Kyle and Erin toe at the edge of an invisible line until they decide to purposefully scuff it...and then create bunkhouse drama by keeping Katja awake. (**WARNING**: Implied sexual situations. PG-13)
Related Scenes: None
Scene Number: 1189
Remaining behind while the others go off on missions is hard work. Kyle Costello was bumped to an early watch (yawn) and had to gruel through a morning shift, and after a hasty lunch, is back to business as usual. Which, in this case, is dragging a bag of duty and personal laundry to the...well...laundry. Herself being from the cheaper side of the railyards at Caprica City, she's no stranger to long hours at laundromats, and thus...has come prepared.
With a white, mesh bag loaded with laundry on the table before her, Kyle Costello has her booted feet planted squarely on a chair and her rump perching atop a washing machine. In her off-duty khaki pants and dual-tanks, she's hunched forward with a clipboard in hand, a pen in the other, and a pair of black wires dangling from her ears while she writes away. An unused pyramid ball sets atop her bag of personal laundry, holding it down, as she bobs her hair that sways with the beat of whatever gods-awful music she's listening to.
Enter the Coon.
Erin slips into the Laundry, perhaps unnoticed. She's a quiet, unassuming creature, today carrying her own mesh bag. It's black, of course. LIKE HER HEART AND SOUL. And she unloads her payload into a washer unceremoniously, just before dumping in probably-too-much power detergent. Rookie. Her ever-so-comfy hat-with-ears and scarf remain on her. No kidding, the woman's been wearing them ever since she got back (except for a small period in which she had the things in the wash).
She is about to head out when she realizes there's someone else in the room. "Oh, Costello." Too quiet. "COSTELLO." Erin waves a hand in Kyle's direction to get her attention. "DO YOU PLAY PYRAMID?"
W-Wh-WHAT? Missing the first completely, the second gets Kyle's attention. The look in her eyes, at first, is of PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME WORK NOW grade, wide-eyed and hazel explosion, but when she sees it's Erin, the fear fades and washes over into a little smile. Her back straightens and pen is clamped to clipboard, as she reaches for her ear.
"WHAT?!" The earbud plucks free; the hum of guitar over loud drums is faint. "What?" Blink. "Pyra-Oh." Kyle tucks her hair behind one ear, leaving the side opposite Erin to hang. "Well, I did in school. High school, but that was like, shit-" Carry the 1. "-I was decent, but now I mostly throw it against the wall while I'm waiting." Beat. Kyle crooks a finger to Erin, waving her over. "You?"
"Pff." Erin makes a dismissive hand gesture. "I mean, I play a little. Used to play during college intramural to relieve stress. You know, before I found sex." Shrug. "Relaxing. I don't know, I think I'm okay."
There's a little note of conceit. Erin's response is delivered in the sort of tones that one would expect of a rogue. A tricksy rogue. "I play sometimes with others. My partner usually's a pilot." Shrug. "She likes to put wagers on my game, but I'm not -- " Another shrug. " -- I mean, it's okay, it's just not what I'd do normally. Wager, I mean."
All the way, compliant Erin mosies on over, padding on stiff legs and feet, as pandas do.
"Ohhhhhhhh that's riiiiiight." Kyle deviously narrows her eyes and tilts her head on Erin's approach. Trailing out her words, the lower of Kyle's lip stretches out, baring teeth to the panda in a show of animal kingdom dominance as shoulders press up and her arms that hold to the washing machine stretch long and straight as tree trunks. "I forgot you and Death Wish had a thing going and you beat her and it's been in her head." Kyle twitches a brow and sways her booted feet.
She makes sure that the toe of her boot taps the side of the trash panda's leg.
"I got my v-card swiped from a friend on the team," Kyle rolls her eyes. Information dump. "So I guess I can't say I traded one for the other, because I'll never look at locker rooms the same way ever again." Handwave. "But of course you wouldn't do that normally, it's okay. You ain't livin if you don't wager it once or twice."
Lyn makes her way in with her mesh bag which stinks. She just got all the mold and mud out of that damned tactical uniform and now she has to wash it again. Picon, for a place that's supposed to be beaches and sunshine and tourists, sure has a lot of disgusting muck that she keeps winding up in. This time, it's whatever leeched into the water partially flooding the subway tunnels the Marines evacuated last night.
Arda is in sweats and a tank with the Colonial Forces logo emblazoned on them. There is a small bandaid on her upper arm, where she got an injection of antibiotics from the docs, just in case there was anything scary in that water. She looks tired, and moves achily, because wrestling with an animatronic anthropomorphic Cylon-ated alligator in daisy dukes was not fun or comfortable for her. She grunts a hello at the recon gals.
That description creates so many questions. Like, why would a gator be wearing Daisy Dukes?
"Oh, I do quite a bit of living, with or without wagers." Erin's eyes rise and fall. "Seriously. You don't need to put a wager in place to make things more exciting, KC." Shrug. "You can find ways to do it. Other ways. Honest. Doesn't always have to be about money, right? That's not the non-pareil of the universe."
