Summary: Timon manages to make Case feel awkward.
Date: PHD 112
Related Logs: Refers obliquely to Conversations Over Morpha.


The gym is pretty crowded given the time of day, or night, or whatever: there's a confluence of people from all of Kharon's shifts getting their workout in right now, whether they're running through some early-morning calisthenics or just burning off steam after a long and uneventful CAP. A remarkable heat suffuses the room — its confines sticky and humid despite the best efforts of the ship's air-recycling system — and the clanging of weights plays curious counterpoint to intermittent grunts and the thumping of twenty-odd active feet.

Timon counts himself among the ten or so individuals on the treadmills. A sheen of sweat covers nearly all of his body, dripping down his unruly curls and scarred shoulders to pool somewhere on his chest. He's taking things easy for now, judging from his relatively slow speed and incline settings, and he seems to be favoring his left leg over his right.

Samantha steps into the room, not looking all that thrilled to be here, but that's working out for ya. Or, more so, that's rehab. Her ragged, scarred right arm is bared by her tanks, and she's got a towel around her throat, shorts on her legs, looking ready for possibly a full work out but she's headed straight for the lifting machine. A few nods are given, including one to Timon, and the weight machine she chooses is right next to his outside treadmill. She steps to the back, rather significantly lightening the weight load from the last user. Definitely rehab training. "Ivory." She greets.

"Case." The callsign's spoken as part of a particularly labored exhalation of breath: Timon, too, is rehabbing, though the presence of the other pilot causes him to kick up the speed from four-point-five to an even five-point-oh — or maybe he's just reached the next stage of his routine. He doesn't elaborate, instead focusing his attention on picking up his pace. Balled fists pump up and down in the air, silent syncopation for the rhythm of his stride.

Samantha lofts a brow as she hears him ramping up the speed, a hint of amusement on her face. Apparently, part of her does assume it's because she's there. She then steps back around, facing him and beginning slow inward pulls with her wounded arm. It hurts, even if she's trying to keep the wincing off her face, her breath goes hard all too quickly, a trace of sweat on her brow. She grunts through the pain…"How… ya feelin'…?"

Ivory's right hand moves toward his treadmill's rubberized grip, bracing himself for the second or two it takes for him to flick a few stray beads of sweat from his drenched brown hair. He sweeps back a few stray strands so they're plastered against his forehead, which only serves to emphasize his receding hairline and furrowed brow. Then it's back to the grind, though he does spare the other Scorpia casualty a tired smile. "Better." Thud-thud-thud go the boots on his track. "You?"

Samantha looks down to her arm, rolling her shoulders in a bit of a shrug…"Still hurts like a bitch, but they put me back on flight status and that's all that matters. Strenght'll come back with time, I suppose." She hopes. She knows some parts of her arm will never fully regain feeling, nerve damage and scar tissue just too much. She continues breathing through another set of reps…

"Know the feeling." Timon speaks in short, terse sentences that are punctuated with periodic sighs — like this one is. But all his efforts seem to be paying off: his footfalls have grown increasingly steady as his workout progresses, to the point at which he's almost running as a man whose foot hadn't been riddled by Centurion bullets should. It'll take more than lead to keep Ivory down, effete and out of shape though he might be. "First flight's — " He gasps for air, lips opening, closing. "Tomorrow."

That news definitely makes Samantha smile, nodding in approval towards him…"Damn. Congrats. It feels great gettin' back out there. don't let nerves get the best of you.. just like riding a bicycle, you don't forget it, you know. Still home. least you still got your bird… I killed my last one. feels weird flying in a different seat…" Sam admits, a hint embarrassed that she did down her bird insalvagably bad…

"No," says Timon, more shortly than he's spoken thus far. He doesn't look irritated, though — just wet, winded, and exhausted. The pilot's been at this for quite some time, judging from the state of his treadmill: blasts of hot air jet out from the plastic slats at its base, and countless splat-marks on its treads and chassis indicate just how much Ivory's been exerting himself. "Left her." The man's expression tightens. "Pity."

Samantha frowns a bit, trying to replay the events in her brain. She doesn't remember much from their eventual escape. "Damn…that's right, I suppose… you guys went down as bad as I and the CAG did. Damn…I'm sorry. It sucks, I will tell you that. Each bird flies a bit different. It'll never be the same… but it can be just as good." Sam states, rather hopefully, going through the changes all herself. She finally finishes her set, letting her arm rest and carefully, weakly stretching it out behind the machine.

"Don't be," Timon half-snarls — but any animus in his tone is most likely due to the fact that he's just pushed the pedal to the metal, to indulge in a rather apt analogy. The machine's gears whir to life as it goes from five to six to seven to eight — and the pilot's flat-out running, now, his weight causing the track beneath him to shudder with every step he takes. "Sorry, I mean." There's that tight little smile again. "Home's here. Not Four." Foxbat-4 is what he means.

