Men Conspiring
Men Conspiring
Summary: When men conspire. It isn't pretty.
Date: PHD069
Related Logs: Related Logs (Say None if there aren't any; don't leave blank)

Kharon - Black Berthings

Morning, evening — these are terms that have no real meaning to somebody assigned to the last CAP of the night, and indeed, Timon can't bring himself to care that it's 0700 and technically the crack of dawn. "Good night," he says to a few of his fellows just leaving for the dawn patrol; "Good evening," he says to an MP passing by in the hall — and then the lieutenant stumbles into his berthings in a half-dissassemmbled flight suit still reeking of sweat.

And as far as Kisseus is concerned, it's far, far too early for consciousness to be knocking at his door. Despite the fact that he's been tugged by his well-meaning ECO until one arm drapes down from his bunk toward hers — she's subsequently vacated the area to go tend to a shower and breakfast — he's still got his face half-pressed into his pillow as he endeavors diligently to ignore the sounds of people going out and people coming in.

Roubani has very little sense of whether one should be awake or asleep at any given time. He might have been called a night owl, or a morning person; it's hard to tell now that there's no sun. So his clock just merrily malfunctions, leaving him wandering at strange times. Like now. He drifts into black berthings, a place he was out of place even even when he was a pilot himself, and lingers by the hatchway uncomfortably.

The remainder of Timon's flight suit is sloughed off on the ground as he steps further into the room, its hard-yet-flexible brown-black fabric trailing like molted skin behind him. Then, with a final pull, it's off him entirely as he manages to step out of his boots. For the moment, he'll let it lie there as he heads toward his locker with service pistol in hand, attempting to lock the weapon away before he accidentally shoots himself — or Matto, or Roubani — in the face. Wait. Roubani? "Ensign," Timon calls. "What gives?"

"Hnnngh," is Kisseus' contribution to the conversation at this point, growing vaguely more awake as he slowly apprehends the fact that he's lying face-down in what feels like a puddle of drool. His eyes, already closed, scrunch tighter shut and he bends and elbow to push himself half-upward, trying to bring his other arm up to wipe his face, but finding the limb asleep from its odd angle handing over the edge of the bunk.

Roubani freezes at someone calling his rank, as though Timon had just turned a floodlight on his position. Daring evasive action! "Er." He stammers, instead. Well done. "I apologise, sir. I'd been wondering if Lieutenant Matto was here. But I see he's asleep."

"Looks like he's training to be the grease man for a bank heist." Timon goes to retrieve his flight suit from the ground before it's trampled by a rampaging ECO still a bit tipsy from whatever party he's just come back from. The heavy material is gathered into his chest in a large and lumpy ball. "That, or the contortionist Olympics are next week. You want, I can wake him?"

Matto might -look- asleep, but it's a carefully crafted illusion, at this point. His eyes pasted shut by eyeboogers, one cheek smeared with saliva and his face etched with pillowlines, he pushes himself further toward a sitting position with his good arm while the numb, listless one hangs in a mildly painful state of incapatitated…ness? Is that even a word? He looks vaguely as if he were rising from the dead, his hair smashed against his head on one side and sticking out in wild directions on the other side. "Uhhn?" He heard his name, maybe.

"No, no." Roubani flushes faintly at the thought of rousing someone out of bed just for him. The zombie noises get his attention and he glances at the poor pilot before looking back at Timon. "Let him rest, he must be very tired." Which leaves him with no objective in the room, and so he folds his hands behind his back a touch awkwardly. "I guess just tell him I came by."

"You really should try to wake him, you know." Timon, for his part, goes back to his locker and fiddles with a hanger or two, picking one out from the rest with one hand while the other holds onto his clothes. "Consider it a workout for that arm of yours, rolling somebody who sleeps like a rock out of his bunk. Anyway, he sounds like he's conscious." The pilot tries to slot the hanger into the neck of his rumpled flight suit and fails miserably. "Sort of," he amends. "Well, hopefully, he won't be dead weight."

Matto drags his legs over the edge of the bunk, using the leverage to sit up straight. "Ah'm up," he promises, "What's, what's up, dude?" he wonders, his good arm lifting his numb arm into a bent position, then letting go, only to have the sleeping limb fall to his side again.

Roubani looks sorely tempted to shoehorn Timon's clothing into order himself, getting twitchier when the Lieutenant abuses his hanger. "Sir, would you like assistance?" His hand's already out, offering to take the clothes. Then Matto's talking at him. "Oh, I didn't mean to wake you." His voice quiets in gentle respect of the sleepyhead, not that it was loud to begin with. "I just wanted you to know I spoke to her. Or rather she spoke."

