fight. Yet another great idea from Rebound, that is." Apparently he missed the 'not'. "And Poet, a hint: I have no idea what you're talking about." Cue the loopy grin. "Unless that was you giving me advice on love." His finger points at the cup full of moonshine. "Drink up."

"No no, that's -not- a suggestion." Wil suddenly seems alarmed as he made a fairly drunken conversation-stumble towards Ivory. Best thing to do? Well. Change the subject. "No. I didn't get it from Rabbit." He just says, a little haltingly towards Roubani. "He just told me to give it to her, its cursed origins be damned. That all started from when he saw the receipt and got curious. You know how ship-to-ship CAP chatter is."

"I take it that's your advice on love?" Roubani shoots back at Timon, with a dry smirk. The cup of VERY STRONG DRANK is in his hand and cautious about going further, especially after he sniffs it. Good lords. "Thorn, what is this, and will it bleach my clothes?"

Thorn snickers at Poet's question. "It's alcohol, Poet, and while it may or may not bleach y'r clothes, it'll definitely put hair on y'r chest. Drink up." He claps the man on the shoulder — oops, yeah, totally a little too tipsy to remember the man's touchaphobia.

"And you've got better, Poet?" Timon shoots back, running a hand through his hair as he raises a hand to Thorn — demanding the moonshine, from the looks of it. "By all means, share your experience with the room, so we may all drink deep from the font of knowledge — fountain — fount?" Ivory coughs to clear his throat, the scent of licorice filling the air around him. "All three of them work." The man grimaces at the thought of hair on Poet's chest, but he otherwise says nothing.

Wil merely leans back against the crate again, smirking lazily and eyelids drooping. "So we're in the advice column portion of the evening, mm?" He snickers and slumps back against the thing more severely, reaching over towards his empty-ass cup and giving it a bit of a dramatic frown.

The booze prevents too jerky of a reaction to Thorn's hand on Roubani's shoulder. It tenses on reflex, his back shifting, but his main and alcohol-limited attention is on the paint thinner in his cup. "Here I was trying to conserve razors." Which he does fairly well; he has a face that probably takes a week to grow a five o clock shadow. A snort at Ivory. "I think you've drunk plenty deep already. And it sounds as though Price wants the floor." He finally puts cup to mouth and takes a swallow. A far too big one. MISTAKE. His face turns quite red instantly, and he chokes down the swallow. Then for serious, tears in eyes as he starts coughing. Up. Lung.

Thorn snickers at Roubani's reaction to the homemade brew. "Ah, taste of home," he says with a grin as he watches Roubani do his best to hack up his insides. The cap comes back off the bottle and he pours a healthy slug into Timon's cup, then Willem's. "Just like th' shit Uncle Vanya used t' cook up." His cup is raised. "Slainte mhath," he says sardonically before taking a long pull from his own cup.

Timon lurches to his feet as Poet starts convulsing — and then falls right back down, landing on the seat of his uniform with a loud and resounding thud. "Slowly," he mutters to himself; this time, he succeeds, though he has to take advantage of that nearby box again. "You okay there?" the pilot asks, shuffling over to where Poet is at: and, coincidentally, where Thorn is standing with a cup. For him. And Ivory's an observant one: he'll take his drink a sip at a time. There's one for whatever Anton said, and another — "To Nadiv Roubani," the man proclaims solemnly. "And making him sufficiently drunk that he'll tell us just what he looks for in a companion, so the most deserving among us can have not one but two bunks in which to sleep sweet slumbers and whisper sweet nothings." Sip number three; then: "Did I just say that in front of him?" Rebound and Thorn get querying looks. "Shit."

"And here I think I was abstaining." Wil mutters to himself, amidst something of a frown. "Uh, not abstaining from -this-" he lifts up the now-filled boozecup in an unsteady, almost reverent manner. Maybe it's Thorn's toast, or because it's MOAR HOOCH OMG. In either case, it gets tipped back and part of it is downed with a rough hiss. "Unh. Burn." He coughs afterwards and taps his foot against the floor a little restless. "No, I meant, wanting the floor. Besides, Lion. You just said it." He gestures towards Timon with a look that finally turns cheeky, seeming pleased at the attention has shifted. Away from him.

Feet spread, Roubani has resorted to leaning over his knees to cough. When he can finally lift his head and sip air back into a chest that's sticking to his spine, moisture beads his eyelashes. The 'Lion' reference sets off a fit of laughter, evenly quashed as he draws a dignified breath. As dignified as one can be with a bright red face. "You're a nutter," he accuses Ivory gravely, gesturing at him with a crooked index finger. Or at least what appears to be Ivory; there might be more than one of him over there. There's just barely enough higher function left to continue evasive action. "I would rather know why Price is calling Thorn 'Rosebud'."

"Y' know, Ivory, we ought t' change your callsign t' Lion, now," Thorn muses, gesturing grandly with his arm as he takes another slug of his drink. He lights another cigarette, looking somewhere between Timon and Roubani as they trade banter. There's still only one of each of them, but wow are the ship's stabilizers totally frakked right now. Only way to explain how they're moving around like that, right? He flushes, though, at the mention of 'Rosebud' and his mouth opens in a slight gape in Poet's direction. "No. No, you don't," he replies, pointing the burning cancer stick at Roubani.

