Ours to Question
Ours to Question
Summary: Willem, Camille, and Roubani question sex, life, and sense. There's about as much awkwardness as you'd imagine.
Date: PHD122 (18 August 2009)
Related Logs: Related Logs (Say None if there aren't any; don't leave blank)
Players:
Willem..Camille..Roubani..

Kharon - Laundry Room

This isn't like the epic laundry haul of last week, no. This is a precise, surgical strike. Get in, launder key items, get out. That's obviously Wil's game plan as he slips inside the laundry facilities. He hefts his canvas sack over his shoulder and sets it down in front of the infamous Washer #3. This thing is cursed.

Camille's sitting on top of one of the washing machines, legs crossed, looking ever slightly elegant in her scrubs, a magazine open in her lap. One of those horribly girlie ones that was left in sickbay after a certain Lieutenant's recovery. She's quietly but rather intensely blushing as she reads an article, both enrapt and horrified.

Roubani makes a soft jangling sound as he comes into the laundry, keys on his belt allowed to make noise as his arms are tied up with a laundry bag. There aren't too many clothes in it, but he's determined nevertheless to make sure it touches neither wall nor floor. And this endeavour goes very, very well until he happens to pass Camille, idle glance given to the cover of the magazine. And…GAH not THAT. Bam, his hip slams into the corner of the washer he didn't see coming in front of him. Ow?

There's a pointed glance shot around the laundry. Wil seems to be jumping at his own shadow here. What with systemwide cylon bugs, internal strife amongst crewmembers, and at least one bad marine encounter, his usual paranoia may in fact be only half-justified this time around. Catching Camille with a slight narrowing of eyes, along with the magazine, his shoulders shrug. He glances at the cover a moment more until Roubani's arrival and subsequent BAMTHUD divert his attention immediately to the younger man. "Whoah whoah whoah. Careful." He offers, in the lightest of good-natured tones he can muster.

Yes, that again. Apparently, someone has shared the love. Or the tips, at least. Camille turns the magazine sideways, apparently looking at some sort of diagram, before she mutters to herself, "Well, now, that's just not physically possible!" In a very clinical, affronted sort of way. And then SLAM, Roubani draws less than smooth attention to himself as she looks up, eyes going wide. "Lieutenant Roubani! Are… are you alright?… That… I mean, the machine is right there. Are you feeling dizzy?" Straight into doctor mode, she slides down off the machine, moving to his side. She gives Willem a half smile but there is a hint of scolding at his comment towards the man.

"No, no, no, sir." Roubani puts his hands up and quickly crabsteps away before she can get too close to him. No touchie the hurtie. Even seen a cat fall off a table, the way it immediately twitches its tail and stalks off like nothing happened? The JG does a good impression of that, even if he does have to limp just a hair on his way to a machine. Willem even gets a nice dignified nod. "Evening, Price."

"'lo, Poet." Wil says with a quirk of his mouth into a faint smile. He returns to his laundry project in front of him, popping the door open as he gives the man a generally good-natured glance, which lolls from him to regard Camille again. And her Magazine of Doom. If he catches the scolding, at all, he doesn't comment. He moves to get a better look at the magazine, in any case.

Camille seems to remember something and immediately her hands drop. She nods towards Roubani. "Just…just being certain." She states simply, giving him a briefly concerned smile but then turning away. She'll give him his space. She looks back towards Willem and watching him look at her magazine…"It…it's very… Informative. And a total liar… often." She admits almost nervously.

Roubani manages not to blush until after nobody's looking at him anymore. Yeesh. He opens the lid of a washer and dumps in his clothes, already ritually pre-sorted up in his bunk. Once it's started he settles into a chair, pressing an elbow oh so casually into the spot on his hip that's on yelling at him. Comment on magazine, no no. Not yet, anyway.

At this point, it would be probably safe to say that Wil knows Roubani well enough not to press or shine the spotlight of scrutiny on him. That was that, and he continues to dump out his smaller load of clothes and shove them into the washer. He stops for a moment, frowning at something. Whatever that is remains uncommented upon. With a bit of a sigh, he looks back towards Camille with an inclination of his head. "Yeah. There's something about those rags that just, I don't know," he fumbles for the word with a slight swipe of his hand. "Seems patronizing. You know?"