"I've got it." Timon is a typical man in this respect — he'll brook no interference in what should be a simple and straightforward task. One suspects he doesn't bother asking for directions before driving. For the moment, then, he directs his attention toward his clothes, trying once more — and succeeding this time — to shove the thin metal wiring into his flight suit's collar. But when Roubani talks: "Her?" Yeah, he was eavesdropping.

Matto grits his teeth vaguely as his arm begins to go all pins and needles on him, "Ah, ah, this is the worst part," he shakes out the limb despite the pain when it moves. "It's cool, it's cool, I need to be alive anyhow," he kicks a foot down into Poppy's bunk, finding the curtain drawn and therefore his ECO not at home, more than likely. "She— oh," that took a second to sink into his sleep-addled brains— but only a second. "That's good. I hope?" A vague probing for more information, without, obviously, asking what was said. That'd just be rude.

"Lieutenant Matto had been concerned about Captain Legacy," Roubani answers Timon softly. He seems fine with giving that much information; not like it's a secret. Back to Matto he nods to the question. Not quite a smile but close. If anything he looks slightly drained, but in good spirits about whatever it was. "I think she's going to be alright. She's…" He pauses, assessing how to do this without airing her laundry. "…lonely. Maybe the wing might do something nice for her together, show her she's being thought of." He slides a hand into his front pocket of his jacket, hunting for something.

"I think everybody is." Lonely, or worried about Legacy — he doesn't elaborate. Then: "But yeah." He'll shut up for now, turning toward his locker to hang this smelliest of smelly flight suits next to its slightly less disgusting peers. But there's a faint look of discomfort on his face, one that makes it past the tiredness and doesn't go away.

"Sounds like a good idea. Maybe we could all do something for her at the wake," Kissy muses, still half-asleep, whatever half-formed notions are in his brain coming tumbling out. "She didn't happen to say anything about anyone… leaving, did she?" His eyelids even begin to peel open as he slowly looks to be veering more awake.

Roubani withdraws what he was looking for, a beige fabric sachet with a drawstring. "I wouldn't do it at the wake. It means she has to reign in how happy she can be for fear of being disrespectful to the dead. No, do it separately and show her what she has left without a reminder right there of what's gone." The scent of lavender is coming from the bag, as he taps it with his fingers to fluff it up a little. "Anyone leaving? I suppose, but I couldn't say if that's really what you mean without context."

Timon, for his part, looks as if he's slowly veering into sleep. Once more, it seems, he's going to tumble into bed without so much as a shower (or even a few drops of water to wipe down his salt-encrusted sweats) — but the man doesn't draw shut his curtain just yet. It's just more comfortable to listen lying down. "Smells like flowers," the pilot mumbles. Then: "Anything I can do?"

"You're right," Kisseus murmurs, finally getting his arm into some sort of working order, shaking it out until he can bend and unbend it of his own will. "We'll figure something out. Maybe we could scrounge up things for like a spa treatment," he considers, perhaps inspired by the scent of lavender. "I can ask Poppy if she'll donate some of her scented soaps. I could give her a mani and pedi. We could convert our squadron shower into a temporary steam room," he brainstorms. "I know she likes to have her scalp massaged. If we could give her a full shampoo I think she'd probably melt. We could try to see if anyone has like any of that facial mask goo." He pauses in mid-ramble, then looks at Roubani, "'Fraid there isn't any context. When she was all withdrawn and depressed she said something about needing to figure out why he left, but that was all she said."

"Lavender," Roubani tells Timon in his soft voice. He holds the sachet up so it spins a little bit, then starts inching past Matto's bunk towards Legacy's. "I told her it might help her sleep." He glances back at Matto as he's past and nods to his explanation. "I do think I know what she meant. But…it's something even she knows she needs to get herself over. Humans are not always rational and we can't wait forever for them to be." That slightly cryptic answer given, he chuckles at the mention of spa-ing the room out. "That sounds lovely. Lieutenant Stathis, perhaps you might find some palm fronds and grapes. And a loincloth." He flashes the Lieutenant an exceedingly brief grin. "But you'd have to ask Lieutenant Matto."

"Loincloth? Yeah, there's nothing I can do," Timon says to Roubani, flashing back a brief grin of his own — he's not so tired that he's forced to speak in a monotone, not yet. Indeed, as Matto goes on and on about beauty care products, Timon finds the conversation drifting further and further away from his area of expertise. But softly, almost to himself, though not so quietly that he can't be heard: "Hercalitus suffocated in cow shit? Chrysippus died from laughing too hard. Xenocrates broke his neck after tripping over a bronze pot. You know what I mean?"