She retreats from the other recon Marine to turn her machine on. It rumbles and moans, just before it spews water into its own tank. Along the way: "Oh, hello, Arda." Beat. "Wow. You look like shit today. I mean, tired, actually. You never look like shit, it's just -- " Beat. " -- clearly, you seem exhausted. Sergeant."
"Way I see it," Kyle plucks the other earbud from her ear (thumpThumpThump yaaaaarrrr) and fades her smile, slashing a brow Erin's way. "If it's about a bet, then it's about the bet. It's always more interesting when it's not." Vague, Kyle unclips the media player from the strap of her tank and lobs it onto her bag of laundry. She slips off of the washer and steps towards Erin and turns past her as Lyn walks in.
"Sargn't," Kyle lifts her brows sky high in her wheeled turn to plant ass on the edge of the table. No, she rarely softens the G. Sar-Gnt. Like G. Gator. "There some bitch around here we need to chase down with clubs, because you look like how I felt after getting back from Picon the last time." Kyle adds, picking up her Pyramid ball.
"Didn't sleep. Don't think anyone on that mission yesterday slept. I can't even look at pizza right now," Lyn mumbles cryptically. The daisy dukes wearing AbbyGator was one of the animatronic mascots of Picon's chain of kid-friendly pizza joints. Four of the famous AbbyGators, a Deputy Dog, a Cunning Cat, and a Rachel Racoon were down in the subway, chewing up civilians in refugee camps, and trying to gnash and deathroll and drown the marines who were there to get the civvies out. Also, there were arms, ammo, and explosives with the non-anthro Cylons in a contingent planning to attack Havison. All in all, it was nightmarish.
Arda finds herself an open washer and dumps her stuff into it, with extra detergent and one of those stain and odor busting additives. The reek from her laundry is palpable, like a foggy miasma of gross. "Ugh stop calling me Sergeant. Titles don't me crap up here. They barely mean crap down there." She snorts at Kyle's enthusiasm for violence. "Ran into some deranged Cylon AIs planted in those creepy robots from that kids pizza joint, and a crap ton of other toasters, in a half flooded subway."
"That sounds like a fun party," remarks the Trash Panda in a tone that suggests, no, she's glad she didn't attend this one. "I have nightmares about flesh melting off my bones, but animatronic mascots attacking me? No, those things were creepy enough already. Like clowns." Visibly shudder. "Brr. No, thank you."
Whereas Kyle can haul herself onto a table or washer easily, Erin has to jump to do it. Sure, she's only three inches shorter, but, for whatever reason, she seems to have a long torso and shorter legs. Weird. Not everyone can be leggy, apparently.
"Everyone got back safely, I hope?" Once atop her washer, which rumbles underneath her, Erin plants her hands on the machine and enjoys the ride. Apparently.
"I like the word, but okay," Kyle half-whines with a spin of the pyramid ball against her hand. "And what is it with life and throwing creepy busted-ass Cylons your way? Frak." Kyle grunts, throwing the ball into the air on an arc towards Erin, then turns towards her bag. Outcomes a smaller mesh bag. "I wish I was there half as much as I'm glad I wasn't."
Kyle leaves the ball to gravity to figure out and turns for her table.
"Yeah, did everyone make it back in one piece? I've still got that chocolate bar from Picon, might be a half decent sickbay gift." Kyle looks over her shoulder as she stuffs the delicates into the smaller bag. Lace. Straps. Bras. The jean material for her civilian clothing will tear them apart like a...well...animatronic cylon gator. "And who else pulled duty with you down there for that? Anyone we know?"
"Mostly. Daly took a bad shot to the head, but he was still up and talking, and the new doc took one to the arm. Walker almost became drowned gator chow, but I jumped in and helped kill that thing and get it off her," Lyn notes. Wait, she saved her ex's girlfriend? And jumped into gross water to do it? Hell she did it with a combat knife and style. "Ingvar, Cate, Davion, and Tomak were with us too. Don't think they got more than scratches. I didn't get hit once, just wrestled with that gator thing." She starts up her washer and moves to wash the basket out in the sink.
"Well, well. The wrangler of Animagators." Erin makes a huffing sound. "Definitely need to add to your titles, there, Arda. You should think about it." She holds up a hand, smiling widely. "Arda. The Ghost. Destroyer of Violent Child Entertainment Machinery." Like a marquee. "I doubt the Cylons would care. But, it may impress newer faces on the Vanguard that come aboard."
"I mean, what do I got? Chilly." Erin snorts. "Frak, people can't figure out if that means I'm cold or I have a love of food." She looks from Lyn to Kyle. "I mean, I seriously have to get this callsign changed. Chilly? I'm not chilly, am I?" Beat. "I mean, not any more. To others. Because -- " She makes a whistling sound. " -- I. Am. Part of a team now."
