Cocktail Squadron
Cocktail Squadron
Summary: Paris and Nicholas discuss the military presence - and Nick hands out some relationship advice
Date: 86 ACH
Related Logs: Dude Where's My Destiny Wrong Side of Bed

Destiny - Deck 9 - Office Suite

Nicholas is at his desk, standing to the side of it and flipping through a folder of some of the Destiny's ship blueprints. He is, of course, dressed impeccably; being lost in space is never an excuse to look unkempt. His black pistol is on the desk top, freshly cleaned and off to the side in convenient range.

Unless you're Paris. Of course, he didn't precisely dress any better when he was perfectly not-lost in space, either. The office door opens and he ambles inside, treating the place with the same home-away-from-home attitude he displays in the club. "Figured you might be in here." What, no hello? As he enters, it will rapidly become obvious that the pilot is sporting a large, healthy-looking bruise on one side of his jaw. Despite it, he looks to be in decent spirits. "How you putting up with the occupation of Envy?"

Nicholas looks up as someone strolls in, his fingers setting on the dark blue page to mark his spot. He's about to speak and then notes the bruise, his chin tilting down. "What did you do, miss her and frak the wall by mistake?"

Paris laughs, and shakes his head. "Apparently navy girls wake up grouchy in the morning. Slugged me and ran out." He gives a shrug, looking none too deeply wounded by the incident. "Totally worth it." He skips the closer chairs, and goes over to the side, making himself comfortable on the couch. "So, holding down the ship? Rest of the blues still running around in a panic like they were last night?" Apparently, neither the impact nor amusement value of that incident has not faded, despite his romantic interlude.

Nicholas sighs, more a sound for the sake of sound than any real disappointment. "Women have no idea how to enjoy an evening, honestly." He shuts the blueprint folder and pushes it aside, sitting on the edge of the desk. "The military…dear, oh, dear. To think these are the people we trust with our lives." He purses his lips, glancing at the hatch. "Despite their talk they're doing an awful job of not running roughshod over everything they touch. I wake up this morning and Chione's behaving like cruise director again? I would bet that Lieutenant of hers put her up to such a tactless thing."

"I really couldn't believe what I was watching. Little glitch, and the lot of them completely lost it. Viper pilots thinking they're giving a cruiser captain orders? Bunch of half-dressed bimbo flygirls acting like they're going commandeer the ship and jump into battle. I don't even know what threat they think they were organizing for. Space is big. Biggest danger, I figure, is we run out of fuel and starve to death out here, without ever seeing a cylon." Ugh. His displeasure certainly comes through when he starts talking about it. No wonder Paris grabbed the most appealing 'piece' he could find and took off. "Noticed Chione wasn't just organizing events, but thinks she's comandeering your club? I didn't mind ladies night, but she's treating it like the female officer corps personal clubhouse." He stretches out. "So I assume no luck with actually figuring out what happened or where we are?"

"I suppose I could lock them all in there and lose the key," Nicholas says, drily. "They might hardly notice." He raises an index finger, gesturing towards his guest. "The military thinks we're stupid and useless, Paris. That we're sheep that can be placated forever by pretty people and cardio classes. That may have been so when the first shockwaves of this entire mess were high, but not now. Not anymore. This is not going to go well." He slides off the desk and moves over to his cabinet, taking down two glasses. "No luck with the systems. The Captain hasn't made any more announcements and I don't blame him. The moment he does, that entire military crew will be barging down his door."

Paris smirks. "Not entirely a bad idea. Keep 'em out from underfoot… you could always say it was a mechanical malfunction." When pointed at, he gives another sort of disinterested shrug. "Yeah, I know what they think. Made it pretty clear last night - 'oh lets organize and protect you all!' - from what, with what? What a bunch of -" He doesn't even have the energy to finish. "Some of us are used to stuff not always going by the books. They looked pretty freaked by it, under the 'rah rah rah' nonense." His head turns to follow Nick. "What does it matter what they think, or do, though? Let 'em march and do little drills, let 'em charge the bridge in cocktail dresses. I'd pay to watch that, frankly. Only reason anyone listens to the lot of them normally is their big ships, their big guns - they ain't got those, so they can go and sit tight like the rest of us."