"What's a thorn without a rosebud to match?" wonders Timon blithely, setting himself down on top of the crate/table with utmost precision — which is to say, he doesn't fall, though Thorn's recently-liberated moonshine does spill all over the jacket of his blues. Ivory either doesn't notice or doesn't care. "Makes perfect sense to me, to the point at which I don't see how you'd have a problem with it — that is, an issue with it." The pilot claps his ECO on the shoulder before turning his blurry gaze to Poet, letting Anton's note about the callsign slide for now. "Can't hide forever, Nadiv Roubani. We have scanners. Electromagnetic. INFRARED. Like your face."

"Wait," appends Ivory after yet another sip of moonshine. "Just red. Not infra."

At Roubani's succint question, Willem's eyes narrow slightly as he lets out a soft cough. Over towards Thorn. For whatever reason, Rebound's not out for blood at this point and simply smiles a coy smile over the top of the cup held before him at Thorn, although this is directed at the room at large. "It's really less interesting than it sounds." He agrees. Timon's sage observation results in a cough-snicker though and he rumbles into the cup as a way to muffle it.

"Oh yes, yes I do." Roubani answers Thorn. His speech sounds a lot less mushy in his own head. Thankfully Timon sort-of distracts him on the sheer fact that: "That made /no/ sense." A sip from the moonshine sets off a faint cough, but his throat's too numb to give much else of a crap about the burn this time. His free hand makes a useless gesture in the air. "Fine, fine…what to say? I'm sure it's…all…universal." He makes a hand motion that indicates the room at large. "Mostly. Right?"

Thorn shoots an acerbic look over at Timon. "They call me 'Thorn' because I'm a frakkin' thorn, dammit. Do I look like a frakkin' 'rosebud' t' you?" Then, back over to Roubani. "The name comes from th' fiance of the future Mr. Tanner over here, who thought she was being clever. Or cute. Or both." Another slug of the moonshine is accompanied by a drag from the cigarette. Somehow, he still has the coordination to blow a smoke ring or two. "You and y'r frakkin' dual— dualities." That's said back to Timon, presumably. His head does its best ping-pong ball expression as he looks again at Poet. "And you. You have a remarkable talent for obf… obfus… ob-fus-ca-shun."

"No," drawls Timon, sitting up as straight as he can. "They call you Thorn because all you do is prick — and occasionally thrust, though that state of affairs might change very soon. And REALLY. That was the idea of Missus Persephone Price?" Ivory would look overjoyed if not for the fact that he looks seasick; somehow, he still manages to chatter on. "No choice, then. We must respect her wishes. And if that doesn't make sense to you, Poet — drink more. You'll comprehend, understand — learn — " The Raptor pilot sways backwards, cup tilting precipitously close to his ironed blue trousers. "And be less vague."

"On some level, she was." Clever or cute, Rebound does not make this distinction as he succintly addresses Komnenos. "Don't look at me. I was going to leave it alone." Wil says, faux-demurely as he sips another third of the cup. Mmm. He's not going to be walking straight out of here, that's for damn sure. Kicking his legs outwards he swirls the thing in his hand and he looks between Ivory and Thorn, settling on the latter. He coughs at Ivory's out-of-nowhere sputtering and just erupts into a fit of laughter, seeming helpless in its throes.

Roubani too just starts laughing for precious little reason at Timon's bizarre lecture to Thorn. As to the end, hah. "You've got some nerve, Aaaahv'ry." He gets the drawl perfectly. Someone's been spending too much time around Matto. "Barely took the class himself and now turning around to teach, I can tell you were a TA." He reaches over his mug and bonks it against Thorn's shoulder. The liquor sloshes dangerously. "I am not…doing that. You try answering that question."

"Bastards. Th' lot of you," Komnenos retorts sardonically, seeking solace in a drink. The potent Aerelon homebrew doesn't offer reassurance, but it does offer a nice burn as it slides down his throat. As Roubani speaks, Thorn draws himself up. Sober, the action might have looked dignified; now, though, it probably just looks borderline comical. "I would, Poet," he says primly. "but I wasn't asked th' question, you were." Again, the cigarette is pointed at Roubani, and there's an expression on his face that might have been called stern, were Thorn not trying to suppress a laugh. "And I'll have y' know I was a frakkin' good TA."

"I think he was talking to me, Rosebud, about the — about being a bad teacher." Timon talks to Komnenos just to use that callsign again — throwing red to a bull. "And behold! A rebuttal: THAT — " The index finger of his cup-hand jabs at the top of Roubani's head, spilling some alcohol in the process. Whoa. Party foul. "That is the supreme hubris of a student who hasn't quite mastered the material." Parry, jab, sip. "Quit dodging or I'm whacking a letter grade off your score for this assignment."

"Ahhhrvy. What do ya sayy?" Wil's accent rolls out in some amateur facismile of one non-present Kisseus Matto's as well, as he finally settles down to the point of semi-coherent speech as opposed to laughter. Well, SEMI coherent is likely the best one will be getting from him. "TA's. Academic cost-cutting. Heh. Ha." He pipes up, suddenly, lifting a bleary-looking eyelid. "Confession time!"

