Dressing Down
Dressing Down
Summary: A tense moment in Black berthings as Timon tries to work around his injuries, and Komnenos isn't exactly much help.
Date: PHD082 (10 July 2009) (This log takes place roughly an hour after the events of Ow)
Related Logs: Ow

Black Squadron's berthings are almost empty at this hour. That's no surprise, really: an hour ago, the vast majority of its personnel swarmed Kharon's Hangar Bay in a haze of triumph — doubtlessly giving the deck crew a headache beyond belief, though if there's one night when the guys in those ugly orange jumpsuits are likely to forgive and forget, it's this one — and celebrations both public and private are assuredly still going on.

But Timon Stathis is not in the mood to celebrate. Sure, the shirtless lieutenant does give a few departing ECOs a grin and a "Good job" as he returns from Sickbay en route to his bunk — his left hand in a sling, his right hand resting on a simple metal cane. Yet even before they pass him, his smile drops away. Step by painful step, he lurches toward his locker in the hopes of finding a clean set of sweats.

Anton Komnenos isn't celebrating; after the impromptu festivities on the hangar deck, he made a beeline for the berthings and hasn't left since. A wisp of cigarette smoke trails out of his bunk; he's lying down reading something or another. Thorn pays no mind to the others in the room, save for mumbled greetings when he arrived; he's awfully blase for a man who just got pulled out of Hell. He does, however, react to a familiar voice and the sound of footsteps heading towards him; briefly putting down his book, he cranes his head out of his bunk and notices Timon's entrance. "So. They let you out of sickbay already," he utters curtly before returning to his weathered paperback and his cancer stick.

"Light duty, three days." Timon stops in front of his locker, still slightly ajar from how he left it so many days ago, trying to figure out how to open it without using either of his hands. At length, he balances precariously on his left leg as he lodges his cane in the open space behind the door, swinging it open — and sending himself falling flat on his ass. "Frak!" the pilot snaps from the ground, trying and failing to stand up.

A flick of the wrist, and ash tumbles into the ashtray perched on Thorn's chest. He's already back to reading by the time Timon has his mishap with the locker, but he hears the thump of a body on the ground and the sharp curse immediately thereafter. "Don't hurt yourself," Thorn mutters sarcastically.

Timon's cane sweeps back toward the locker in a broad arc that makes him look as if he's making a gigantic snow-angel on Kharon's deck. Yeah, standing is going to be difficult. Instead, the pilot crawls toward the now-open door, the clothes in which are thankfully within arm's reach. His cane, now useless, is thrown onto his bunk, landing on his unused mattress with a muffled thud; one hand grabs a pair of shirts, one green, another olive. Ivory grunts as he dresses himself, shoving his arm — splint and all — through not one but two sweats. Thank the gods they're stretchy.

"He can still dress himself. Must be a good sign." The peanut gallery pipes up once again from the top bunk. "Not sure I know what t' make of that rolling on the floor bit, though." Thorn's tone seems even more tart than usual as he continues to chime in with his droll observations. He's got a little hip flask up in the bunk with him; he shuts up long enough to take a pull from it and take an accompanying drag off his cigarette.

"Read your book, Thorn." Timon is still engaged in the arduous task of putting on clothes, his dogtags jingling around his neck as he writhes around on the floor — apparently, he's put on one shirt backwards. He, at least, doesn't sound amused; indeed, those who can actually see him might note that his cheeks are flushed with more than mere exertion. Is that – frustration?

"Hey, you got your shirt on wrong," Thorn replies oh-so-helpfully before, in fact, going back to his reading. He keeps reading, in fact, seemingly oblivious to the sound of Timon's struggles until finally he puts the book back down and looks over at the wounded Raptor pilot as he tries to huff and puff his way through dressing himself. "Do you need a hand, Ivory?" he says more quietly, a hint of sympathy finally sneaking into his tone.

"No," says Ivory shortly, his unruly brown hair covered by what looks to be a miniature green tent. It takes some time before he manages to turn the shirt — for it is, in fact, a shirt — around, and still more time before he manages to force it down onto his body. Given how comfortable most people aboard this ship are with displaying their naked or partially-naked bodies, the lengths to which this man will go to cover his bare chest, well — that's truly remarkable.