Camille lofts a brow. "Patronizing? But… I mean… it's… research, right? You men certainly don't open your mouths enough to tell us if we're doing it right so… We've got to figure it out another way. Besides. A lady doesn't…. Really talk about these thing…" Dammit, she's blushing even deeper now, just thinking about this all and admitting, well…She might be worried about matters in the bedroom.

"I'd always thought they were being a touch…facetious with it," Roubani says, hesitantly and with a glance towards the magazine. His handheld computer's slid off his belt and turned on with the press of a button on the side. His brows draw and he looks at the two of them carefully. "Are they not?"

"Facetious, Poet?" He looks between the other two pointedly. "Nah. I mean, the -research- is for a good cause," Wil narrates as he dumps the rest of the laundry in, adding soap, and slapping the door shut with an easy shove. He's fighting an awkward grin here now, judging by the quivering of the right side of his face. "I guess I was talking about the concept of calling it a 'women's' magazine itself. Like you all don't have -anything- better to ponder than to how to get us going wi—" Oh, there's a bit of a prude to Rebound's public persona which shows itself every now and then. Usually in the -middle- of saying things like this rather than keeping him from saying them altogether. "Yah. Anyway If you want to know something usually the best way to find out is to just -ask-."

Camille clears her throat. "..Ah… my… well… he's not… Really… " Camille blushes even more, pressing her lips together. "I'm not certain he'd… be comfortable… is all. We… We prefer to keep things… Proper, so to speak." Camille's blushed beet red under her freckles now, folding the ridiculous magazine shut.

This is sort of like watching a really good soap opera that you turn on in exceedingly guilty five minute intervals. Roubani keeps his head tilted down towards his handheld, even if he does glance up once at Camille from under his brows. Then his thumb hits some keys.

"You do? Really? I must come from a different planet." Wil says, matter-of-factly. Duh. He did. In fact, he's not even blushing here first. Until he looks between the two of them again and it pretty much dawns on him what's going on. Then, on-cue, he blushes himself, the flush mainly contained to his ears, but still. He switches the washer on with a lazy swipe of his hand as he comments further. "Comfortable? And by proper, I meant, well, within limits of polite conversation. Behind closed doors. Uh, yeah. I'm just going to shut up now?"

Oh, it's just a little blush circle, it seems, as the gingers collide and capillaries explode on cheeks into bright pink. Camille's still blushing, turning to look on her laundry which she can't even open yet, because it's on the spin cycle. "Yes… uh… possibly this is… something for closed doors, but… Closed doors aren't really…ah… To be found on this ship. And I do not wish to make my Knight uncomfortable. It's alright. Maybe the magazine will help…" Dammit, how is she discussing this with these people? She clears her throat…"…Poet… perhaps you know a more… eloquent way to bring up… difficult subjects?"

Roubani in the meantime has engaged himself in his work, at least on the surface, having settled in that dignified way he has with crossed legs and a straight back against his chair. Don't mistake it for being comfortable; there's a stiffness to his posture that is not quite at one with the atmosphere in the room. Ignoring them through this conversation had likely been on his permanent agenda until Camille calls to him, and he lets the little computer rest on his knee, softly clearing his throat. "Sir, honestly I find 'May I ask you something?' to work quite well." Sarcastic, nope. Not at all.

Still blushing, his mouth parts a bit and suddenly Wil lets out a series of quiet laughs. "Knight? As in, tactical officer? Sorry, I didn't mean anything untoward. The Lieutenant is…" He doesn't finish the sentence. Something here is making him laugh, although it seems a bit awkward and broken-up. Poet's timely statement does earn him a way out of this spiral of doofiness as he glances pointedly to the other man. "What he said. Seriously. Although, men, we're adaptable. You know? We -have- to be, these days."

Camille clears her throat, still blushing herself. "Yes. Praxis and I have found ourselves most… Comfortable in each other's company." Camille states as neutrally and delicately as possible as she finally forces herself to look back to the men. Poet's suggestion recieves a slightly lofted brow and a small smile…"That is a good way to start. Now just to find the courage, you know."