"Arda the Dismantler." Blink. "Dismantlor?" She holds the 'o' sound, checking over to the women to see if the latter sounds better. Queue the self depricating roll of eyes and a return to stuffing clingy unmentionables into a bag. "I'll go visit Daly, but hey, look at you saving the ex's blondie out of sewer water. Ten points for you, not that I dislike her." Kyle holds up a hand to clarify. Nuh-uh. Not in the middle. "But that's one free week of social power."
Kyle turns and drops the delicates bag into an open washer next to Erin. Then comes the back bend for the single pair of jeans and cutoffs she owns. Those dump in, too.
"How did you get Chilly anyway? And Ghost? Who gave you those?" Kyle asks, scooping in soap. "Because no, you're not Chilly. If I could wave a wand I'd dub you something that isn't an easy call, like 'Pawnshop'; I don't know. I'm not a frakkin' poet. I need more to go on, here."
Erin's comments get a chuckle out of Lyn as she scrubs the stink out of her mesh bag with copious amounts of detergent. "One of the damned things died with its metal teeth in Daly's pec." It died biting the big marine's boob. What a way to go. She looks over at the other Aquarian. "Maybe it's Chilly because you came from an ice planet? Or because you're super calm under fire? It's a good nickname. But if you want, I'm sure we can think up something WAY worse for you." She grins. "And I like Ghost. It suits me. I got it back on Aquaria. I could walk through a room in Arctic Station Thula and no one would know. And the scientists swore I was invisible when I'd just appear out of nowhere after scouting ahead for them." She's good at disappearing. Sneaky sneaky. She shrugs a little at Kyle. "As for Walker, it's my job to save people. And I don't hate her or anything, or him."
Most of what Lyn says seems to be true. Erin doesn't get shaken under fire, and she is from Aquaria. "Who knows? Someone said it's probably because I'm a frosty bitch, but -- I'm not a frosty bitch, so I don't know why anyone would call me a frosty bitch." cough Actually, Erin could be one. You know. If someone dared to get in her face about something. Seems like something she'd do.
"But the damned name makes me sound like a penguin, and I'm not a penguin, dammit."
"Speaking of which -- " Erin makes a face at Kyle. " -- you were those pretty things under the hood when you're on mission? If so, bravo -- you're braver than I thought." Snort. "Guess, you know, if you gotta go see your maker, might as well be wearing pretty undies, right?"
"Oh, FRAK, Lyn!" Kyle hisses and covers her breasts with her forearms and hugs herself with a hiss. Her face scrunches up into a scowly-face the likes of an animatronic Cylon with half a face melted off that just drank one kind of soda expecting it to taste like another kind of soda AFTER brushing her teeth. Yeeeurgh. Kyle bounces on her toes and then turns, reaching out with a boot to try to bounce Lyn in the ass with it. "No. Oversharing. FRAK did they have to pry the teeth out? No, oh my gods." Self-hug. Kyle slaps the start button.
Mental note: Buy armored sports bra.
"You're nicer than I am. I have this ex back home and when I was on Caprica Op, watching the cities, I made a mental note that if I ever evacuated his new girlfriend out of somewhere, I was gonna take a picture and write him a letter and say something like: Hey, Rick, I'm the hotter girl in this picture I took after saving your new boo. Hope the paper business is boomin!." Kyle snorts and waves her hand dismissively in the air. "Business trip during sniper school my ass."
Kyle huffs and turns around to Erin.
"And no. Regulation shorts." Kyle retorts. "I fear wedge around spiders and snakes and now...animatronic Cylons."
"Well, Daly may be a dude, but he has bigger pecs than the three of us combined," Lyn quips, owwing in mock injury at the kick. "So his boobs were a bigger target." She tosses her mesh bag onto a dryer so it can go in with the clothes when they finish cycling. She grins at Erin. "We could call you penguin if you want. Though you're more like the thing on your head, a raccoon. Bandit maybe?" She is always sneaking off with other people's stuff after all.
"Bandit?" Beat. "Bandito? Bah." Erin makes a face. "Eh." Snort. "Someone'll figure something unflattering out, I'm sure."
And then, she turns to Kyle and grins sweetly at her. "Oh, of course you're the hotter girl in the picture, dovey. Everyone knows that. What you should do, though, is turn her out, and get a nice, sweaty photo of her after you're finished." Her grin turns a little vicious. "Nothing says revenge like taking someone else's boo." Beat. "And then, if I could, I'd impregnate her? And then send her back, and convince him that it's his."
Such a cruel, cruel raccoon, she is. Bandito.
"Daly would destroy every bra I own." Kyle gigglesnorts and hops back onto the table, swinging her legs back and forth like a child on a kitchen counter. She leans back one her palms, head swaying between the two. "Where is Daly from, anyway, or did the CMC grow his gigantic ass in a lab? A chemical lab-" Kyle suddenly points out. "-not a robotics one."
Ahem. Swallowing, Kyle tilts her head in listen to Erin, eyes widening a bit more with each passing syllable. By the time it's all over, lips part and out comes a shrill whistle.
