Time For A Drink II
Time For A Drink II
Summary: Part of what happened after Castor left.
Date: Date
Related Logs: Short lounge continuation of Time for a Drink

Kharon - General Lounge

Matto looks back to Kassia with a quizzical brow aloft, stalking a few more steps toward the booze-up, but then rocking back onto a heel, "I'd better go see to— oh," he breaks off, as Castor heads out with evidently similar intent. As four shoulders to cry on are invariably two shoulders too many, he turns back again, heading for Marty, "So how about those Panthers?" he asks.

"I know right?" Martin says, clearly on his way to getting drunk as he sips from his beer. "Funny part was I wasn't the one sayin' all the depressing shit. One second he's talkin religion and she's talkin bein supportive for him. Then Flash says she's a vir" He pauses, shaking his head and not completing it. "whatever those things are, and Eddie goes off to piss…and you and I my friend…are left with all of the booze."

Roubani doesn't try asking anything else. Letting Martin and Matto get to their talking, he sits down on the arm of a couch nearby and takes a sip of tea, glancing towards the hatch.

"Sex and religion. The two topics LEAST likely to send someone off in a fit of crying and bitterness, especially while drinking," Kissy grins at Martin, looking over the spread of booze and deciding that that sounded like enough of an invitation to pour a little splash of the strong stuff.

"Hey Poet…" Martin says now that it's just the three of them. He motions to an unopened beer with a raised eyebrow. "I never see you drinking anything with alcohol but it'd be rude as hell to not offer. Come join the conversation or are you busy?" Martin asks as Matto preps his drink.

Roubani gives Martin a slight smile. "The offer's appreciated, Lieutenant. It's just not a habit of mine, is all," he replies, politely. The tea's raised in a sort of toast, though, and he crosses over the few steps towards one of the chairs. The introvert's trying to be social, gods help them all. He glances towards the hatch again, looking mildly worried. "I hope she's alright."

Matto settles in once he's got a decently sized drink poured. Not a shot, but something he can sip at for a while. He leans back, hitching his other arm over the back of the chair, and crosses his legs, lifting the cup to join in Roubani's toast. "Meyden agan," he saluts to the others in the scriptural tongue, then takes a sip, savoring the potent liquid. "So how are CAPs running for you guys with the rollbacks?" he introduces a less controversial topic.

"I think she seemed interested in speaking to him alone anyway. Wouldn't doubt if Tinman heard she was a virgin and the prize alert went off in his head." Martin comments, pulling a chair for Matto and him over to sit in as he sips his beer. "CAPs are going well, at least for me. Kai's gonna be back on rotation in a few days, he said, and aside from that most of the Squad's getting in where they can."

Roubani coughs politely at the comment about Castor and Kassia. "Well," he murmurs into his cup. "I shall hope for his sake she isn't the type to scream out 'Gods!'" A sip of tea and he looks at Matto with a shrug. "Fine. Better quiet than not, I suppose. What is that?" He asks idly, looking at what Matto's drinking.

"Hey, now. Tinners is a good guy," Matto chides a little, "He's not going to take advantage of little Flashknickers," he attests, then, looking into his drink, "It's a whiskey… um… Caprican?" he sounds uncertain, "I'm not really an expert, but it's tasty," he offers up with a smile, "Want to try a sip?" he asks holding out the cup toward Roubani.

Baring his teeth to Roubani in a wide grin, Martin laughs quietly at his words, taking another pull from his beer bottle and leaning back to set it on the table. Eyes starting to gloss over a little bit, Martin enjoys his cigarette. "You've got a way with words, Poet…" He smiles to Roubani and then shrugs. "…if someone runs out of the room upset and you follow them, there's a small list of reasons why you'd do that."

Roubani holds up his hand towards Matto, gently refusing. He does smile, though. "No, thank you. I'm not one for the smell, honestly." His eyes flicker back to Martin and he smirks, just a little bit, then concentrates on his tea. "Whatever happened with all that dessert talk yesterday? I suppose it's indefinitely on hold." This is a disappointing thing, clearly.

"Yeah, and I'm sure 'Hey, maybe I can sex up Weepy over there' is at the top of the shortlist," Kissy rolls his eyes, obviously not buying it. He leans back again and sips the whiskey lingeringly. "Oh, man, pie would be great. Pie AND cake would be heaven. Next time someone wants to deck someone else in Red Squadron Berthings, they should take the competition to the kitchen instead of the gym. Less work for the medicos and more sweetness for us. Gods, I miss mum."