Nicholas smirks back, setting the glasses down on his table. He pulls the glass stopper out of a longnecked bottle holding whiskey, pouring out two fingers into each tumbler. "Except they won't. The military hasn't got a clue how to sit still. Everything's got to be controlled, especially when it comes to us. Their hands have to be everywhere, big show made of everything they do, heavens forbid they trust civilians to have a mind among us. But that's alright, when we do find the Genesis we'll all smile and gush as they want us to." He demonstrates said smile, a dazzling one he's a master at. Which promptly fades. "Gods. Anyway. I'm willing to put a shred a faith in the Captain before I start entertaining ideas like running out of fuel and having to eat mattress stuffing."

"Well, then let 'em run around trying to play command. I've got faith in the Captain not to put up with it, and the Destiny police are sure a helluva lot better armed than the lot of them are in their evening wear." Paris is paying the drinks more attention now. Yum yum. "Oh and I have plenty of faith in the Cap'n. If there's anything to do, he'll get it done. Just saying I think being lost in the middle of nowhere is a bigger danger than what they seem to think it is. Coulda sworn they were getting ready to go fight a bunch of Centurions with cocktail umbrellas." He rolls his eyes at the apparent absurdity. "I'm just gonna ride it out like I always do. Not like I have much choice since the Pegasus folks gutted by bird."

Nicholas smiles at the image painted. "Fighting centurions with cocktail umbrellas…" He laughs gaily, sliding into the other chair at the table and crossing his legs. "Never underestimate the stopping power of a pair of four-inch heels, Paris. Though I see you've already thrown that to the wind." He eyes the bruise again and smirks. "Do you want some ice for that pretty face?"

"Hah, yeah, no kidding. She almost threw a shoe at me later," Paris notes, relating a bit more of his interesting encounter with the fearsome Ensign Leto. "Coulda taken an eye out." Clearly, he lives -dangerously-. The offer of ice seems appreciated, but he shakes his head. "Nah, it's fine. Barely even hurts now." He lifts a hand to it, and the slight wince that results might contradict his statement. "I dunno what any of that was. She was all over me the night before, and mad as anything when she woke up." The deep, dark mysteries of the female mind? Or, likely, more of his characteristic willful obviousness to the realities of the world around him.

Gossip is a welcome distraction from irritation about the military. Nicholas' teeth show as he grins a little, then he picks up his glass. "So. What are you going to do?" 64 Cubit Question!

"Do?" Paris looks blank for a moment, but he mirros Nicholas in reaching forward to take his own drink from the table. "Nothing to do. Hang out, wait for rescue, or a course correction, or for supplies to run out. Whichever." Then, smirking a bit, "Or do you mean about raptorgirl?" He's supposed to -do- something? Call the next day? Flowers? "Figure she'll go bitch about me to her cuz, and next time they'll sick the whole squad on me." Shrug. "Sounds like she's got some sweetheart on the boat, anyway, probably why she hit me. Called me Dion when she woke up, I figure that's him."

"Oh goodness, the plot thickens," Nicholas makes no effort to sound sympathetic. He swirls the glass around with a smooth motion of his wrist. "Yes, well, she'll be 'upset' long enough to tell all her friends how you /so deserved/ being hit in the face. And then likely show up at your doorstep two days later like nothing happened. Really, I don't know how you put up with women."

"Easy, the fun parts. I think how -you- put up with Chione is a better question." That answer given on the matter of tolerance, Paris otherwise seems rather firm in his intention -not- to let any of it 'thicken' around him. "Hey, if their lovey-dovey pair is messed up, its her fault not mine." Aye, he washes his hands of it. "She shows up again and we have another go. I've gotten bigger bruises for less."