"Hubris!" Roubani gestures threateningly at Timon, having to squint to get the man's image to stop spinning in front of him. "We'll not point fingers there, dear Ivory. Or has she not added your name yet to the list of gods she cries out to?" He snorts at Thorn, fishing a cigarette from his pocket and fumbling it clumsily between his fingers. "I'd suppose you were! So teach, oh Thorn. What…Hades…" He sniffs hard, grabbing his lighter up. "What was the question again?" Willem, thankfully saves this round and he smirks fuzzily that way.

"Oh. Well in that case, never mind," Thorn replies drolly at Timon's correction. "And y' just watch y'rself there, Muffy No-Master's." More DRANK is drank, and more smoke is smoked. "People from Aere— um, we din't sound like that, y' know." Anton's tone is dry as he flicks a mock-disapproving glare at first Willem, then Roubani. "Um." Thorn blinks. "Oh. Right. What're y' looking for in, um, a companion, then?" His head tilts to one side. "I think."

Timon's about to respond to Rebound until Poet fires that volley, and the man dissolves into a fit of laughter which he tries to stem with another drink. This works about as well as it sounds, which is to say, it doesn't work at all. Most of it ends up on the deck, on Rosebud, or both, depending on how good their respective reflexes are — not that the deck has reflexes, but still. "You live under her — on the bunk beneath her, that is," says Timon. "So you tell me what names she cries out to the gods — I'll even give you a pen. And another, if you answer the question that Rosebud so wonderfully phrased. I've got a couple more green ones — "

Snicker. Snort. Wil's mouth opens. Closes. He's apparently having trouble focusing here on something coherent or hilarious to say as his head spins amongst the three others. He forgot the 'confession' time comment for the time being, it would seem, snorting once more. "Oh. That's right. She's down there." He finally mouths, glancing at Roubani in pure, undisguised, if slightly comic pity. "I suppose you survived Red Squadron, but…" Wait. WHAT did Thorn say? "Muffy No? Never mind. Um, Poet. Yes. So what -is- your M.O., Nadiv? If you have one?" Uh oh.

"The industrial earplugs I bring home are not just for snoring, you know," Roubani informs Timon, loftily. "And the once I did hear screaming it sounded suspiciously like you." He sticks the cigarette in his mouth but it promptly falls out again as he starts laughing at Thorn's new name for poor Ivory. His hand stamps the falling cigarette against his chest and he brings it back up, coughing. "Looking…for?" He says woozily to Thorn. He might've gotten away with asking Thorn to repeat forever, but then Wil jumps in, and he registers that through the spinning haze. "Oh, I…" His face is turning red again. "…you know. Someone I get along with. Helps."

Thorn begins howling with laughter himself at Roubani's mention of screaming. For the moment, the matter of the question is forgotten. He simply sits back on his crate, shaking his head and smirking as he takes another drink of the rotgut in his cup. Blue eyes watch Roubani as Wil jumps in to keep the pressure on the reticent snipe.

This time, Timon is careful not to take a sip of his drink, going so far as to set his cup down before turning wrathful, bloodshot eyes on Roubani. "I haven't even slept over in her bunk, Poet, if you must know, but tonight — " Oh no. You know how they say alcohol gives a man courage to do stupid things? Yeahhhhh. "I'd stay somewhere else, if I were you — Thorn'll take you in, if Case isn't there first, and Kissy's always good for a huggy cuddle or a cuddly hug or whatever he dispenses." It seems like he's just resolved to pay dear Ariadne a visit. Batten down the hatches. "But to the matter at HAND!" Ivory clears his throat. "You get along with us just fine. Neither necessary NOR sufficient, that condition. Try again."

"Get along? I don't know, Poet. You've got charm. Not really -my- type, but I'm just being completely objective, here." Wil says, trapped in a fit of snickering even as he turns slightly red. He has a cup of something strangely liquor-ish in his hand as he slumps leaning down against a crate, looking amongst the three. "To be fair, uh. If you heard screaming it probably wasn't the bunk -directly- above you." Then a series of laughs ensues again as he adds, "No. Was kidding. Comic effect, you know?"

Entering - no wait - spying from the other room is Praxis Demitros, eyes narrowing at the gathering of people in the storage room at the moment. All the TACCO wanted to do was return some tools from the repair job he did on some minor comm systems. That's right. He volunteered for some snipe work one time and offered his expertise. Watching the drunken fun, Knight chews his lips and decides to conduct an experiment … calling into the room with his authoritative voice. "All hands, set Condition Two throughout the ship! I say again, set Condition Two!" Just to see what effect this would have on the party.

Roubani's squinted expression at Timon grows steadily more horrified. Thorn? CASE? His face then reddens at the description of Kissy, and his eyes abruptly flicker away. Conveniently to his unlit cigarette, which he finally gets around to. "I shall take the advice, Ivory. Believe me, I very much appreciate the storm warning." The lighting of this cigarette is an ordeal, flame going up and burning the end…at which point he realises it was backwards and he's smoking filter. He makes a sound between his teeth that was SO CLOSE to being a swear, but just sounds like "Frrriz!" as he snatches it back out of his mouth. Ew. A soft snort at Wil. "Try harmonising, it would make it easier on everyone who's got to listen, hmm?" And back to Timon, he sucks his teeth. And is about to answer when GOOD LORDS, PRAXIS. His hand violently fumbles his cup, dropping it and the rest of the precious liquor into a splash on the floor. Dude. FOUL.