"Fine," Thorn snaps, suddenly sorry he'd asked. "Frak you very kindly too, then. Hope you don't fall right back on your ass." Judging from the sudden frigidity of his tone, the 'don't' is debateable. He picks his book right back up and continues from where he left off, steaming quietly. For a moment, at least. "Lords forbid anyone should happen t' see too much of your pasty frakkin' skin, I guess. Forgive me for trying t' care. Won't bother next time." A warning light goes on in the back of his mind, warning him that he might have taken it a bit too far with that last bit, but at the moment he's too busy fuming and pretending to read to care.

It's usually the other way around between these two, as Timon is accustomed to doing enough talking for both of them. Tonight, though, it's Thorn spewing words and Ivory sitting quiet — well, not sitting so much as crawling toward the bunk he selected when he arrived on board the ship. Highest-ranking officers got first pick, and for the first time the pilot is grateful that his title comes without the 'jg': for indeed, he got himself a coveted bottom bunk with his selection, into which he now crawls with a minimum of effort. That is, a minimum of effort in comparison to what it took for him to put on his clothes.

As Ivory slumps into his bunk below him, Thorn finally falls silent. He, too, notices the unusual role reversal between the two; a quiet, terse Ivory is not the usual Ivory. For a moment, he considers swinging down and trying to talk to Timon again, but evidently deciding against it, he stays where he is. There's a quiet rustle as he turns the pages of his tawdry thriller, punctuated with drags from his cigarette.

All's quiet down below — until Timon tries to roll over and spare his healing arm, only to come a few centimeters from gouging out his eye with the tip of his cane. Once more, with feeling: "Frak!" And then the silence is replaced by the clatter of metal as the pilot tosses his cane on the ground beside him. The devilish thing bounces once, twice before settling to the ground, making altogether too much noise in the relative silence of the Berthings.

"And I thought I was supposed t' be the temperamental one," Komnenos says dryly. It's said to himself, though he makes no effort to say it under his breath. "Having fun down there?" He snaps the question. "Or would you like t' throw a few more things around before you're able t' swallow your bloody pride?"

"Go on," says Ivory. His tone is blank, and he's hidden well enough under his sheets, face turned inward, that Thorn has no hope of seeing his expression. "I could use a good lecture." If that's sarcasm, it doesn't show, in such a polished monotone does he speak.

"Go lecture yourself." Thorn returns sharply; the lecture word is replaced by a certain other word in his own mind. "You're the lecturing type, not me." He exhales roughly, sending a wave of smoke out of his bunk. "You said you didn't need my help. So deal with it yourself, then."

"Drop the self-righteousness already." Timon's voice is tight and controlled. "It doesn't suit you."

"And there he is," Thorn snaps back, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "I'm the self-righteous one? Why don't you go pick up the cane you threw across the room and tell me that again, what?" By this point, he's completely lost his place in his book, and he tosses it back onto the shelf behind him.

"It's actually right next to me." Timon laughs aloud — an unexpected sound, to be sure, given his mood. Yet still his voice is level, and — having been goaded into taking a stab once tonight — he pointedly refuses to bite once more. If they made fish like him, fishermen would be out of luck. "So I can pick it up when I wake up in thirty-five hours," he explains. Which is Ivory-speak for "I really don't want to do this right now."

Well, too bad, Ivory — Thorn doesn't have anything else to do at the moment, and he's chronically incapable of letting things drop, like a dog with a particularly juicy bone in his mouth. His heart really isn't in it, for once, though, and Timon's latest doesn't really give him anything to work with. He's pretty tired himself, though, so all he's got left is a sharply muttered "Whatever." With that, he retrieves his book and tries to find his place once again, lighting up another cigarette with the smoldering remains of his last. Chain smoking; even for Thorn, the notorious fiend, that's not a good sign of his mood.

Timon's gotten to know his ECO quite well, especially over the past few weeks, and so it is that he's figured out how to blunt the force of Thorn's verbal assaults: one must simply refrain from feeding the beast. And so it is with no small amount of satisfaction that he pushes his head deeper into his pillow, free at last to rest in his own bed. "G'night, Anton," is the last thing Thorn will hear from the pilot this evening.

"Yeah, whatever," comes the echoed reply, subdued even further this time. Thorn pulls his curtain closed; he'll have calmed down by morning, if their previous spats are any indication. Komnenos isn't ready to sleep himself just yet, though; he's once again paging through his book and puffing on his cigarette as Timon falls asleep down below.

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