Wrong Side of Bed
Wrong Side of Bed
Summary: Paris gets more than he bargained for when Kalypso wakes up.
Date: 85 ACH
Related Logs: Dude Where's My Destiny

Supply 184, Destiny, Docking Bay, 85 ACH

Inside this oversized Shuttle there is enough room for 15 people or quite a few boxes, crates, barrels for delivery. Two seats up front are for the pilot and the co-pilot who works navigation and comms. Seating is cramped and hard if anyone rides along with the pilot besides what they carry for supplying ships.

The Destiny's docking bay had the ability to hold up to a dozen shuttles at a time, before the attacks. Since then, space is a priority. Crates are stacked everywhere, and people bustle to and fro, loading/unloading cargo or simply waiting for their shuttle.

Shuttles land on an outer deck, open to space, and taxi into large hangar airlocks. From there, they are towed into the docking bay proper by small service vehicles. There are also several airlocks with jetway mechanisms that allow docking with other larger vessels and spaceports. Around the top of the expansive area, an upper level allows visitors to walk or jog for exercise, or simply watch the action.

A night of drinking and debauchery. What could possibly go wrong? Oh, that's right… the ship could get sepparated from the fleet.

Still, while some of the leave-taking Genesis members took the setting of Condition One as a road to responsibility, others were already too far gone to care. A couple drank themselves under the table, or drank to the point of lapses in judgement. Inside a supply shuttle in the Destiny's Docking Bay, one of those Naval Officers is just beginning to stir. Clothing is scattered around the shuttle and an empty bottle of some kind of potent alcohol is turned on its side on the floor.

Two bodies are curled together in the small bunk on board the supply shuttle. A woman's bare leg hangs off the bunk from beneath the covers. Trailing up from the leg, the body it belongs to is laying on her stomach. Blonde hair falls in a tumble over her face and with a complaining groan she blinks her eyes. "…my frakkin' head…" the words are muffled into the pillow. She pulls her leg back beneath the covers and rolls towards the warm body next to her, closing her eyes again. "…Dion, go make me some coffee…"

Waaaaaaaaay off the mark there, Wide Load!

Far from Caprica, and now, separated even from the safety of the fleet, the reality of the setting is anything but what she might dream of. The bunk is cramped for two people, although it wouldn't be bad by Genesis standards - it's his ship, and Paris doesn't normally have to worry about accomodating others, let alone a whole crew. But today he does. Like that, he's sort of on his side, back pressed against the bulkhead, half draped over his spontaneous bunk-mate, accomodating her the greater share of the actual mattress, while he… just uses her. One arm is thrown over her back, curled in just slightly with some memory of there being another body there with him. With what they drank, and a lifestyle that's hardly one to match the rigors and standards of military life, the man is probably due to sleep in. Doubly so with a bit of spirited bunk athletics thrown into the mix. But a stirring form next to him won't allow him his pleasant stupor.

The first sound he makes is one of smacking lips - his mouth a bit dry from too much to drink and not enough water to keep him hydrated. A little hungover, no doubt. The next sound is something of a yawn, and then finally some sort of vocalization, "Ehhhhh….. huh? S'… s'over there." There? Where? The coffee? He'll forgive her the mixed up name. Well, he won't register it, so close enough!

Kalypso doesn't really want to wake up. The fact that she is hung-over herself is an absolute. But the unfamiliar voice has her blinking her bi-colored eyes and pulling back to look at her present bed-mate. It's enough to jar her from the half-sleep dream that clouded her mind. Oh, she's way of the mark and now that fact is crashing in. For one, this bed is TINY compared to the one she shared with Dion on Caprica. This is not her loft apartment. For another, that guy lying there next to her… "You're not Dion. Who the FRAK are…" It takes a moment for sleep-clogged brain-cells to catch up, she's possibly not just hung over, maybe it's more of still being a little drunk from the night before. She recognizes him, but that's not exactly comforting. "Where the… what did…" And finally, "Where the frak are my clothes??!" She rolls away from him rather abruptly and…

THUMP! Her ass hits the floor, dragging the blanket with her as she stares up at the bunk and the man in it. "OW…!" Complaints. Both about hitting the ground and the pounding in her skull.

A flattering reaction, to be sure! "Dion?" Paris registers it that time, at least in some part. "No," no, definitely not. The man isn't confused where he is, although there might be just as much of a question as to who this is next to him and why she's calling him Dion. Still, it's clearly a lot less jarring from his perspective. Home sweet home, a comfy bunk and something female-shaped next to him - at least until she starts panicking. "You're…" he yawns again, interrupting himself, "On m' ship." Clothes? He looks confused, briefly, and then just kind of makes a vague wave. All over the place. And then off she goes. The sudden void beside him, the commotion she makes rolling and falling, and her latter complaints from the deck are jarring enough, nagging in the latter case, to keep him from just rolling back to sleep, which otherwise might have been his inclination. Toooooo early. Or at least it feels that way. So, finally, coughing a bit to clear the somewhat unpleasant taste in his mouth, he props himself up, peering over the edge of the bunk at the undignified pile of sheets and pilot that is now occupying his floor. "You ok?"

