The School of Athens
The School of Athens
Summary: Timon gets a new job.
Date: PHD162
Related Logs: Silence Is the Last Thing


Viper berthings. Seventeen hundred twenty five hours. Shift change was twenty-five minutes ago, so most pilots have filtered back out of berthings, who aren't on CAP. The wing's socially avoidant CAG is, however, taking this opportunity to mend a tear in one of his sets of fatigue trousers. He's slumped into a chair at the table, in sweats and a grey tshirt with 'DON'T MAKE ME GET MY FLYING MONKEYS' emblazoned across the back. There's a cigarette between his lips and a needle and thread in hand, kind of ruining the image of a house husband he almost had going on there.

The thud-thumping of Timon’s footsteps has become a familiar sound around Kharon of late, as he’s been remarkably active for somebody released from Sickbay only a few days ago. This lazy afternoon, said footsteps grow louder as he turns away from Black Berthings into this den of snakes and villainy, dressed rather snappily in his blues. Sure, one combat boot has been replaced by a rather larger one designed for those with damaged feet, and sure, he’s putting most of his weight on the cane in his hand; nevertheless, the fact remains that Ivory’s put some effort into looking professional. He even has a fancy leather-bound folder in his burned hand, its black cover embossed with the seal of the JAG Corps.

Den of snakes and villainy, indeed. Complete with sewing CAG. Marek doesn't look up from his delicate work, since, well.. it's berthings. Pilots wander in and out all the time. Though maybe he recognises those bootsteps; if so, he doesn't intimate as such. The needle's pushed through, and pushed through again while smoke trails from his cigarette and clouds his features. Looks like stick jockeys are good for more than just piloting vipers.

Timon looks like he desperately wants to comment on this moment of domestic bliss, but the half-smile on his face quickly fades into a grimace as he settles into a chair opposite the CAG. “Got a moment, Spider?” he wonders, after a few awkward seconds of watching Kai’s needle go in and out of those worn duty greens.

The only way this could get worse, is if Kai was knitting instead of stitching, and had a cat in his lap and a pair of tiny reading glasses on. Instead, Timon gets two day-old beard scruff, grease under his short fingernails, and brief eye contact made when his blue eyes come up for a moment. "Ivory. Hey." His lower lip vanishes for a moment between his teeth as he examines his handiwork. "What can I do you for?"

Wordlessly, Timon passes over aforementioned leather-bound folder, that wan smile returning as he slides it past the Sundowners' wrapped prophylactic to rest before the CAG. Inside is a single piece of lined paper, legal size, on which has been written in Ivory's distinctive tiny scrawl a — resume? And then, he's leaning forward to extend a hand across the table, his cane clanging loudly as it comes to rest on the table. "I once read somewhere that a successful job interview starts with the handshake," he observes, dry humor evident in his tone. "I would have written a cover letter, too, but I must admit here I wasn't sufficiently inspired to take this further."

In the early days of their relationship, Marek might just carry on doing what he's doing, and let Timon sweat it out a little. But these aren't, so he doesn't. Whatever's been forged between them, it commands at least that much mutual respect. He tucks the needle into the trousers, gathers them in one hand, and sets them aside. His cigarette's pinned between two fingers of his left— and after a beat or two, he reaches for the hand that's offered. It's clasped, and gripped about as firmly as one might expect of a viper jock. "I never was good at job interviews," he confides, one corner of his mouth affecting a twitch that could dissolve into a smile, but doesn't. He squeezes rather than shakes, and then releases the man in order to reach for his 'resume'. "I assume this is about the nugget training?"

"Neither," Timon confesses, "was I." Ivory's handshake, at least, has not improved with practice; his grip is limp, though not quite feeble. "It's why I ended up here — 'here' being the Fleet. That interview was all of one question long: 'I assume you have a heartbeat?'" Which, the CAG should know, was SOP in those halcyon days. As for the resume, it's actually fairly professionally done, and funnily enough, it even has a few contacts listed at the bottom — including a nugget by the name of Virgil Gresham, whom Kai should assuredly recognize. The answer to Spider's question should be self-evident; Ivory doesn't feel the need to provide one.

Halcyon days, indeed. The corners of the Captain's eyes crease softly with what might be a memory, or merely a fleeting amusement of no explanation or consequence. He flips the folder open, and scans over the page during the ensuing silence. His eyes tic up from 'Virgil Gresham' to Timon, then back down again. "I'll let you in on a little secret," he murmurs; it's left upon an expectant note.

"I assume it's not up to me to accept or decline," is Timon's wry response. He folds his hands over his lap — a fifth above that expectant note — his good palm settling over a hand that cannot by any stretch of the term be classified as 'good.' Not that Marek hasn't seen the damage, what with his occasional sojourns to the Recovery Ward and all, but still.