"Arda? I just got a ping on my radar as to who not to frakkin' piss off. Damn, Erin." Kyle tilts her head back and spills a laugh upwards into the flourescent lighting. Her throat tightens and the laugh ends in a death rattle. "Aaaaand no. She had kind of a horse face and was into figure skating. Princess girl. She'll end up doing him far more damage than I ever could." Tongue scrapes out over teeth. "Bandit works, but damn, now I'm kind of feeling 'The Nuclear Option' might be valid, too."
"Hey, we could always call you Oatcake," Lyn threatens Erin with a grin. She blinks a few times at the trash panda's words. "I'm pretty sure you don't have the equipment to impregnate someone, Hayes. Did your parents never have 'The Talk' with you? Did you sleep through health class?" She moves to add her own weight to the table, sidling up onto it achily, with a creaking of joints and a twinge of abused muscles. "Don't the tattoos give it away?" she asks. "Scorpia."
"As I said -- if I could." Erin makes a noise in Lyn's direction. "Then again, you know, I am resourceful. I suppose if I was truly bent on revenge, I'd find some random guy, jerk him off, and then baste the bitch's loins in his sauce." Said so casually. "But, I mean, I'd really have to hate the girl, know what I mean? Like, seriously hate them, because if I'm going to be yanking on a crank, I've gotta be full of the hate in order to -- " She hisses. " -- get my hands on one of those things, eew." Shudder.
She snacks on her lower lip for a second, her body shaking gently with the rumbling of the washing machine under her. Erin looks peacefully calm. Maybe even blissful. Maybe because of the vibrating thing under her butt. It's soothing.
"I've been up here only a few weeks and only saw him in full kit." Kyle explains, head rolling to look down her shoulder to Lyn as they test the weight allowance of the table as a team. "But I know nothing about tattoos. One time at a bar I mistook Scorp tats for Tauron tats?" Tsk. Kyle shakes her head and reaches behind her neck to lift the mane off of her shoulders. "Never again. That didn't go over well, at all."
Lip caught between teeth, Kyle flutters her eyes open to Lyn in a WOW way then swivels them over to Erin. She gets the WOW, as well. Booted feet scissor back and forth four times before Kyle clears her throat. "So, this is a good thing." Beat. "Keep Erin Hayes on your side, and if she climbs into your bunk with a strange box with tubes sticking out of it, fight for your life?" Kyle's lip flubs back into place. "Frak, I ain't religious, but I might drop a coin in a cup for having met you two."
Lyn looks over at Kyle at Erin's words and she snorts. "Maybe her new nickname needs to be Batshit." Because that is some crazy talk. She hops back off the table. "I need to go take another shower. I'm still freaked out over what might have been in that subway water. You kids have fun," she quips, and heads off to scrub herself within an inch of flaying. Again.
"Kids." Erin snorts again. "Please. Kids." Childish, sure, but kids?
"You like tattoos?" She swings her attention back to Kyle, smile reappearing. "There's an artist on the ship." And she bends her head a little to murmur a little quieter, since such an artist might get heat for performing onboard. "Mata. Hallie Mata. Pilot. If you're interesting in talking ink, she's the person you want." Head retracted.
"As for me being on your side -- you're welcome!" Grin. "And, yes, I'm a good person to have on your side. I slide into beds, and slip gifts into your arms, like some lunatic elf." Her eyes close for a second. "Or other things."
"I love washing machines."
Kyle lifts a hand to Lyn in passing. "Keep their heads ringin' Lyn." The door closes. "Sargn't." Quietly.
Money cannot buy so guilty a smile. Kyle sticks her tongue out towards the door and, with all of the grace of a horror movie woman posessed by Hades, she rolls her attention back to Erin. She watches, in silence, considering.
"Didn't you see I've got a couple? Not that they show much outside of the shower." Kyle comments quietly, eyes shooting to the corner of their sockets before they return in a languid look from Erin's toes to the top of her head.
"I'll hunt her down, I think." Kyle slips off of her table quietly. "I've got the itch. It comes and goes in waves." Kyle steps slowly, turning at Erin's knee to reach behind her body and lift herself up onto the same washing machine. With a gentle bump of hip, Kyle settles in with a sigh.
"This counts." Kyle whispers and lulls her head back, letting it bounce like a bobblehead. "For the record. This counts."
"Wait, what counts?" Thankfully, Erin's petite and her ass can accommodate another's ass on the machine. The machine may protest, but it's a manly thing. Erin's brows lift. "You mean -- ?" Blink.
"Oh, no. No, no, no. This doesn't count." Snort. "Uh-huh. First off? I'm fully clothed. Second? I don't have love pillows in my face." Smirk. "Sure, it's good for a warming rub or thousand, but it's not the same thing. Not even close." Beat. "Uh, presuming we're talking about the same thing."
Erin sets her jaw for a moment, and then presses her lips together in a line. "So -- " Rolling shrug of the shoulders. " -- like -- " Cough. Ahem. " -- you know, I, ah -- " Blink. She kicks gently at Kyle's ankle. " -- all that time we spent together on Picon? And, ah -- you know, in bed -- " Cough. Ahem. " -- I'm, ah -- I really enjoyed it, all of -- " Harum. " -- all of it."