Oh, strike three, Timon, strike three. As if getting everclear spewed on his uniform or being called That Name wasn't enough, the crack about his bunk results in Thorn's fist hammering into Ivory's shoulder. Playfully. Sort of. Right after that is when a new voice suddenly sounds, and Thorn's head cracks to one side like a whip. "FRAK!" Komnenos shouts in horror. He stands up, very nearly losing his cup in the process. In a panic, he starts rambling rapid-fire. "Whatth'hells… Ican'tfrakkin'flylikethis… Thea'llkillme… hellsshealreadywantst'…" And that's when he sees Praxis. Thorn scowls terribly, a twisted snarl coming over his features. "You SHEEPFRAKKER!" he yells, gesturing rather rudely at the man.

Roubani gets an exaggerated smile and a bow, which — given that Timon's on top of a crate — is more difficult than it would be if he'd been standing upright: not that he can stand upright, but the point remains. "Was that your screaming or Persephone Price's screaming?" wonders Timon, jerking a thumb at where Rebound is leaning, hand reaching for his cup. "I bet the louder one was — " And then Rosebud punches him and Roubani drops his cup and somebody shouts something about condition two — and, well, a man can only take so much, right? Down to the floor he goes, the fine lapels of his dress blues landing in the middle of a puddle of moonshine. "Sheepfrakker," he repeats, a hysterical smile on his face. "That's YOU, Rosebud, t' man from t' Aerelon from t' plains from t' cottages from t' cradle of t' breadbasket. New callsign for Passi! Lambkin!"

"Whoah. I think he's calling you a brother, Lieutenant!" BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Wil almost drops the cup as he bursts into another peal of sardonic laughter, slamming the rest of the rough liquor back and smashing it down on the crate, looking from Thorn to Praxis. Of course, the momentary look of shock and horror was displayed but Rebound lived true to his callsign and, well, bounced back quickly. Looking between Roubs and Timon now, the laughter trails off. "As I said, we don't torment the locals and confine our activities to maintenance access hub Br…" He trails off, coughing. Perhaps on a remnant of the liquor. And then he commits a faux-pas, the toe of his boot goes softly drifting into the edge of Ivory's backside. It's barely a tap, but he just totally kicked a superior officer in the ass. So, he only does what anyone could do in his situation. Laugh. "And for the record, she's —." Nah. He doesn't go there.

And thus does Ivory become the funniest thing Roubani has ever seen, starting laughing hysterically. Which is only made worse by Will's kicking the poor downed Lieutenant. A hand claps over his red face as he just laughs. And /laughs/.

You know how bloody hard it is to get down in here, let alone with a box? Thankfully Hale's stolen a dolly and is wheeling it in with a loud thump as the bloody thing goes over the doorway lip. A faint musing of his lips, before he is taking time to close the hatch behind him. "Right-sorry I am late brothers." comes that rather big and boisterous voice of the incoming, and still sober viper jock. "But I have the entertainment for the night.." Or something. A cough and he's making his way dragging the box towards where the other men are all located. "Pour me a cuppa.." or pass him the damned bottle. "And you all can thank th' stars I have me a dolly…"

If one was to look carefully at the large cardboard box that once read: RAPTOR PARTS they would notice it has been scratched out with a sharpie pen, and the larger word of CAKE put in its stead. "Price, mate you have to bloody open this." And no-do not ask how many cigarettes or hidden away booze bottles this cost him.

"Rosebud? Lambkin? Incredible. The statistics for callsign changes on this vessel must be fascinating indeed." Demitros murmurs, strolling into the bay carrying the tools, all the sheepfrakker comments just bouncing harmlessly off the rigid features of the iron Lieutenant Knight. He replaces the tools. sjhaking his head. "What is it that I stumbled upon, anyway? Is this some sort of particular occasion or a stroke of luck?" It is also of note that no apologies for making people fall/drop drinks/whatever are made.

Timon is kicked in the ass, and he responds the only way he knows how — by flailing his fist backwards in an attempt to strike at Rebound's shins and knock him to the ground in the process. "So Persephone Price likes things rough and tumble, does she?" the pilot offers, before looking up at Hale from his position on the ground — and Praxis, too. "You missed the party," he says lamely. "We had your ambrosia." No shit. "And some more of whatever — of whatever — uh, moonshine, because that looks like water but I PROMISE it isn't. And we played that game where you sink balls into cups and drink the ones you hit, except Rebound lost the ball bearings so."

"They're probably still in your kneecaps, Aaah'vry," Roubani calls over to Timon, a tear tracking its way down his cheek from the force of the laughter he'd just been battling with. He sniffs hard, coughing as the room spins a bit, and waves gaily to Praxis and Hale. "Price is getting married!"