The other Lieutenant's laughter isn't sparking any from Roubani, though the exceptionally straight face isn't disapproving. He glances down at the handheld, gently licking his lips, then looks back up. "Sir, with all due respect," he murmurs. "Given the amount of courage it has taken to come all this far…I am more than confident you have some left in you." He shrugs one shoulder, clearing his throat again. "If tomorrow may be the last day we live, would you really wish to spend it worrying whether you could have been a little happier if you'd just spoken?"

"Lt. Demitros, then. Ahh. You need to flat-out ask him. He -deserves- it." Whether deserving of respect, or out of some playful grudge, indicated by the clumsy, sort of doofus-like smirk on the part of Wil. Listening to more wisdom cometh from the mouth of Poet-babes, he composes himself and becomes a little more serious. He nods to the other man as something clicks in his head. "No. In all honesty, there are many things you need to be brave in the face of these days. That shouldn't be one of them. If there's one thing I've learned about interpersonal relationships, and I'm generally an -idiot- about these matters, is that things will come out sooner or later if you spend enough time around someone you're close with. Hiding it's a waste of time."

Camille looks between both the men, each of them rather quite a bit younger than her, and yet at least one of them seems possibly more wise in these matters. Camille clears her throat, considering all this advice. She tilts her head at Will, "He…deserves it? What did he do now? And… Lieutenant Roubani, you are right. I… I am not accustomed to working with these stakes. I do not suppose any of us are."

Roubani also gives Willem a mild look as it's stated Praxis deserves it. That might be curiosity, though it's respectfully veiled. Ahem. Having given Willem the springboard to identify with Camille's issues though, he falls silent and as usual, his face gives away little of opinion. He's listening to them.

"It's a private joke, really. No, he's a good guy." Wil says, initially stumbling over the words here. "It stemmed from a slightly, er, embarassing incident that was played for laughs. He's got more of a sense of humor than his reputation indicates but you'd likely know that." Rebound's ears are still indeed a bit red. Catching Roubani's look, he gives the Viper pilot-turned-Snipe a bit of a terse, if friendly explanation. "He's Lt. Tanner's C.O., after all." Probably all sorts of potential for laughs, there. No more elaboration on this, though. "Seriously, Doctor. Nobody came with an 'end of the world' kit. These days have pushed a lot of us into doing things we never thought were 'proper' before. If the worst breach of your usual etiquette you can muster up involves making life better for another person, I'd say 'go for it.'" Blush fading, he's just frank here.

Camille nods quietly towards both of them. "Well…I thank you for the advice… gentleman. I will keep it in mind…" She gives them one last smile, giving up on waiting for her laundry. "I should check in at sickbay, if you'll excuse me." And she slips out, leaving the magazine behind for the next victim.

Oh. THAT incident. Unfortunately for Wil, Roubani purses his lips into a half-moue, half-smirk that's way too clued in, then he sniffs politely and it's gone. And so is Camille. He rubs his temple with his thumb, giving an absent glance to his humming washer.

The reaction here on Wil's part speaks of general good humor. Maybe he catches the look, as a coppery brow arches at the other man for just a second or so until he turns as Camille leaves. "Good luck, Doc." He says softly, as he reaches over to grab at the magazine after a long, guilty-looking pause. "Stuff never ceases to amaze me."

Roubani's attention had wandered off into nowhere, only pulled back to Willem when the man speaks. "Stuff," he half-repeats, half-asks in his quiet voice.

"This." He holds the offending magazine up in the air as he starts to flip through its pages. "I mean, I'm as guilty as anyone about this but no longer -having- a world gives you perspective you didn't have before." His eyes narrow a bit at one of the particularly salient details. "A whole industry arose capitalizing on a perceived inability between men and women to communicate."

Roubani's lips twitch. The half-smile looks almost guilty at sparking, causing him to look down at his knee. "We made relevant what made money, I suppose. I don't know, I…am half-tempted to believe that many simply enjoyed the camraderie of miserable matrydom."

"Spectacle sells." Wil nods in a dose of agreement. "Don't know whether it was the cubits or the general busted conditions society evolved in that sparked it all." His lips purse as he sets the magazine down. "I don't know. I tend to get strange thoughts about it all. Do you think all that's happened could make us better people?"

"No more or less than catastrophe has ever made a better or worse man," Roubani murmurs. "Everyone has changed since the day I met them. I wouldn't call it all for the better. But then again, who am I to judge."