"Oh! Loincloths," Kissy considers the option, "Good idea. We could totally turn this place into Legsykitten's harem," he chuckles at the notion. "Get a little bit of fine booze, a little bit of something sweet, just let her lay about and feel pampered for a while, yah?" Between Roubani being cryptic and Timon being cryptic, he's lost, though: "No, not really," he answers honestly.

Of course one doesn't have to ask if the engineer knows what Timon means. Roubani stays silent, dropping the sachet off on Legacy's mattress with no fanfare. Plunk. Turning back, he rests a shoulder against the vertical bunk beam and slides his good hand into his pocket, bad nestled comfortably in blue fabric at his chest. "Now that would be a sight," he tells Matto, sounding amused even if he barely half-smiles. "But what would you do with all the women?"

"As the ancients say, call no man happy until he is dead," is what Timon means. See? He said so himself. The lieutenant turns in the bed and shoves his pillow beneath his head to prop it up. "To wit: let's say happiness is found not in what we feel about ourselves but in what others feel about us, strange as that might seem. Which leads me to my point." Good: he has one, at least. "Antics might cheer her up. But the best we can do, in my estimation, is to live well, work well, and die well. So the Captain doesn't have to remember us as suffocating in shit. If that makes any sense."

"I'll steer clear of the Marine head on bean burrito night," Kissy assures Timon with as sober a nod as possible with pillowlines still all over his face, even if fully aware that's not what he meant. Then, lifting both brows in Roubani's direction, "I think the Captain would be in favor of an equal-opportunity harem. We ARE living in the age of gender equality in the workforce, after all."

"Oh." Roubani's lips twitch at Timon. He's getting used to the man taking a while to make a point worth hearing. "It does, at that. And I think it's all a wonderful idea. I wish I had something to help, but unless you want origami fish decorations…" He shifts against the pole, crossing one booted foot over the other. Matto gets a slight smirk.

"Do you think they'd melt in the shower?" Kissy wonders, in regards to the origami fishes. "Call no man happy until he is dead," Kissy muses softly, "Oh! Oh! Solon," Kissy knows that one.

Roubani stays where he is, holding up the bunk beam. "They would," he tells Matto. Alas. "Waterproof origami is a luxury I haven't yet figured out how to afford."

Matto finally pushes himself out of his bunk, landing on the floor and running his hands through his stubble, still kind of filmy with spit. "Eugh. I need a shave, is what. And maybe while you're hunting for waterproof origamis you could look for a waterproof pillowcase," he chuckles.

Roubani glances at Matto's pillowcase, tipping his head as he gives it a critical look. "I could always waterproof it. I just don't think it would be very kind to your face any longer." He slides his hand out of his pocket, straightening. It's one of those moments one's gauging if they should leave the other in their ungroomed privacy.

"Solon." Timon, who's been fighting off waves of sleep, perks up a few seconds late at the name of the reformer-qua-poet. But he loses it at 'waterproof origami.' "Droopy cranes," the exhausted pilot mutters, and the thought is enough to make him chuckle — no mean feat indeed, given that his thoughts are taking a surprisingly long time to get from synapse to synapse tonight. Morning. Whatever. "Didn't know you folded paper, Ensign. From where oh where did you learn?"

Matto isn't shy about his ungroomed unkemptness, nor, evidently, about anything else, as, if that were the case, he'd probably have put on something beyond the regulation boxer-briefs he's in by now. As it is he just trundles on past and into the head to wash his face some, "Yeah," he replies, "I guess I'd be pretty upset if my pillow decided to waterproof -me,-" he reasons in his usual completely unreasonable fashion, splashing cold water up on his face and neck for the time being, then squinting into the mirror and wetting down his hair with his hands.

"In physics classes," Roubani tells Timon, somewhat wryly. "We used to use them to help illustrate our designs of solar sails. It got sillier from there." He shrugs, glancing at Matto's back and then back at Timon. "Did you never learn some odd thing like that in university?"

"I learned how to use shotguns." No machismo in that statement, and indeed, Timon says it with such blandness that it sounds like fact. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to keep them from closing. Then, much louder: "That doesn't make sense, Kissy." And Timon has the nagging suspicion it wouldn't make much sense even if he weren't in an altered state.

That's alright, I'll just have to make enough sense for the both of us," Kissy murmurs in reply, trucking back on into the berthings proper to dig out a hairbrush from his stuff and run it through his hair.