Samantha finishes stretching out her arm as far as it will go, it doesn't quite go all the way straight yet… or, if it does, she's not forcing herself into that sort of pain. That's what the bastard rehab doc is for, or when some errant crewman decides to kick her ass about it. She likes herself too much to do it. She then grabs the bar of the weight machine again, frowning…"You were in Foxbat 4?…damn…I drove your sister ship… Wolfbat four. They…they were good crafts."

"Not good enough." Timon, always the pessimist, though his words are accompanied by a short, bitter laugh that seems decidedly out of place for a mild-mannered man like him. He's about to say more, to the point at which he even gets that distinctive distant look that warns observant onlookers that one of his trademark stories is about to be told. But then some over-muscled Marine in the corner has to go and drop two hundred pounds of weights on the floor, the din from which is more than enough to shake him out of his reverie. Instead, he reaches for the controls once again, slick finger slipping a bit on the faded plastic key. Eight-point-three, eight-point-six, eight-point-nine — up and up he goes.

Samantha continues into her next set, though she watches him with slightly more concerned eyes as he pushes harder and harder on the treadmill…"Hey, Timon. Be careful. You're still recovering, you know? If you pass out, I ain't givin' you CPR." She tries to joke, giving him a half grunt of a laugh between her struggle through a few more reps on the weight machine.

"I'm good." The man knows his limits rather well, despite the fact that he's visibly doing his best to ignore everything he's body's telling him. His wide face contorts in something like pain, and his hands aren't swinging free any longer: instead, they're clamped tightly on the machine's built-in railings, doing their best to lock their owner in place. "Don't want — " Timon's brief grin turns into a long, sharp gasp. "Your germs." Wow. Was that just a dirty joke?

Samantha still looks a bit concerned. She might not be the mother cat that Legacy is, but being one of the older pilots around she's at least got an elder sisterly thing going sometimes. She blinks at his comeback, though, smirking deeply…"You couldn't have enough cubits to -buy- these germs, Ivory." She waves him off, looking back at her machine and trying to breath through the last 5 reps.

The lieutenant keeps up his blistering pace for a while longer, his lips two pale and parallel lines that contrast sharply with his flushed cheeks and olive sweats — well, black sweats now, saturated as they are by the product of his labor. Timon powers on for another thirty seconds, maybe forty, as the cogs in his brain whirr and churn in an attempt to figure out a comeback. Then: "I hear — " Another long gasp. "Don't need to pay."

Samantha rolls her eyes, smirking deeply…"I'll have you know it's a very exclusive club and… I ain't like that any more." hrumph. Sam keeps that smirk there, finally finishing her very last rep and standing up, trying to roll her shoulder with her arm half numb and aching just from that bit of work.

Ivory finally throttles down: while he's by no means been running the fastest or the longest, he's most assuredly expending the most energy of his peers, and his physique is ill-suited to sustained effort of this magnitude. From the looks of it, he too is entering cooldown mode, slowing to a trot and reaching for the white towel hanging where the treadmill's right-hand railing meets screen. A quick flick of his wrist and it's draped around his shoulders, conveniently covering the fine red filigree that covers the exposed skin of his upper torso. "And here I was trying to set Thorn up with a bedtime surprise," he says, eyebrows raised, countenance deadpan. Fortunately — or unfortunately, depending on your perspective — his words are starting to become more frequent; his sentences, longer. Maybe it's the endorphins. "Can't be more exclusive than mine."

Yeah. Probably the endorphins.

A hint of a surprise crosses Sam's features as she hears that. It was all just innocent with Thorn, right? It seems Ivory has actually managed to knock her a bit speechless as she reviews the things that have happened over the past few weeks with the Raptor pilot. "Uh… Huh." She finally voices, perplexed and suddenly a hint flush, but that's probably just from working out. "Well…I can't say… I mean… Thorn is… he's… Great. But… " Has he just managed to make Samantha Passi feel…-awkward-!?

Timon seems quite pleased with himself as he jogs, letting all sorts of pent-up strain flow out of him in the process. The sides of his sweats, hanging rather loosely against his belly — which has gotten smaller since the events of Scorpia, otherwise known as the galaxy's most painful diet plan — have already begun to dry; lines of salt begin to appear on the mottled fabric of his clothing. "Sarcasm, Case," he reassures the stunned pilot, his voice slow and lazy, though he can't resist another devilish insinuation: "Though I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

Samantha's still blushing, and her work out was over a bit ago. She just gulps at water, the taste definitely giving her an excuse for a few more awkwardly quiet moments. She finally just shrugs again. "Yeah, well… he's… he's a good man. He deserves someone good and all… is all." Perhaps Timon hit oddly close to something that he never intended to.

Or perhaps he hit precisely what he intended to hit, though his expression is as innocent and sweet as unspoiled snow at dawn. Indeed, Ivory's still jogging as if nothing untoward has happened, occasionally rubbing at his prominent forehead with the end of a towel. "I'll convey the sentiment," he notes, not a trace of irony — or anything else, for that matter — in his voice. "More than he deserves," the pilot adds, snorting under his breath. "Never done anything of the sort for me." It's friendly and occasionally acid ribbing, this, between ECO on the one hand and useful human being on the other.

