Four Minutes
Four Minutes
Summary: Timon meets Kassia in the laundry room. The conversation goes poorly.
Date: PHD085
Related Logs: None

Kharon - Laundry Room

Kassia has just walked into the laundary room, bag comes off her shoulders and lands on t he floor with a heavy thud. Kneeling down she opens the bag and begins to sport into, colors, whites and darks.

Timon's already there. He hasn't bothered to sort out his gear; instead, in the dryer before him now spins a sloppy mess of olive, beige, and black — a dull array of clothes well suited for a man of his temperament. The pilot leans against his cane, not minding in the slightest the heat of the room; his left hand, wrist stabilized by a splint, rises in greeting. "Flash," he says, voice not entirely audible over the whirr of machinery.

Kassia looks up from her sorting hand pauses in the process of dropping a tank top onto the pile of colors. "Sir." She says with a brisk nod, before looking back down at her clothing, and carrying on with the boring process everyone has to do at least once a week.

Or, in Timon's case, once every two weeks, three weeks, or however long he can go without wasting his time with such mundane things as hygiene. For a moment, he'll watch his clothes in silence; then, at length: "Nice bit of flying down there." Scorpia, he means. The tip of his cane taps impatiently on the floor; brown eyes are fixed not on the other pilot but on the red numbers located on the top of the dryer. 4 minutes, they say.

Kassia finally finished her sorting and picks up the first load of, it's a piloe of white. She foots open the washer door shoves them in, grabs her bottle of liquid detergent and pours in half the amount one would normally used. "Thank you sir." She replies automatically. She dies for a twenty five minutes wash, then goes to repeat the same steps for the other two remaining piles.

"Ivory," the pilot corrects, his tone mild. The back of his splint touches his recently-broken nose, as if testing its structural integrity. Still four minutes on the clock.

Kassia blinks over the other raptor pilot a little confused for a second. "Parden sir?" Sir, she asks, closing the door on the washer and placing in the detergent, though she also adds a cap of bleach to this one also, must be the white. She then makes her way over towards the table and sits down, she crosses her legs places her head in her hands and waches the numbers tick away.

"You can drop the sir," Timon clarifies, dropping his hand into his lap as he allows himself a quiet sigh. "I don’t stand much for formality. So unless the circumstances warrant it, I'm Ivory."

Kassia slowly nods her head. "With respect sir, I just got dressed down my a senior officer to myself for not calling them sir, I do not wish to have another one." She says, her eyes going to briefly look at him. "But if you desire it I shall address you as Ivory."

The elder pilot whistles under his breath. "And they say I'm the one with the stick up his ass," he says. Is that an — expletive? It's likely the first one Kassia's heard from Timon since the two of them met. "It's not a trap, Flash. I don't do dressing-downs. Ivory's fine." Of course, the lieutenant's ECO might beg to differ.

Kassia nods her head slowly at him, chosing to ignore the comment about the stick up the ass, Kassia is definetly alot colder then usual here. "Of course Ivory." She says her eyes flicker now to the first of her washers 15 minutes left, second has 17 and the third lagging behind at twenty.

Timon grunts in acknowledgment before turning his attention back to his machine. Three minutes — but just as he blinks, the red number '3' turns to '2.' For a while, there's silence; then — "Want to talk about it?" Yeah: being stranded on Scorpia must have really messed with his mind, if he's offering to just … chat.

Kassia shakes her head. "Nope." She says without even thinking. "No offence Ivory but go pretend you care with someone else. Because I really don't want it." She doesn't mean to sound harsh, but the bitterness inside her right now, just wants to lash out.

Unfortunately for Flash, the pilot's still stuck here for another two minutes — time, after all, doesn't move quickly when one wants to stave off awkwardness. But if she's expecting to be upbraided for her cheek or otherwise reprimanded, she's got another thing coming: Timon merely shrugs his shoulders and returns his attention to his clothes. His cane begins tapping even more quickly against the ground, to the rhythm of some mad tarantella only its owner can hear.

Kassia merely nods her head slowly, she was excepting a reprimand or at least some harsh words, but nothing as usual that seems to be the normal responce to her so she's not dissapointed at all. She places her hands behind her and leans back trying to, strave off the bordem of the laundry room.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the seconds pass — and now, at last, the crimson '2' blinks out, supplanted by a simple '1.' The cane stops tapping. "You know," says Timon, conversationally, "I always used to wonder how that happens. How those numbers changed." The pilot laughs briefly, sotto voce. "When I was a kid, I’d stare at my mother's clock for hours, just to see it happen. Little green LEDs on the wall, that little colon winking at me — and right when I turned away, bam." His cane's rubber tip smashes into the ground. "Seven thirty-eight to seven thirty-nine."