Blink. Erin turns her attention to her feet and knees. She seems to be warm; her neck and face look pink, and there may be a sweat bead on her forehead. It is a bit stuffy in the laundry room. And this washer's really giving a nice, mechanical, constant massage to the ol' buttocks.
"It counts as somethin." Kyle muses back, dryly, rocking in place, a serpect hypnotized by means of Maytag.
"So." Kyle repeats, falling silent for a press of shoulder to shoulder and a return kick of ankle. The sole of her boot claps softly against Erin's, a dull enough sound that Costello seeks to do it again while Erin half-explains. "Yeah?" Kyle asks as an endcap, voice lowered conspiratorially. "Me, too."
In sharp contrast, Kyle doesn't falter from her place of near-constant self esteem. Her eyes slip open through the rocking of the machine to look down to their knees. The width of forearm planted behind Erin tightens, muscle bulging against the hip, as Kyle sweeps her chin towards Erin's shoulder.
Heel of boot taps, once more.
"Does this ship have a problem with people stealing laundry, Erin?" Kyle whispers, cocking a vacant eyebrow at Erin's arm. "Because if this doesn't count," Dramatic pause. "I vote we bail this lame-ass laundry room for somewhere we can finish this conversation in peace."
Talking about the same thing? Yes.
Erin draws in a deep breath.
There's probably no policy in place about laundry. But, who's going to steal Mighty Mouse's undies? One good thing about being one of the smallest: no one's going to steal your shit because they won't be able to get into it. That aside, there are at least a couple of loads languishing in washers and dryers. For a little bit, at least.
She seems nervous. Go figure. When Kyle's chin sets on Erin's shoulder, she shivers and trembles for a moment. When pulled closer, the raccoon moves compliantly. And a free hand -- well, both are stuck behind her, kind of, sort of -- so both hands slide forward to her thighs. Which she clutches tightly.
"Where d'you want to go?" Her head turns, and her neck lazily lets it bend back slightly. Lips slightly parted. Waaaaaaaaiting.
For an answer.
Erin's neck is a blurry foreground in Kyle's stare towards the door. The room is empty, for the moment, for how many moment's is anyone's guess. The clock above the door clicks three seconds that seem to take seven. When the wheel at the door doesn't move, Kyle's neck muscles tighten to scrape the tip of her nose over Erin's neck, breathing in.
"I don't know the ship like you do." Kyle whispers, lips grazing with formed words and nose pushing at the scarf. A shiver of her own pecks gooseflesh about the back of her neck as lips press out, finding shoulder-meats. "I know we fit in my bunk and don't have any friends with keys to storage rooms."
With a nervous look to the door and a chip in the mortar of Kyle's confidence, her belly tightens against dual-tank fabric. Knees graze and hips lift, and as Kyle slides off of the washer, she reaches for Erin's hand.
"Leave the movies in your bunk; we don't need them," Kyle whispers. "Come to my house."
Whine. It's the sound that puppies make when things aren't just the way they want. It's the petulant noise of children just before they toss a hissy fit. Or, in some cases, it's the shuddering squeak that comes out when things feel tingly.
Kyle slides off the washer. Upon invitation, Erin does the same. "I know lots of p-p-places," she stammers before recovering her composure. COUGH. AHEM. "Places." Beat. "But your place? That sounds good." Eyebrows up. "I mean, if you've got enough room for me to lay out a spread, then I promise you won't go hungry."
That. That comes with a fervent grin and joyful 'nyuk nyuk nyuks'. No seriously, she says 'nyuk nyuk nyuk,' that that's a terrible thing to write out.
"Nyuk nyuk nyuk." Terrible.
Erin's feet hit the ground. Her hands clasp Kyle's. And then, she pulls hard, crumpling her solid body -- she's small, but Marines have muscle -- against Kyle's for a second. Why? To kiss. Actually, more like consume: mouth opens, head tilts, and -right- there, on the mouth, with a contented purr.
Recon mission. This is what they're good at, right? Find places to hide and conduct all respledent matter of warfare outside of prying eyes; some more within the boundaries of the rules than others. This is where Kyle is faltering, nervous, careful. Three missions in she's been the teacher's pet, or at least, the rulebook example.
I can see why they sent a Caprican. She's said it more than once.
But in the beginnings of her own dry, sarcastic snicker to Erin, her knuckles are pressed down hard and her body is turning. Expecting it? No, too much squeak on the heel of boot in the turn; too much immediate resistance, but when Kyle's fingers squeeze hard in response and push through the spaces between Erin's fingers, the button on her BDU pants crashes into Erin's navel and Kyle is leaning down for Erin's mouth.
Frak the plan.
Kyle's breath shudders into the kiss and decorum is thrown aside. Slender fingers blindly smear on the other woman's shoulder, then neck, then face, and like a bomb going of, Kyle presses back into the kiss until the washing machine behind Erin thuds with the weight of her body against it.