"Shut up, you," Thorn growls down to Timon, as he nudges the prone man with his boot rather roughly. He rolls his eyes over at Wil before he notices another entrance. "Hale. Bro." He squints bleary eyed at the box Hale is wheeling in. "What th' frak does Rebound need with Raptor p— Oh, it's not parts. Shit." He passes the opened bottle of Aerelon's finest over in Hale's direction, then looks at Praxis with a thumb jerked at Willem. "Rebound's getting married."

"I could say Willem is getting married, but that'd be redundant, and I hate redundancy with true hatred of my soul," sniffs Timon as he's kicked. Again. FLAIL.

"Figures." Praxis mentions at the news offered by several people, ridding himself of the tools and then turning around to the populace, folding his arms over his chest. "Willem's adopting Persephone's name, right? There is not a single chance in hell that I am referring to my Countermeasures officer as Lt. Price. That is, strangely, all sorts of incorrect."

"I suppose they could trade first names," Roubani offers, in all the seriousness of a distinct lack of sobriety. The normally reticent, normally VERY sober JG's face is flushed quite healthily.

"Covered a shift for Price." part of his two fold gift right there. And with that eyes looking back towards Thorn with a snicker, before one meaty hand is reaching and taking up the offered bottle. A good long pull is slugged out, before Hale's lowering the bottle and closing his eyes for a good minute "Ffrfr." pause "Artemis Frak..What is this?" and yes he is having another tug, before passing the bottle back. Share and share alike. A grin is given over to Timon as he moves to situate the box a little, before pulling out his music player the ticking of the volume coming up can clearly be heard. "Bros, I totally promise you, some of the best entertainment the fleet has to provide..or some of the minimal that Red Squadron does, at least."

Evidently, something Praxis says is funny. Because in between drinks from his cup, he starts guffawing again. "Mr. and Mrs. Persephone Tanner!" he shouts gleefully. "We know who's goin' t' wear the pants in that one!" His non cup holding hand gesticulates wildly, tracing a pattern of cigarette smoke in the air, before he accepts the bottle back from Hale with a grin. "Everclear. Just like Uncle Vanya used t' make, eh?"

Evidently, something Praxis says is funny. Because in between drinks from his cup, Thorn starts guffawing again. "Mr. and Mrs. Persephone Tanner!" he shouts gleefully. "We know who's goin' t' wear the pants in that one!" His non cup holding hand gesticulates wildly, tracing a pattern of cigarette smoke in the air, before he accepts the bottle back from Hale with a grin. "Everclear. Just like Uncle Vanya used t' make, eh?"

"The other one is better, barbarians, fools, my dear gentlemen: because, as I've said over and over, it's got alliteration." Timon coughs as he tries to drag himself to his feet using whatever's handiest. Poet's arm will suffice. He, too, is absurdly red, which might be the reason why his entire uniform seems drenched in spilled cleaning fluid or whatever in Hades Thorn has them all drinking. "Persephone. Price. Mellifluous, harmonious, delightful. It leaps off my tongue." Hazy eyes glance over to where Rabbit is currently fiddling with his music player. "Ariadne should be here right now," he murmurs — almost wistfully. "And then we'd dance til the stars stop shining."

OW! Stumblestumble. Wil steps back, with a bark as he shoots a glare at Ivory absolutely devoid of anything resembling real aggression. "Rough and tumble? I'll give you rough and tumble, you Tauron ponce! I'll remember that. 'Ahhhhhhhvory.' Just so you know." He deathglares at the older man a second more before erupting into a series of snickers. "I 'purposely misplaced' said bearings." He adds. That's all that is said as, for the moment, Hale's entrance and gift captures his attention. "Uh. That better not be Bangbang inside." He says, warily. A pause. "Cake?" Eyelids flicker and narrow upon the thoroughly sauced, flush-faced ginger pilot's face as he endges over towards the box. "Raptor Parts. Huh. I'd be an idiot to touch those. I've heard…stories." Even as he does this he finally turns his head to eye Praxis again, squinting with some kind of drummed-up, faint hostility. "Believe it, sucker. Er. Lieutenant. Believe it. She might hyphenate. But whatever. We're taking the name, the whole frakking Libran FLAG and then we're going to roll back to Lysandium and shove a nuke up some Toaster's ass just to say we could." Whoah.

Roubani's arm is attached to an unsteady object, which pitches abruptly over as Timon grabs it. His temple quite unceremoniously bonks Timon in the forehead as he nearly falls over, flailing till his foot finds purchase against the floor. "I think my stars stopped shining just now…" He grouches, rubbing his head with a wince. Will's sudden speech draws a laugh.

"Dancing? I believe that is far from any of your ability if the footwork I am seeing is any indication." Praxis mentions dryly, jade eyes drifting over to Rebound. "Truly and seriously Mr. Price … just learning of this news right now does make me rather glad that well - you've evidently found happiness. I wish the two of you the best of luck if that means anything at all, yes?" Despite how weird things are in this room. And yes, he's completely sincere. "Persephone Price. I'll be sure to get used to it, thank you Lieutenant Stathis."

Thorn frowns at Timon, and kicks him in the shin. "Not when me an' my booze are here, she shouldn't be," he sneers. He's just about as red-faced as the other three, despite his usually sallow complexion. "Go play with y'r priestess on y'r own time." Something in that makes him snicker. "Play with y'r priestess. Heheheh." He looks over at Willem, his arms crossed. "Just… what're you tryin' t' say, Rebound? I'll have you know we keep our parts clean." More hysteria.

