| The Feeding of the Multitude |
| Summary: | Vignette. Trey talks about religion with Kaye. |
| Date: | 2657.329 |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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Deck 17 - Observation Lounge
Trey is situated with his back to a window in the observation lounge. While people come and go, some peering into space, others reading, playing, or otherwise trying to find something to do to ease their minds, Trey's got his back to it all. Knees up, he's staring into space while sipping a cup of coffee.
There's no such thing as a surfeit of quiet time, which might be why Aisling Kaye almost always makes a beeline to the observation lounge after coming back from patrol. Today will be no different. Freshly showered and dressed in her usual off-duty attire, she tiptoes into the room in an effort to make as little noise as possible. Her plain purple tee looks almost black in this light, and the words 'ST BRIGID'S' are visible in gold on the left leg of her dark green sweatpants. Oversized headphones are looped around her neck, their earpieces meeting at her throat.
Trey is dressed in military fatigues and is still sporting a lump on his forehead from his earlier foray into the deep black sea, as it were. Aisling happens into his field of vision, of course. Nearly everyone would. It takes a few moments before the familiarity of the shape interjecting upon his line of view registers in his brain, though. His pupils dart to her, visually inspect her, and then, his state of trance effectively ruined, pour over the room hungry for input. He exhales to himself and rubs his eyes. If she happens to notice him, he waves.
Mouse's lips move as she registers the wave, but absolutely no sound comes out. It's probably a 'hullo' of sorts, spoken particularly quietly to make sure she doesn't interrupt anybody's train of thought. Then, with quick but deliberate steps, she's making her way past a pair of chess-playing noncoms to a chair near Trey. The vidscreen at her back glows a pleasing aquamarine as she moves, lending an ethereal glow to damp hair and birdlike features.
Trey peers at Kaye out the corner of his eye even when she's at close range. He bends his knees a bit more and scratches at the fine sheen of stubble beginning to collect on his face. "Well you're bright eyed and bushy-tailed, aren't you?" He contains himself, or is self-contained as it were, keeping his tone light and friendly without the overpowering quality that is Trey.
Kaye's answer is a tentative smile that vanishes when she sits, folding her hands in her lap as she looks past the other pilot to consider the stars beyond. Something's murmured under her breath - a few snatches of Latin, if Trey knows the liturgy - before, taking a deep breath, Mouse returns her attention to the here and now. "I - I hope you don't mind," she mumbles. "I promise I'll be quiet." And withdrawing a pencil and a folded sheet of paper from her pocket, she begins to write.
One may get a distinct feeling of a man holding back, or at least turning the volume down sharply, "Quiet's a really cheap commodity in space. Easy to come by. Noisiest ship I've ever been on, though. You'd think they were trying to drive up the cost and make the sector filthy rich." His smirk is lopsided and a little goofy. "I don't care one bit."
Mouse agrees with a tiny nod that seems almost shy. "I don't like it when it's loud," she says, her voice almost a whisper. Absently, she tugs at her pencil's eraser with her teeth before tapping it lightly against the tip of her nose. She's thinking, see.
Trey bites his lips together as if holding some back. Ultimately, the force of nature which is his mouth seems to win and he offers the unfortunate analogy, "Wow. SO I must be like the antichrist for First Lieutenant Kaye, huh?" He grins to himself, though recants immediately afterwards, "Sorry, sorry. I'm sure that's really a bad thing to say, somehow."
The pilot stops in her tracks, looking up from whatever she's writing to fix on Trey a long and searching gaze. It takes her a few seconds to realize she's staring the man in the eye - and it's only then that she looks back down, color rushing to her cheeks to make her look like she's just gotten back from a run. But just in case the man didn't get the hint: "It is."
"Sorry, sorry." Trey seems unbothered by Kaye's eyestare, matching it with an easy casual look of his own, as if to non-chalantly offer himself up for examination. He raises his hands up and forward in symbolic defense of some sort of imagined explosion, then jabs a thumb at himself, "Godless hethen." He sounds unconcerned, "I believe in what gets me lunch, and that's usually things I can see."
Unfortunately for him, Kaye doesn't seem particularly interested in taking him up on his offer - and if he expected proselytizing, he's going to be bitterly disappointed. "Oh," she murmurs, her neat script not wavering despite a sudden /bump/ that causes her seat to rattle on the floor. "But sometimes it's not."
"I've never gone hungry" responds Trey to the other pilot, casual and easy. "You're pretty easily offended and startled around people but you fly a fighter pretty well." The observation is also casual and easy, and he's back to staring into space, "That was a pretty screwed up little excursion we had. Good times."
Kaye blushes harder at the compliment but does nothing else in response; indeed, her expression tightens as he brings up their most recent patrol. And when she speaks, she speaks so softly that even /she/ might not be able to hear herself clearly: "'Then He took the seven loaves and the fish, and when He had given thanks, He broke them and gave them to the disciples, and they in turn to the people.'" For a moment, all that can be heard is the soft scratching of graphite against paper. "The number of those who ate was four thousand. Besides women and children."
Trey mouths 'ok' with extra stress on the vowel and an audible tone on the consonant, then returns his eyes to the blankness in front of him. His brow creases a bit and he threads his fingers securely together.
That's more than fine by Mouse, who merely chews the tip of her eraser before going back to work. Words in neat, loopy cursive emerge on the page, the product of years of practice.