Squeak. Unff. Erin's hands release Kyle's, so that she can reach behind her for the washer's edge. thump thump thump it goes. Steadying herself for a second from the retaliatory push, the shorter woman hops up onto the edge, and wraps her legs around Kyle's hips. Instinctively, her feet lock at the ankles.
All of the anxious, fervent, pent-up energy in that tightly-wound body seems to give Erin strength. And body heat: hell, she feels like a furnace already, and that's only, what, 15 seconds in? Man. Girl must sweat buckets in a real session. Her hands, now free, end up grabbing Kyle's tank top straps, fingers curling around the fabric and pulling the other woman roughly into her mouth. Like she wants to eat her.
Which is probably not far from the truth.
Thighs taut. Calves hard. Trunk squeeze. It's the best kind of making out: the kind where one wants to constrict and make the other light-headed.
Kyle's knees bang against the washer. The hollow, aluminum sound woofs back against legs that tuck in, fitting in tightly to the coil of legs. A squeak of Kyle's own rasps out of her lips and into Erin's mouth, devoured with the rest of her breath, in the first twenty seconds of imperfect, unpracticed kissing. Like hand-to-hand combat training, limbs work against each other, finding room, and for Kyle, this means smearing palms down Erin's neck, going lower where the Queen of the Washer tugs high.
Suddenly heated breaths hiss out, drowned by the washer, but not between the two, as Kyle's lips find a rhythm. Her calves ache as her boots press onto toes, tugging at the hem of Erin's tanks and scrabbling her fingers underwards to splay against skin, wrapping around to her spine. Romance means skin, and Erin is a new tree to climb.
With hands trapped under tank top fabric and a needful tongue traded from tongue to tongue, Kyle throws herself overboard and the first drop of sweat forms on her brow. A muffled moan sounds of frak it and Costello, fear of the Vanguards MPs or not, frenzies for Erin Hayes' belt.
There is a quiet moment of consideration injected here.
It's generally bad form to be caught making-out in public, let alone having hands in another person sexually. Being bad is thrilling, but it's not something that's particularly good when your family's all around. Seizure by the MPs on the Vanguard would be the equivalent of being caught by Great Aunt Mabel. You know: the octogenarian who's always dropping innuendo, because, frak it, she's 300 pounds of old granny loving.
Oh, there goes time, starting again. Erin quickly reaches down to hold Kyle's hands, and stop her from doing anything more than getting that buckle open. "Let's go to your place," she suggests heatedly, thereafter encouraging the suggestion by giving Kyle's lips a lick. "I don't want to get you in trouble."
Because this is all her fault. Really.
Fingertips shudder when pulled away. Kyle's breath is ragged and her neck is washed a warm red, cheeks flushed. Now Kyle knows how crash test dummies feel, thrown down a track at top speed and crashing into a hard wall. The seal of hungry mouths unseals and Kyle finds herself catching her breath, swallowing down a gulp of air. One, final clamp of teeth against Erin's lip has her tugging the woman away from the washer.
"Right..." The response comes out huskily, lips lowering as heels find the rubberized flooring of the Laundry. Kyle's lips roll into each other, forming a flat, white line as teeth bite down then release. "...and we should enjoy this as much as we want."
Is it ON? Oh, the mischief-lined hazel eyes that look up to Erin's have bet everything on red. Aunt Mabel can't bother them in Kyle's bunk, not unless the Cylons come knocking, which is as close to private domain as Kyle is afforded in a smaller-sized Cutter.
The first step back is taken with a tug on one of the creases on Erin's BDU-clad knees. A tiny pinch of fabric, a tug, a bite down of lip. Crackling with energy, Kyle swallows hard and bends at the waist, snatching her pyramid ball from the floor.
"Remember to walk," Kyle steps backwards, quickly, reaching for the hatch. "I'm telling myself this." Kyle winks. "Not you."
Kyle Costello's bunk, the one in the corner that overlooks the tables, has had the curtain closed for well over an hour, maybe two. Time loses track and laundry in the Laundry Room waits to be transfered from washer to dryer in the meantime. But quiet? No, not really. The sound of shuffling mattress and the squeak of heels on plated metal has been prevalent for quite some time, with other staff passing through the berths casting blushing glances to the curtain and walking down other pathways to stay away from it. Costello's had a guest, and as the bunk has long since gone silent with the mumble of half sleeping conversation, a lone, bare ankle hangs out of the corner of the curtain, letting in cool air into the sweltering bunk.
Kyle's home. Present and accounted for. The circus is over.
Katja's hair is still damp from a shower earlier, tucked up in her rack in her sweats. It seems like Katja's favorite thing to do as of late is get a nap in and read. It looks like she only got a page or two past her bookmark before nodding off, her thumb still holding her place even as the book has fallen closed haphazardly. The noises keep her from getting a fully restive sleep and eventually just cause her to open her eyes slightly, completely unamused. She has half a mind to throw her book when finally things go quiet. And then, Katja can't seem to fall asleep again. "Ugh."