"Ivory, you don't bring does, to a stag night." Hale offers with a point of a finger, before he's looking back down to get the 'song' cued back up onto his player "Ad bloody someone open the box for Price then, because the girl inside will suffocate or something. I didn't cut holes into the top." Though given the look of the box, its not strongly taped down either. "Oh Bloody Hell, Thorn gimmie your bottle, an when I point, press play on the thing.." It seems as if the Lieutenant is going to take matters into his own hands, that is once he passes the music player over.

"Ponce!?" Ivory's voice is outraged as he takes Roubani down with him: two heads collide; nothing good comes out of it. Back to the floor he goes, this time making for the crate on which Poet had been sitting. And as he tries to clamber up: "Coming from you, you Libran fop? Drinking your caramel lattes with foam and cinnamon while reading independent magazines — " Thorn's kick gets his attention before he can finish the rest of that. "At least my parts will be clean and purified and sanctified," he proclaims. "Yours, on the other hand, have already met Dear Miss Lambkin's, and — there's no way any prayer can get rid of that."

Roubani is now halfway on the floor, THANKS TIMON, and climbs back up with a slight wince of pain that he really doesn't feel. Only to find Timon sitting in his spot, which gets met with a dignified sniff. GOSH. He blinks at Timon's long rampage and snickers quietly, covering his mouth with his closed hand. "Girl inside?" He stammers at Hale, a bit horrified. A lot horrified.

"Um. Yeah. I somehow doubt the old man will cough up a nuke for our wedding gift so I may have to alter those plans, uh. Right." Wil says, sounding slightly abashed if still altogether bemused. To Praxis, he adds — "Thanks. I appreciate it. We'll figure out the names and all that. Just figured that we should do this in whatever time we have left because I don't think we'll have time to regret it later. And we wanted to." He plays this simply. Warmly, even. Succintly. There is a lingering, silent pause however and a quite innocent smile."How's the Doctor?"

Ivory's statement earns a turn of his head, though, rapidly. "Oh. It's on. It's frakking on. Go play with your priestess, indeed. Tell her the Gods need to give you your groove back because you lost your soul. And for your record? We drink our coffee -BLACK-."

Rebound's third attention-draw though, is Hale. Wil sets down his empty booze cup as he edges towards the giant…box Hale wheeled in. "Wait. There's a girl in there? Seriously? Because if it's frakking Bangbang, I might just space her after that marker incident." The smile on his face clearly indicates otherwise. Oh, he's trashed. And happy.

Willem pauses, belately. "Rabbit. Thanks." It's a moment of clarity that lasts a second, and is then gone.

"Buh. 'Kay." Thorn blinks, stammering slightly in confusion as the bottle disappears from his hand, replaced by Hale's music player. There's another faux-scowl at Timon. "Our 'parts' haven't touched yet, I'll have you know, dumbfrak." He looks at the box curiously, his bleary eyes then looking for the play button on the music player. Ah. THERE it is. He shifts stuff clumsily around in his hands so he can take a drag from the cigarette.

"I'll note in my record," slurs Timon, "that you, Willem Rebound Tanner-Price, Price-Tanner, carry around a purse — emblem of the bourgeoisie." NUFF SAID. Thorn, for his part, gets a confused look. "You're shooting dummy AGMs or something, Rosebud? Because I can think of absolutely no other reason — none whatsoever — for that, not at all." Blink. "Can I have a slice without too much frosting?"

"Holy crap," Kissy just sort of stares, though a smile starts forming on his face that's quickly updated to full-on grin status. Sure, he was just looking for a quiet spot to chatter with Kitty about her problems, but Kissy seems to have stumbled upon the spot where all problems disappear into the sea of booze. He even coughs a few times, waving a hand in front of his face, "What on earth are you all drinking," he wonders, as if disparagingly, setting up a nice piece of paraprosdokian: "And is there any left?"

"Cam is fine, thanks." Praxis replies to Willem, hands folding behind his back as he strolls back towards the door. While he does of course congratulate Willem, Mr. CIC isn't really at home here unfortunately. Pilots, pilots, and…more pilots. Kind of intimidating for any lesser man. Or maybe he -is- actually scared! It's a secret. "I expect this mess will be cleaned up before the last person leaves, no? Regardless, it was agreeable to see you all again."

Hale looks back towards Willem and there's a great big shit eating grin right there. "Hey, you're a brother Willem. An as your Wingmate, an aforementioned brother it is my duty to see you utterly sauced, an scandalized by the end of the night." A cough "So without further ado" A point to Thorn to press play so the intro to the song can play while Hale reaches for the table. "Fresh from Red Squadron's very own bunks. Everyone's favorite Ensign…Except for Price.." a cough as the tape is snagged and ripped off so the girl can come out in her flightsuit and all. "I present to you, Bethany, BANGBANG, WAAAAALLLLLAAAAAACCEEE!" a grin there right for Willem's pleasure

"Sorry mate, she's the only one who would do it for three packets of smokes and a bottle of rum."