"Easy," Nicholas replies with a smile, as to how he deals with Chione. "I'm not screwing her." He sips his drink and exhales a long breath towards the ceiling. "And as for the bruises, I don't doubt you have. Frankly I'm shocked your dick's still attached to your body."

Paris coughs a little as he tries laughing and sipping at the same time. Doesn't quite work, and getting hard liquor down your windpipe is mildly unpleasant. "'Course I'd say that means you get the pain in the ass part without the payoff. But to each their own, eh?" He takes another sip when everything is sorted. "Jeez," he offers at the last. "That's rough, man. Not all the women I take to bed end up regretting it that badly. I figure she's real frakked in the head, yknow, shellshocked from all that crap. Spent the night telling me about some other pilot that got fragged before she jumped me. Just frakked." He shakes his head, a little sadly.

"Pathos has always been chic." Nicholas' hand holding the glass swings away from his face as if to punctuate the phrase. "It's as though mankind only suddenly began dying when the cylons showed up. Though I suppose for most of that babyfaced military that this is the first time they've ever had to see someone die."

Paris slowly nods his agreement. "Well sure, its a generational thing. The first war was a while ago. The military… they've been peacekeepers at best since, glorified police at worst. And now they have these green kids trying to play hero to the whole human race." Another quick sip, his facial expression… somewhat undecided. "No surprise it fraks some of them up pretty bad. But this girl… she's -way- gone, I think. Over the edge." It's all cast aside. "So I ain't gonna worry about it too much." Of course, how many men have failed to live up to statements like that?

"It isn't generational." Nicholas snorts and sips his drink. "War isn't the only place people end up dead. If only it were." He sets the glass down, mostly finished off. "Are you really the type that wouldn't worry? I don't know, you do have your white knight flashes here and there."

"Yeah, sure," Paris agrees. "But still, I figure the sorts that were in the first war… Dunno. I mean people die, sure, we've all lost parents, friends, pet fish, whatever. But when you've got soldiers who've never had to do what a soldier does playing at it for the first time, you get this." He makes a vague gesture, perhaps to indicate Cocktail Squadron, their guests. The last draws a smirk. "Eh. Sure I feel a little bad. But I gotta be realistic, right? Nothing I can do to fix what's got her frakked up."

"Doesn't mean half the world doesn't try," Nicholas replies, dramatically. "Or else we wouldn't have psychiatrists, priests, or hookers."

"Fair enough. Not that I've ever figured you for the relationship-counselor type." Paris pushes his empty glass forward onto the table, then reaches back, stretching his arms. "I guess, since she's… family of friends, you gotta at least put a word in, huh?" Blah. His arms slump back down. "We'll see I guess. Personally I figure she'll never want to talk to me again, forget me like the trash, sheep-brained civilian I am, eh?"

Nicholas smirks at Paris' phrasing. "I'm not. But how interesting. So it's a relationship, now?"

Ugh. Paris rolls his eyes. "No, Nick, I really doubt that - unless you count a single drunken bounce around the bulkheads as a relationship." Having stretched, he stands up. "I'm thinking of going next door and interrupting their party or something. Frakkin' bored." Yep. A little lovin', a punch in the face, but now… no cargo to haul, so he's quickly going a little stir crazy. "Cinnamon around? She's pretty good."

Nicholas snickers quietly, then glances at his watch. "Doubtful, she doesn't start shift for a couple hours." He yawns quietly, perhaps just for show. "And the Lioness was apparently on the Carina, silly girl. I suppose it's cocktail umbrellas for you."

Paris makes something of a sour face. "Man, can't catch a break." He maneuvers himself out from behind the coffee table. "Well I still feel like going in there and spoiling their little party."

Nicholas smiles, settling back in a way that clearly says he has no intention of getting up just yet. "Go on. If they're /still/ doing that damned class it means they're running over club operation time anyway, and that would just make me upset."

That's enough for Paris. "If you find my body riddled with umbrellas, avenge me." Just that parting remark, and he turns to make his way out. Time for mischief.

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