Roubani gently leans his back against the upright beam, bracing a foot against it as well with his boot toes touching the floor. The banter between the two older men, he watches quietly. "Should we quiet so you can get your rest, Lieutenant?" He offers, goodnaturedly.

"Probably for the best, but — " Timon stops himself in the middle of his sentence, a rueful smile on his face. "Actually, there's no reason for you to clear out now, really. In this state, I'd likely sleep through a second Warday."

Matto drags on his thigh-length bathrobe for some semblance of modesty and begins laying out some actual clothes to wear after grooming proper is finished. "That sounds like a challenge, from here," Kisseus grins over at Ivory.

Roubani barely smiles. It's an absent expression that quckly evaporates again. "At least," he pleads to Matto, softly, "Confine your attempts to sound and touch. Smell, I can do without."

"By the gods' holy breath, what have I done." Timon's not sure that's an actual curse, in retrospect, but at this point in time he's past caring. "Sewage, probably, I think he's going to use."

Matto seems momentarily tempted to engage, but subsequently loses all interest in the challenge. Probably on account of the fact that there are other people here also doing the sleep thing, more than likely. He knows at the very least that Allie would crawl out of her bunk just especially to kick his ass all the way over to Red Squadron berthings. Instead, he simply hops onto the the edge of Timon's bunk, settling in to begin the torture, lifting up his voice gently through the quiet. "Hush, little baby, don't say a word… Kissy's going to buy you a mockingbird…" And to make matters all the worse, he rests a hand on Ivory's back, pushing it gently up and down the line of his shoulderblade.

How cute. Roubani doesn't really smile, just watching this interaction the way some people might idly watch a nature program on television. His watch makes a soft beep and he straightens up from the not-really-slouch he'd fallen into. "Shift. Enjoy yourselves, Lieutenants," he says, unable to think of anything else to say as he heads past.

"The indignity," murmurs Timon, who finds himself manhandled like a — well, as a point of fact, "manhandled" describes his current situation rather accurately. He doesn't move out of the way, however, or try to wriggle out of where he's at: instead, he'll just lie there passively, limp as a rag doll. But to Roubani: "Are you sure you can't gag this guy before you go?" That — that sounds plaintive.

Matto shifts his hips to one side and lays both hands upon Timon's back, not massaging, just running the palms of his hands soothingly up a short space on his back, then back down, warm and gentle. Roubani gets a little smile, and he's back to singing, "And if that mockingbird don't sing, Kissy's going to buy you a diamond ring."

"Really." Singing is met by skepticism. "I didn't know we had a jeweler aboard." Timon's face is planted nose-down in his thin pillow. "Maybe you'll be able to trade a married man some smokes for one?" The undershirts he's wearing are still slightly damp from sweat, but thankfully they're cooler now — his bunk fan is on almost every hour of the day.

Matto smiles softly. He'd wondered if the best way to keep someone awake might not be to endeavor to put them to sleep. He leans down into the soothing rub, pushing his hands along the backs of Ivory's arms, "And if that diamond ring turns brass, Kissy's going to buy you a looking glass," he continues to sing.

"I know this song." Timon hums along tunelessly for a bar or two, still not moving — or twitching, for that matter. "And if there's no looking glass, there'll be something else, and if there's none of that, there'll be yet something else." The pilot jams his head deeper into his pillow, tilting it to the left so he can still breathe — and talk. "I'm doomed."

Matto drags his hands back down to Ivory’s back, resting them palms-down and not minding the sweat a lick. "And if that looking glass gets -broke-," Kissy croons softly, "Kissy's going to buy you a billy goat. And if that billy goat won't pull… Kissy's going to buy you a cart and bull."

Time for drastic measures. Timon's hands wriggle out from under the weight of his fellow pilot as he grabs at his pillow, which now goes not under but over his head. A defense made of down: who would have thunk.

Matto leans up again, smiling quietly, just patting Timon on the back, gently, and pulling up the covers to tuck him in, "And if that cart and bull fall down, well, you're still the sweetest little boy in town. So, hush, little baby, don't you cry. Daddy loves you, and so do I." The last verse is punctuated with a soft kiss near where Timon's neck meets his back, "Good night," he whispers, and stands up to scoot off back to his locker.

"Thanks, Kissy." Timon emerges from underneath his barricade to give his fellow pilot a grateful smile. "For the song, and, to be honest, for ending it." A little chuckle. His eyes are bleary and unfocused, but his look of discomfort has long since faded. "Good luck out there. And if you find a loincloth, let me know?" Then without further ado it's bedtime for him — for indeed, he's got more than a few Zs to catch before the morrow.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License