"Oh. My. Gods!" Kitty squeals that about one tenth of a second after peering aroud Matto's side, her eyes wide. She has crashed a few parties in her time, two of which went down as being some of the wildest OCS had seen at the time, but this? "This is insanse," she concludes whatever it was she has been thinking, the rest kept to herself. "Tell me you keep a camera on you somewhere," she murmurs to Kissy while surveying the room looking from face to drunken face. "Think we should…make ourselves welcome, Kissy?"

"RAPTOR Parts." Wil corrects Thorn gently with only the subtle touch of a slur as he leans over, watching the ECO work. He eyes the newcomers with a slight widening of the eyes. "Whoah. Setup." To Praxis. "Uh. Tell her. Y'know. BEST WISHES and all that." There's too much going on for his amateur attempts to be a troll. Then to Timon. "Profiling, Ivory. Profiling. I had to go back home because your women couldn't appreciate our glory." He jerks a thumb at his chest in indication but there's something flat and awkward about it. Shaking his head though, he moves back towards the spectacle in front of him, half-smiling and half-glaring at Hale. The smile wins out. "You don't know what else she'll do. Oh. HI BETH." Bangbang's entrance is met with a slight wince as if he half-expects the Ensign to stick a knife in his ribs, but he claps anyway. "I'm shocked by the lack of abuse." He says, barely over the music.

Oh. Good gods. There WAS a girl in the cake? Roubani flees like a shot for the other crate much farther away, nearly barking his shin on the sharp edge of it. It's like watching a cat whose fur just puffed out. Eyes still a touch wide, he barely registers Kitty and Kissy (Kit, Kiss, Kit, Kiss) and waves a hand at them. HALP.

Timon's going to be sore tomorrow, because Thorn just kicked him again. "Because I'm looking f'r a relationship, you stupid frak, not a frakkin' frak toy." He's so busy glaring at the pilot that he nearly misses Hale's cue. A finger hastily pushes the play button, and guitar music starts to blast. His cup is empty, he notices with a frown, so he just takes a pull of the paint thinn— uh, moonshine — directly from the bottle.

OW. But pain is forestalled by the fact that — "My gods," breathes Timon as Hale unveils his surprise. "Somebody jumped out of a cake." This Ivory says to Poet, shoving his fist into the back of the man's head, grinning absurdly. Too bad Roubani just fled. "Well, it's not a cake — but somebody jumped out — " The fact that Bangbang is here to take off her flight suit is decidedly lost on the man, who pokes Thorn in the stomach as he's drinking. "Give me some of that when you're done," he calls. "I swear I'm clean, and so's Adelphi, not that we've — " Beat. "Just give me the bottle. Evening, Kissy!"

"And Kitty — Kissy — " Timon adds, eyes darting from pilot to ECO and back again. "This is confusing."

Roubani gets punched in the back of the damn head as he goes, apparently. "Hades!" He stammers as the fist meets skull, turning back around to slug Timon rather ineffectually between the shoulderblades. Hopefully right as he's drinking something. "Take notes, Stathis. When Tanner has her little party I'm sure Ariadne will find some persuasive way to make sure it's you in her cake."

It won't be much of a show, after all it is an flight suit, a few clothing bits and then her athletic undroos, but hey its the thought that counts. So BangBang will be doing her best Sexy dance for the bachelor, while all hale can do is simply WHISTLE loudly. 'Come on mates, give her some encouragement." A nod there before he's looking right on back towards where Kitty and Kissy have appeared. One he knows-the other. He sorta does. A wave over, and he's having himself some Drank.

"No. There's -no way- one can contain The Lion. That's what I heard, anyway." as he riffs on this unexpected outburst from Poet. Kitty and Kissy get a sort of unexpected wave as he leans a bit, reaching for another cup of something potable. It's a bad idea, but hangovers. They are what mornings are for. He finally starts giving Bangbang a -look- as her obvious charms start to outweigh the sheer terror the man generally displays towards said Ensign Wallace. He even whistles.

A chuckle wells up from somewhere deep inside the Kissybear, who pulls his robe tighter around himself and tugs Kitty on inside in his wake, "Well, we haven't been kicked out yet," he notes, "Despite the fact that we are evidently indistinguishable," he winks at Timon, then, looking aside, he's rather surprised to see the Poet taking part in the, uh, jocularity, and he shoots him a broad grin, "Here for the show?" he asks, voice all playful as he makes sure the hatch is shut again. He lifts his hands, then, to applaud for Bangbang, who's being such a good sport out there.

Thorn can't help but smirk as Bangbang rises from the 'cake', shaking her groove thing. He leers appreciatively, and even offers a vehement wolf-whistle at Hale's prompting. The bottle of moonshine is absently handed over to Timon as THorn takes another pull from his cigarette.

Timon is knocked backwards on his crate, nearly falling over into Thorn's legs, and that would have been a shame. Like one of those punching dolls designed to stay upright, he bounces forward, head on a collision course for Roubani's chest. At Rebound's outburst, he even does his best to approximate a roar, though it's in his usual reedy tenor. No Nemean Lion, he — though his eyes do get wide as proverbial saucers as Bangbang shakes her tailfeather. TailFEATHERS. And then it's time to DRANK SOME MORE.