Samantha lofts a single brow, staring at Timon for a few heartbeats as she really does her best to figure out his scheme. She finally steps up towards the treadmills, no doubt some good old cardio is exactly what is needed to work out the spare awkwardness of this whole situation. She puts it on a light setting for now… "Bull shit. He's one of your best friends. Frak, you two hens are worse than women." She teases him lightly.

They'll switch. Timon's just finishing up with his machine, and it's with some amount of relief in his expression that he pulls the safety clip from the base of the treadmill's screen. He does his best to wipe the thing down for Samantha's sake, though that's probably a lost cause. And then it's to the blue mat stretched out next to the weights the woman's been using, where he transitions rather awkwardly into a set of stretches to loosen his muscles. "Got me in trouble with Black, once," Ivory observes in the meantime. "Suppose that counts."

Samantha tilts her head…"Black? Jupiter, you're talking about, or Martin?" Sam inquires actually rather curious to hear the story, it seems. She continues the slow run, kicking it up a notch on the dial, no where near what he was going. but she's not suicidal, not right now, at least.

"Black Cat." There's an ugly crack from Timon's side of the room as he leans into his right knee, and the man straightens abruptly to readjust his form. "Sorry — an old habit. Black and Ivory — well." The lieutenant chuckles, perhaps realizing how silly it sounds. "I like dualisms," he says as an afterthought, his grin turning sheepish. As for the story, that'll have to wait for another time. Either Timon doesn't want to tell it or he's an absolute idiot when it comes to reading other people's body language. Probably the latter.

Samantha tilts her head…"Ah… yeah, Momma Cat. So what'd you do to be in trouble with mum?" Sam inquires, grinning just a bit, a clear fondness in her voice for the woman, but then Samantha was sleeping in legacy's bed the entire time the red berthings were closed, so it's no surprise.

"More what he did. I was just the collateral damage." Timon waves a hand airily as he leans back into that troublesome right knee; this time, there's no crack of any sort. Good times. "Anyway, it's all water under the proverbial bridge, and in the interest of team unity, it's just easier to blame the morpha." That, as far as he's concerned, is that. "You could always ask him if you're really that curious."

Samantha considers that a few moments. "Maybe I will. I'm still damn curious, and you're as elusive as a guilty priest…" Still no love of the gods, it seems. She ramps up the speed again, her breath coming shorter and shorter… She's got a few years on him and sadly, sometimes, it shows.

"Is there any other kind?" Like a whip comes Timon's retort, though it's spoken in the same maddeningly placid tone that's infuriated superiors and subordinates alike. Standing upright once more, he pulls his left leg toward the small of his back with some amount of effort. It's a wonder he doesn't fall to the ground, though he lets his foot hit deck a bit sooner than necessary to prevent just that from happening. "Shall I arrange to have the Black Berthings cleared for that meeting?"

Ahh yes. Another fellow religion hater, or so she seems to think. She smiles a moment. "No, sadly…there are many non guilty priests. Theya lmost take pride in putting lies all across the population of the human race. Bastards…" Sam growls out for a moment between huffs of breath, continuing to try and pound harder across the surface of the treadmill, sweat dripping down her cheek.

The tirade against organized religion is ignored for now; for once, Timon doesn't seem like he has the energy to do much of anything, to say nothing of engaging in a philosophical discussion over one of those Old and Time-Honored Questions that will surely elicit a little too much emotion for him to soak in. Instead: "Say, tomorrow? Twenty-two-forty-five?"

Samantha blinks, her brain having to wrap back around to the other topic of conversation, leaving religion behind…"Ah… what? I… you don't need to clear the berthings for me to ask Thorn how he got you in trouble! I think I'm adult enough to take the answer perfectly well." She states flatly, with a curt little nod.

"It's a date." A note of slyness wriggles into Timon's thin tenor as he tries to repeat his previous stretch, only this time with his (once-injured) right leg. For a moment, all's well on the Ivory front — but his brief triumph is suddenly shattered by a twinge of pain, which causes him to lose his footing and — well. "Karma," he mutters from the floor, doing his level best to pick himself up off the thankfully padded ground. "That's what I get for being cheeky."

Samantha laughs deeply as he goes down, and hard. She won't be able to get to him in time to stop the fall, but she kills her treadmill and comes over and around, offering him a hand up at least…"I don't…really…date. But the thought is nice. And yes, that is what you get. Now…go back to work. I should actually be getting ready for CAP.."

Timon accepts the proffered hand with his own, making sure to offer up not his previously-shattered left but his relatively unscathed right. His skin is warm but clammy; his palm, smooth but slick. "He'll be pleased to hear that," says Ivory when he's good and standing. The fact that Thorn has not asked him once about Case — or even spoken to him on the matter — the pilot conveniently ignores. This is simply too much fun — but the adrenaline rush of a long and relatively accident-free workout is fading, and dull exhaustion begins to seep into his very bones. "Winds be at your back," he says, before turning toward the towel rack by the hatch.

Samantha gives him a quick salute. "And yours also, Timon.." With those warmer words and motion, she jogs out the door, heading for the showers, no doubt.

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