Seen it before or not, Karim's eyes make the brief detour to check it out, before roving back to the paper in front of him. It's hard to say whether he's actually reading, or just using it as a focal point during their conversation. "I was illiterate up until I started college. I had to take a shitload of remedial classes, as I'm sure you can imagine. I had to work my ass off for it. To this day, there's still stuff that trips me up; I'll never write literary masterpieces." He closes the folder and slides it back over, finally meeting Timon's eyes. "I'm not qualified to judge you on a basis like that. To be frank, I'm not sure anyone on this bucket, is. You'll let Mudguts know that I want you helping her out with written syllabus and course material for the raptors. You'll also be in charge of setting up a lecture schedule, and I'll sit in on a few of them to see how you do. I'm not going to tell you which ones, so don't ask. Got it?"

Timon leans backward in his seat, brown eyes flickering down to the picture of the anonymous redhead pinned to the table by Viper jocks past. There's no lust in his gaze: if the CAG's all caught up on shipboard gossip, he'll know that Ivory's type includes neither red hair nor massive — ahem — tracts of land. Just idle curiosity that vanishes utterly when Kai goes into Disclosure Mode — and then, surprisingly, Ivory reciprocates in kind.

"This may not be the proper forum, but." The pilot takes back his makeshift folder with that familiar faint smile, slipping it under the crook of his arm as he grabs for his cane's rubberized grip. "My first date was a month ago." Which, in his mind, is about as embarrassing as being illiterate for the first eighteen years of one's life. Go figure. "Not to mention the fact that I've now had a first-hand view of the destruction of not one but two Raptors, so." Smile tightens; then vanishes. "The ancients sang the virtues of well-rounded men. No wonder they could only name a few hundred even after several centuries of work." As for the rest? He's got it. SRSLY.

Thankfully, this is berthings and off duty, not the ready room and the CAG in his pressed blues. The tangent earns a small tug of Kai's lips that actually verges on a smile this time, though he doesn't elucdate upon his own sexual conquests. "We've all got our priorities," is all he says on the matter. His cigarette is tapped into the tin cup near that pinned redhead, ash crumbling from the tip, before the filter's tucked between his lips again. A drag. "In darts rejoicing," he begins carefully. It isn't tentative, merely offered in a musing tone, "and in bloody wars; fierce and untamed, whose mighty power can make the strongest walls from their foundations shake: mortal-destroying king, defiled with gore, pleased with wars dreadful and tumultuous roar. Thee human blood, and swords, and spears delight, and the dire ruin of mad savage fight." He draws a breath, and releases it slowly. "I think in times of peace, we need Renaissance men. But I guess these are times of war." A shoulder lifts; he exhales smoke through his nose. "You'll do fine with this. Or I'll kick your ass."

"Illiterate, you said?" Timon grins as he taps the bottom of his cane against the deck, his pale face lit with something approximating amusement — approximating being the key word. He doesn't elaborate further. It's a compliment. Really. "I can't say whether the Raptor nuggets will appreciate being forced to sit through my dreary seminars, but — well, I guess it'll be nice to be a professor with the power of enforcement." Ivory's burned hand gestures at the lieutenant's pins on his collar. "Don't turn in a problem set? That's an F for you — and fifty pushups, supervised by a loud Marine." Deadpan, ever so deadpan.

Kai chuckles softly, and toys with the cigarette between his fingers. "Just because I didn't read, doesn't mean we didn't have to memorise scripture." His eyes trace the burn scars on Timon's hand again— and again, they remain un commented-upon. "Don't let the power go to your head," is his dry commentary.

This, to a man who absolutely positively refuses to let anybody call him 'sir,' 'Lieutenant,' or anything, really, that's not his callsign. Well, anybody who's not Castor Leda, but the point remains. "Yeah," is his profound reply: applicable, as is his wont, to both of Marek's statements. Then — again, with the same odd look on his face that appeared in similar circumstances a few nights ago in Sickbay — he's dragging himself to his feet, cane thudding dully against the deck, before fixing the shorter man with blank brown eyes. "Thanks."

Kai eases to his feet as well, perhaps to see about finding himself another cigarette— his current one's pretty much down to the filter. Shorter, he definitely is, if somewhat more bulkily built. The look, if spotted, is not questioned. "No problem," he murmurs instead. "Have a good evening. And heal up." His back's turned by this point, as he reaches up to pat down his bunk. "Need you back in the cockpit, Ivory."

"You know — " Ivory starts. For a moment, it seems as if he's about to launch into another one of his trademark stories, but fortunately for the CAG, that moment comes and goes without comment from the normally loquacious pilot. "Good evening," he echoes instead, transferring his folder from armpit to hand as he makes for the hatch. And as for the fact that he doesn't go on for another forty-five minutes, like he usually would? That should speak for itself.

"Evening, Lieutenant." Farewell returned, and rank slid back in there almost as a warning against further loquaciousness, Kai resumes his rummaging for a smoke.

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