There's a giggle and a laugh, and then another giggle. Whisper! Damnable noisy trolls up in that bunk! Need to shut the hell up, they do.
And then, poof, there's a head. Erin's head. She looks around for a moment, and then blinks at Katja. And then, there's another blink.
Once again, time stands still while there's consideration. What to do? What to do? Raccoons are resourceful, improvisational folks, but this -- well, this is a tricky situation for any trickster, let alone one who is more used to stealth. Always easier to do bad things when you're undetected, and not in the middle of the berthings.
"Madsen." Erin whispers from Kyle's bed. "Kat." She's red-faced, perspiring, and, let's face it -- post-coitus. "Kat." She waves her hand. "Hi." Absolutely no sense of shame.
"Mrrrgnhg?" Kyle speaks in grunts when she's tired, half askeep, with hair that looks like a raccoon has burrowed through it; which isn't too far from the truth. Somewhere in the darkness of the cubicle-mattress a body stirs, and Kyle is rolling onto her side. From the other side of the curtain, fingers peel the layer back and Kyle sticks her head out of edge to look out. "Merr?" Kyle looks down the curtain, then peeks back in to look to the other side, then sticks back out again, doing a quick sweep of the bunkhouse.
Katja doesn't make any initial stir to see who it is in Kyle's bunk. Maybe she doesn't give a damn. But at Erin's voice, Katja's brow furrows and she props up on her elbows to stare right towards the Marine calling her. "What?" It takes Katja a moment to take in Erin's state, but Katja just keeps her slightly annoyed look that took up residence earlier. "Hey Costello," she says when Kyle peeks out.
"Mm." Erin blinks at Katja, and then looks over at Kyle for a second. "Hot as hell here. I'm going to hit my own bunk."
Doesn't sound like she wants to. There's a bit of reluctance in her tone. But, she quickly grabs her things under the sheets, furtively throws some of it on, and nimbly hops off Kyle's top bunk to the ground, making little noise doing so. Damned cats.
Pad, pad, pad. Erin makes her way to her bunk, and quietly puts her hat, scarf, and pants. "I'm gonna check on the laundry," she announces, probably to Kyle, but mostly towards the floor. Hunched over. "I'll get your things too, Costello." Hop, hop, hop. Socks on, then boots.
Cringe. Hard cringe. Kyle has been silent in the bunks for a while, and the thought only occurs to her just how much sound travels until now. When she looks up and down the rows, then to Katja, Kyle swallows and frowns. "You were kept up?" Cringe, again, and Kyle is disappearing back into her bunk.
Like two fish flopping, Kyle's legs kick in the tug and trade of strips of fabric until Erin is out first, down to the bottom floor. Kyle pokes her head out again, finalizing the roll of a tank top over her belly, and flops down on bent arms to dangle her head out of her bunk and give Erin a finger-twittering wave. "I'll come down and pick it up in a few, Hayes," Kyle murmurs off, then flops her head down into place to look over towards Katja.
"Soooo...on a scale of one to ten, how much sleep in minutes," 1-10 in seconds? "Do I owe you a hard apology for, Dee-dubs?"
When Katja doesn't get much of a reply from Erin, she just lays back down, leaving her book by her side so she can rest her hands on her stomach. She turns her head to watch Erin move off to her bunk and then stifles a yawn with a hand before saying, "Yeah." Apparently not quite comfortable, or maybe just restless, Katja rolls over onto her side as Kyle makes her way over. "Huh? I just wanted to take a nap. I'll get earplugs or something somehow. It's...no big deal."
Yup. No real reaction. Nothing. Erin laces up her boots, and then, presumably, she heads off for the laundry room. Along the way, however, the raccoon gives Katja a finger wave, a half-smile, and then a resolute look away.
There will be a discussion later. Certainly. Definitely. But, not now. No, now is the time for laundry.
Kyle lifts a brow, eyes swaying between the two women as the latent, awkward energy makes itself known. This doesn't stop her from resting a cheek on her elbow and pushing her hair back over her head with a stray hand. When all is said and done, and Erin leaves the berthings, Kyle turns her attention over to Katja, staring and quietly collating. "Well, I mean," Kyle starts, head bobbing from side to side. "This bunkhouse is weird as frak because there's no real good time to sleep. With these frakkin' tables," Kyle points to the tables. "Whatever. How's kicks been with the Navy, Dee-Dubs?" Sidestep the awkward, Kyle does. Change the subject.
Katja's lips press together just slightly at Erin's goodbye gestures right before they break into a soft smile. "I almost threw my book at you guys," Katja looks down to Kyle with those vibrant blue eyes and a faint smile. "There are times where I can get a nap in....Yeah, the tables are awful. I was lucky to get a bunk not straight in the line of sight from the hatches too bad and not by the tables." Strategy, though Katja would prefer to be holed up on the far side of the berthings. "This is my first time with the CF." She shrugs. "Just try to keep my mind occupied till the next mission. Or my body," she adds.