Kassia is quiet for a few moments. "Guess it's kinda like life in a way." She replies quietly, she even looks miserable now, the woe is me look that has only graced the young woman's face perhaps two or three times in her life. "I surpose if you go down to engineering you could ask someone there. Roubani perhaps, I'm sure you and hmm get on well."

"Yeah." It's not so much a word as an exhalation of breath, spoken before Timon rolls his shoulders. Eyes closed, head tilted back, he bends his neck to the left, then to the right. Is he answering to the part about life or the part about Poet? For a moment, he looks like he's about to explain; then, abruptly, the dryer buzzes — and in a few awkward motions, the pilot's found his hamper and opened the door.

Kassia without saying a word slips off the table and goes to help the man with the cain, she bends down and begins to pull one piece at a time out. She folds it and places it into the hamper, then fetches another, she points to a chair. "Sit." Is the only things she says to him.

"Don't bother." Timon moves to kneel on the ground, his bandaged left foot stretched out behind him. Metal cane clatters to the floor as his good hand reaches over to grab the undershirt the ensign is currently folding. "My stuff. I'll deal with it."

Kassia drops it onto the floor and just goes off, it's clear his actions hurt her and she just goes back to sitting on the table. She turns her back towards the washers and studies the rack of old magizines.

"You're moping," Timon observes, balling up his green shirt before throwing it into the bottom of his hamper. Right hand reaches into the machine's scalding interior to retrieve — a pair of socks, this time. He's not looking. They get the same treatment, tossed into storage without much ceremony.

Kassia just ignores him, it's about this time her washing finishes and she moves across to them, and begind to switch em into dryers the only spare ones next to where Timon is. "I was trying to help, but as usual I get rejected. Story of my frakking life." She says going to shut the first door, she grabs the second, lot that's placed into another dryer and the third.

The lieutenant chuckles softly as he withdraws another burning clump of clothing from the dryer. Two pairs of underwear (yes — those are boxers), a spare t-shirt, and the blue pants of his flight suit are dropped together. "'Go pretend you care with someone else,'" he says, repeating exactly the ensign's words from a few minutes earlier. "Sound familiar?" There's no malice in his voice.

Kassia slambs the last door to her dryer shuts and just goes to walk towards the door. Yeah, she's frakked off truely.

"Ensign," says Timon, and now there's an edge in his voice — steel, at last, makes itself known. Mechanically, his hand reaches into the dryer to retrieve still more of his clothes. The hamper's already about half full.

Kassia stiffen slightly, her years of military living and then her training, make her automatically respond to that steele tone. Slowly she turns around her body stiff her expression, emtionless. "Yes." She says in just the right sort of indifferent tone, she knows when she's pushed the wrong buttons.

"You don't know me that well." Timon's head turns toward her as he feels inside the dryer, gathering together as much as his grasp will permit. "If you have problems with me prying, that's fine. I'm not your shrink. But — " At last, he's done. The door to the dryer is left open so the next person knows that it's open; with a sigh, he pushes himself to his feet, cane in hand. "Talk to somebody?" The man favors her with a wan smile. "Because pushing people away reflexively will get tiring."

Kassia shakes her head. "Well to be honest sir, there isn't that many people to push away so it won't take me that long." She bites out. "And I'm tired oif talking about it, because talking does frak all. It just makes me look like a whiney little brat which to be honest sir I don't need. So I figured being bitter and hateful will at least give people an excuse then." She adds, her eyes somewhere between the top of the washer and the ceiling.

"You figured poorly," is all Timon says. He bends to strap his hamper around his back, wincing as the heavy load forces its strap against his neck. A quick shoulder-wiggle later and he's good to go. Cane in hand, he begins to stump toward the hatch.

Kassia shakes her head. "No I didn't I figured just perfectly." And she's out before he is.

It's just as well the lieutenant can't follow her, hobbled as he is. For a moment, he considers pulling rank, and indeed, he opens his mouth as if to speak — and then, as he's wont to do, he thinks better of it, shutting it just as quickly. Without a word, he kicks the hatch closed and heads down the corridor in the opposite direction, that wan smile still playing about his face.

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