"I'm hesitant to try to punch up the chain of command with the request to make pies for the crew using resources. You know how it goes down in the mess. It's nutrition over comfort. I'm hoping Kai will promote the idea, but who knows…" Martin replies, giving a shrug. "If you guys really want it to happen I can push it up. They'll expect it from me if anyone."

"You seem like an appropriate sacrificial lamb," Roubani intones, with all the gravitas of someone craving sugar. "I think you should. I might even put down a bet you couldn't get it done, just to inspire you." He smiles a little.

Matto puts his other foot on the floor and leans forward, swirling the whiskey a little and grinning at Martin, almost predatorially, as if this were some manner of cartoon and Martin had momentarily appeared completely crafted of pie. "It can't hurt to ask, can it? Or we could get a petition going. If everyone wants pie, well, they can't ignore that, can they?"

It's as if Roubani had just sprinkled magical dust into Martin's weak spot. Martin raises an eyebrow in Roubani's direction and gets a competitive look on his face. "You're on." He says, tossing out the counterpoint. "After all I think they've been wanting to increase morale. I don't know what our numbers are like but if you take our number, cut out the number that won't eat pie or cake, and angle it so everyone got at least one bite…it'd be better than no pie at all." Martin reflects. One bite of pie is not fun, but it's definitely something it seems people were missing from home. "If they knock it down…we could always…" He lowers his voice. "…do it off the record."

"We could," Roubani says to Martin's last, loftily. "But that would only count as half the bet. Still, I GUESS I could bend…" He sips his tea and chuckles at Matto. "A pie petition. A pietition. I rather like it."

Matto brings an arm around his tummy, well-acquainted as it looks to have been with cake and pie of many a variety in the past, "Ohman… illicit pie or democratic pie. Forbidden fruit or a taste of freedom. This is almost as hard as ol' Cake v. Pie."

"Mercenary." Martin chuckles to Roubani, taking his beer back and sipping from it. He's now drunk, the five quick shots having caught up with him. He looks between the two of them. "Hey I'm just sayin…if they won't let us do it on the record, we'll have to take matters into our own hands. Is privately hoarding supplies for your own gain during wartime considered treason?" Martin pauses, considering. "…maybe we'll just have to put a lot of weight behind this petition."

Treason? Roubani too stops to consider this, carefully. And apparently decides he cares not. "But it's pie," he declares, as though this fixed any silly thoughts of things like court martials. He laughs under his breath at Matto. "Illicit and democratic hardly have to be opposites. This could be a stunning societal model or something, you know. The tyranny of the blueberry."

War? That seems to be the word to stick with the Raptor pilot for a moment— oh, yeah, this IS a war, isn't it? The thought seems foreign to the hopeless pacifist, and is soon enough dismissed for sweeter considerations. "You're right, Poetryslam. This is -bigger- than a late night snack. This is an assertion of our fundamental human rights. Today we throw off the shackles of our Mess Hall overlords and say 'Enough! We have been pushed this far, but will be pushed no further. Here we take our stand. Give us gooey fruit filling, or give us death.'" And, as is only proper, his fit of rebellion is followed up by a fit of coughing.

Martin chuckles. An eyebrow lifts and his head tilts as a little lightbulb turns on inside of his beer-soaked head. "Allright allright allright…" He starts to rev up an idea, motioning between the two of them. "…we'll have to conduct a poll of whether or not X number of staff would be willing to give up Y days worth of dessert in the mess hall if that meant receiving a slice of pie. Maybe, just maybe, if we can keep it to under a total of 7 days without dessert for the tradeoff, Command might go for it. Treat it like a science project." Martin comments. "I mean…dessert at the mess is only for comfort anyway. Sure there's sugars in it that the body needs, the military food doctine is designed to keep us healthy and minorly happy, but like I said I shit you not. I know this stuff. I can make sure it meets ration requirements." Martin says, blinking as his drunk mind starts to prepare an idea.

Roubani laughs brightly, the first time he's made that sound in a long while. Whether or not it's coming from sober men doesn't seem to bother him. He's about to give Matto a rousing hurrah when suddenly his watch beeps and he winces, glancing at the time. "Bah, I've got to be somewhere, I'm so sorry." He stands up, taking what's left of his tea with him. The mug, in chipped lettering, gives the sage advice that if at first it doesn't succeed, call it version 2.0. "Lieutenants, be well, and don't think we'll forget about this…" This last is said to Martin, all too seriously.

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