"There's a difference between judging and observing, I think." Wil tosses out there in response. "I'm not sure I can join in the first myself. I was telling the prisoner, Calavera that, when we were talking. I suppose I have your typical historian's perspective, though. History makes people more than people make history."

"The words 'better' and 'worse' are inherently judging," Roubani points out softly. "But I suppose so, of the perspective. You are indeed a learned man."

"Better. Worse. On some level I think there are few absolutes, but a few rules, or civilization would never have existed." Wil says, brushing off the compliment with a vague, abashed poke at himself. "And I just read a lot and dug at things in a desperate attempt to keep busy because I always expected there to be something under the surface in the universe, in civilization, in history that made sense. You want learned, I think Lt. Stathis can run rings around me." There's a flickering of a smile again. He leans over the machine a moment more as he stares into the depths of the wash chamber idly. "You seem to have a lot of answers, too, and I generally find they make sense."

Roubani's eyes flicker. "We all spout out answers to everything…" He makes a soft chuckle that's weak on the mirth. "But sometimes, you know…I wonder if we even bothered to listen to the questions in the first place." His washer buzzes loudly and he gets to his feet, pulling the lid open. "Do you truly hope that? That it makes sense."

"I always have. I think it's one of my fatal flaws." Wil admits, bemusedly. "Not that I believe that's a -bad- thing." Like clockwork, his own machine buzzes as they're -almost- on the same exact cycle here, and smirks a little to himself as he pops open the lid. "Just, it's an obsession that can override common sense." Shovelling the wet laundry into the receptacle, he turns to haul it over towards the array of dryers behind him, popping that door open now and proceeding to load it with a lazy motion. "What I was getting at though, has everything to do with what you just said. Listening to the questions. You seem to be keyed in on that concept. Were you always like this?"

"Well, my voice used to be higher," Roubani says, facetiously. Then more seriously, "I don't know. I suppose everyone's had to become what they are now from some other point. Were you always like you are?"

"So noted." Wil catches the half-joke and returns a half-smile in the process as he closes the door. "No. I used to be slightly irresponsible. Probably thought that if the intents of my actions were pure, there wouldn't be any ill consequences." His forehead wrinkles in though along with a slight frown. "The world never's worked on this principle though."

Roubani shuts the door to the dryer, his finger pausing an inch from the button to give him time to take a careful of study of Willem's face. There's a priavte sort of half-smile and he looks back at the machine, starting it up. "I can see that."

Wil's reaction is generally wordless. As he fiddles with the dryer dial, selects cycle, and the like, he looks from the receptacle to Roubani with the same look he's had for a few minutes now. "What about you? Other than changing voices and the like?"

Bzzzt, rumble rumble. Roubani lets his fingertips rest on the dryer top. "I used to believe that if you just remained in your place and did your duty, that you would have nothing to question." He looks up, giving Willem a slightly wry smile. "So much for that."

[Intercom] Praxis says, "Attention all hands, this is Lieutenant Demitros in CIC. The Kharon is currently passing by an asteroid field of considerable size and we are currently plotting a course around the field. Be advised we are going to Condition Two until we are clear of the field. I say again, condition two until we clear the field."

<Intercom> Attention! Set Condition Two throughout the ship.

Whatever Wil as going to immediately say in response to this was more or less cut off by the buzz of the intercom. "Well, that sounds lovely." He mutters half to himself as he glances up at the dryer a moment longer. Stepping away, he visibly mulls over Roubani's words for a few seconds. "That was the problem. I never believed that, itself, but used to believe I could get away with 'just doing my job' and not asking questions. I was cheating myself. It finally dawned on me what I was doing, with, can you believe this — A talk with Captain Marek."

Roubani mms in his throat. It's hard to decipher exactly what the sound means. The intercom's distracted him though, and he frowns slightly as he glances up. "Unfortunately…I should get to shift. The kids might break something. Perhaps we'll finish this over tea sometime, though."

"Eh. Probably. I should get closer to my rack, just in case." Wil notes, dryly. "Stay safe, Poet." There's a bit of a lingering pause here. "Tea, eh? I should hold you to that." There's an accompanying chuckle to this statement for some reason.

Roubani does not lie about tea, dawg. He nods once and abandons his drying laundry. At least with the ship on condition two, fewer people are likely to mess with it.

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