"You should've." Kyle replies with a dopey grin. "I would have laughed, but I would have shut the frak up, also. Just...a paperback if you have to, please, not one of those big binder flight manuals." Kyle adds with a puff that scatters hair away from her eyes. Languidly, like a tired kitten, she settles back in to gaze over at Katja with hazy eyes. "The waiting sucks the life out, doesn't it?" Kyle asks. "I miss living on a base, at least then you could get off-site passes to go into town and see movie or something."
Kyle quiets, then shifts her head on her shoulder to cast her hazel eye a bit more wide.
"Everything okay?" Life. Drama. Relationships. Kyle doesn't specify, but the silence before the question is an implication, at best.
"I'll try to make sure I'm reading a paperback the next time you get at it then," Katja teases mildly without much inflection. As if sensing Kyle's gaze, the pilot's own eyes drift the other woman's way. "Oh yeah? When I was on base it wasn't exactly the safest place to be, but we would go out anyways.
As the quiet seeps in, Katja's look doesn't change. She looks slightly more pensive. "Yeah. Shit happens right?...So...you and Hayes?" There's no trace of animosity there. Either Katja's incredibly skilled at hiding her emotions or she just doesn't have any on the subject.
"A few good bars off-base on Caprica. Plenty of beach." Kyle sighs wistfully, chin shaking with the rest of her head as it comes to mind. The Vanguard has a great view, but not a lot of outside fun time that can be had without immediate dehydration and having all of the fluids sucked out of your body. "But, you never know. Maybe Task Force will get set on a ground base for a little while. Dustoffs and humidity in the air that doesn't make it so cold?" Come to think of it, Kyle drags a blanket over her shoulders from behind.
And then, again, Kyle quiets. In answer to Katja's question, one shoulder lifts, then lifts higher, then lifts until it can lift no more. "Well." Kyle drops her shoulder and blithely shrugs. "She sure got out of here quickly and gave you a nice wave before leaving," Kyle whispers. "And I didn't throw any grappling hooks and chain anyone to the floor, so, take that as you will, Dee-Dubs."
"I was on Sagittaron. Better chance of getting some locally brewed hooch down at a watering hole if the base went dry." Katja thinks on the merits of a beach, on Caprica, but then realizes all she really knows about Caprica is what she's seen in vids and from passing through briefly at a port. "Maybe if they get something else mobile up and running, but I think we're too valuable right now to stick in one place."
Katja turns over onto her side and arches her brow at Kyle as she speaks quietly. "I wouldn't take it personally. She's kind of restless. Well she told me she liked someone. I kind of thought it was you..." She lets Kyle confirm or deny or do nothing at all.
"The price of being valuable. Or busy. We're so frakking busy, which is good...and not good." Kyle notes as one shoulder morphs, reaching behind her body. With a flat of teeth and a bend, a pillow is brought up and slapped down in place of her arms. Flop. Kyle lays out like a beached sea lion. "But, really, I'm not the kind of person to worry about all sorts of things, take things personally, worry this way and that." Kyle shifts into talking about the mission, right? With half-lidded eyes, the marine sighs under her breath, hazy. "But that doesn't mean that I don't keep my eyes on the surroundings. So if you ever feel like upgrading that book from paperback to binder, let me know. I won't be throwing a book your way when whatever inevitable chat later look she gave you on the way out the door happens." Kyle starts to close her eyes. "Not a bitch, like that."
Katja doesn't waste too much time piecing together Kyle's intentions or any implications from her words. "Sure. That's always a good way to be. Makes life easier." She shrugs, but only one shoulder is really not being claimed by supporting activities, so only one rises. "Look. I told her I don't want to get in the way of anything, so I don't know what that was all about." Denial? "It just sort of surprised me is all. Like I said. No big deal."
"Arrright." Kyle muses in her half-dead scarecrow way. Legs shuffle behind her curtain and with a backwards crawl, Kyle recedes back into her bunk. "But," Kyle comments while she rummages. "I've got a shitload of laundry waiting for me, so in the meantime, let me know if we're gonna end up two-on-two at the pyramid court with Arda or someone else, alright?" Kyle returns, in sweats and dual-toned tanks, crawling down her latter with slip-on shoes. She drops past the last run, but the rubberized floor makes her landing silent as can be. "In the meantime, people were talking about a movie night if the rotations worked out right. I'll dig into my collection and see what's good, yeah?" Kyle asks, then lifts her arm in a tiny wave to the woman, eyes sharp and perceptive, as she steps backwards for the hatch. "See you around, Dee-dubs. If we end up having to talk, you know where to find me."
"I'm at the court all the time." Katja actually changes up her times, but given the limited amount of freetime they all have, it's not hard to eventually catch her unless someone has really bad luck. "Just drop by whenever." This girl does /drills/ and shit still. "Well, sure," Katja concedes pretty quickly. "Yeah, in the noisy bunk?" She calls after the girl with a little quirk of a smile, nothing malicious behind it.