Kitty huhs at the sight of the strippig BangBang, a brow arching as she watches the dance and the resulting jockularity from the guys. "Is she the morale officer," she deadpans even as she is pulled in, her face going pink. "Cripes, Kissy. I should go. This not the kind of party that guys want girls at….unless they're naked and gyrating." She doesn't leave though, too horrified to move, her feet staying firmly upon the deck. Seeing as how she can't leave, Kitty does the only logical thing she can do - cover her frakking eyes.

Roubani oofs as Timon's head hits him dead in the sternum, coughing again. He laughs at Timon's "roar", stumbling a tad as he backs away from the mosh pit that is the Raptor driver. The stripping, he's paying exceedingly little attention to, whether out of some lingering presence of the MORALITY BADGE or just because he has limited flushed focus at the moment. Which seems to be on Kissy and Kitty. "Oh yes," he tells Matto, drily. "You know I've always got VIP pass to strip shows around here." Hurr. He gives Kitty a slightly embarassed smile, ears red. "I don't…think…she'll be…uh." Not that he knows, as his back is FIRMLY to the stripping.

"Hey Atjai!" says Timon, looking up at the redhead with a glazed smile on his normally-pallid face — "Big enough for a tub, in here, though you'll have to make your own water source." Some sense of modesty manages to sneak its way through his inebriation as he turns away from Bangbang to the trio at the door.

There's a hoot. Wil shoots a sidelong glance towards Ivory and claps appreciatively, only wincing a moment later. "And THE MIGHTY LION, HE FALLS. WILL HE RISE AGAIN?" To him and Poet, he adds, "You two all right?" His voice booms a bit, looking on towards Thorn. Shaking his head. TOTAL chaos. He shrugs a tad at Kitty's interjection. "Uh. Trust me. This isn't what you think it is." He says. His face is a bit flushed, but it could be half because he's smashed. Finally, he grins cheekily at Hale. "I still owe you thanks. From before. But -this-?" He gestures with an upturned palm towards the gyrating Bangbang. On one hand, she's pretty good. But it's -Bangbang-. "Hey Beth. You wearin' motionweave under that?"

Matto shuffles toward Roubani as Roubani shuffles away from Timon, the enclosed space providing excellent opportunities to herd. "Mmmm-hm," he agrees facetiously with N, giving him a warm smile as he settles at the opposite side of the crate the Poet had been settled on, hopefully out of range of Timon's flailings, but not out of range of getting the bottle passed along. "It's just nekkidness, Babydoll, it's not contagious," he notes with a laugh.

Komnenos finally turns away from the spectacle that is Bethany Wallace; he looks around in confusion as the bottle that Timon so dearly wanted is still in his hand. He shrugs, taking another DRANK from the bottle himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Wil's look, returning it with a cheeky grin of his own. Chaos, maybe. But it's a good time. Thorn takes a few steps over to where the newcomers are gathered. "Actually, I think 'tis probably exactly what she thinks it is, Wil," he snorts. The bottle is thrusted out in front of him. "Drank, anyone?" He carefully doesn't mention the fact that the contents of the bottle are closer to paint thinner than to alcohol, but then the smell of the stuff probably gives that away, if they're paying attention.

Roubani makes a vague motion at Wil that probably translates to 'Fine, have fun!'. Granted, it looks more like a chicken flailing a busted wing. He backs up to try and sit down and trips a bit over Matto's boot, almost tumbling onto the poor guy. Saved by crate though, the edge jabbing his leg. He is not at all sober, but it's in that flushed giddy way. "Did you want something to…" His finger points in the vague direction of Thorn. "He has it. It burns."

The sheepish demeanor from Roubani is a sweet counterpart to Timon's more forward behavior and both does quite a bit to put her at ease along with the encouragement from Kissy. "I don't know," Kitty says over the music. "With all the booze that seems to be getting passed around, it just might be, Matto." Hale, Will and Thorn are given a wave to although it is paused at the offered 'drank'. "Uhm, sure, Thorn. I'll have a dra…what the frak?"

Hale cackles and nigh chokes at Ivory's own mini misfortune. And then there's another drink, because drinking is all that seems to happen. And don't worry for those of you of the prudish persuasion only skin being shown, right now is stomach, ribs and legs. The rest seems to remain under the cover of underoos. And once the song sends from BangBang's bra, a marker is produced. As if waiting for Wil to look away, she makes ready. Picking up her clothes..

Of course once Wil looks away there will be an attempt to simply draw a line down his face, before the mad dash is given to the hatch.

Hale is then left looking back to the other two pilots. "How're ya'll doin' tonight mates.." As for drank Hale will be taking his time to head over and get some Drank from Thorn "Fillerup."

Unfortunately, the lion does not, in fact, sleep tonight. "Here, Kissy — since apparently these uncultured clods are so distracted by this remarkable sight that they've lost all semblance of — all shreds of — dignity. Gravitas, I say, Timon. The Lion. Has." And with that, Ivory does his best to stand, moving over to Thorn, intercepting said bottle, and handing it personally over to Matto: but not before taking a swig for himself. It's remarkably smooth, all things considered, and the back of his hand even rises to wick some stray liquor from the top of his lip. And then he collapses against the wall.

((Continued in Part 2))

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