Mis-matched eyes fixate on Paris's face, narrowed slightly partly from the way her head feels and partly from irritation. She takes her eyes away from his face to survey the ship… oh, there's her dress. How did it end up over there? Memories of what actually happened last night are blurry shortly after her arrival at Envy, but at least she remembers that much. A flush rises rather quickly to her cheeks. It's holding the sheet around herself with one hand that she pulls herself to her knees. She turns her face back to him, still kneeling on the floor next to his bunk. "We did what I think we did, didn't we?" Kalypso asks in a low tone that could be a warning sign.

If she's well enough to get to questioning him, she probably doesn't need to answer.

"Eh?" Still peering over, he's not necessarily in much better condition, at least in terms of mental clarity, although, spared that extra round of drinking she did before even showing up at the club, he doesn't quite have the whole 'still buzzed the next day' going. Paris blinks a few times, focusing, until he can at least figure out who this aboard his ship. As his eyes clear, her own are likely what catch him first, as she looks up from his bunkside, the mismatched gaze a rather solidly identifying feature. Yeah… ok. That makes sense. He actually smiles a bit then, apparently not so horrified at the idea of having taken her home as she is with the other part of the equation. Another blink or two. Now he has to figure out why she's so panick-y. "Uh, frak? Yeah probably." He glances down - she's taken the sheets and its not hard to identify the fact that he's not wearing any clothes.

<Trait Roll> Kalypso rolls Unarmed_Combat and achieves a degree of Great (5).

Other than a tightening of her jaw and the curling of her free-hand into a fist, there's no further warning. Kalypso's right arm is drawn back and swung with a hook at Paris's jaw. CRACK! That's… possibly going to leave a mark. "No, I'm not okay, asshole!" the pilot snaps. She hastily pushes the rest of the way to her feet, still dragging the man's blankets with her. She shakes out her hand and spins on her heel. Her bare feet pad over to snatch her dress from where it hangs draped over a couple of crates, plucking up her strappy shoes in quick movements, and moves without looking back at him. It's not so much that she's appalled by the idea of having slept with him, it's more that she's irritated that she lost control to the point of doing that with anyone. He can try to follow if he wants, but she's heading straight for the shuttle hatch to make her escape. Uh, wearing his blankets and carrying her dress.

Yeah, he doesn't see that coming. Not at all. She really clocks him, the man's head turning with the blow, the rest of him following as he falls back into the bunk. She'll get a good lead on her hasty escape out of just how dazed he is. "Lords of Kobol, what was that for," he swears as he shakes off the shock of it. With a little bit of caution, he scoots back to the edge of the bunk, perhaps a little worried he'll be pounded back inside once more, and watches as she starts gathering up her clothes. "Hey, c'mon, calm down Kaly." Useless? Probably. But it's better than 'crazy bitch, get out!' His feet hit the deck, head ducked down as he sits at the edge of the bunk. And then she's bolting. "Frakkin'…. hold on, will ya!" The amusing thing will be that he doesn't bother snatching for any of his own clothes as he goes after her.

"Ugh!" the glare Kalypso shoots back over her shoulder as she starts tugging at the hatch sort of says he should know what that was for. Frak it. She drops the blankets and hastily pulls her dress over her head. She can't get the damn hatch open trying to keep her modesty. Whatever is left of it, anyway. And clearly the man behind her doesn't care about modesty. "CALM DOWN?" Kalypso asks, spinning and giving up on the hatch for now. Watch out Paris, she's holding shoes in her hand. She was brigged for using those as weapons… uh, not that he's likely to be informed of that, but hey! "I wake up still buzzed from last night in a strange man's bed and you want me to calm down?" She turns back to the hatch, thankfully not yet resorting to shoe-projectiles and yanks on it.

At least she's not escaping with his blankets now, right?

It doesn't help that the hatch kind of sticks. Junky old bucket. That, and her decision to pause and dress herself (rather than running out onto the landing deck like that, hubba hubba!), lets him catch up a bit with her, although he doesn't -quite- move to the hatch itself, doesn't risk getting within an arm's length. Learns fast! One hand grips a support as he stands there, indeed utterly lacking in apparent concern for his own nudity. "Okay, okay, I get it," he answers the last, the hand then dropping from the bulkhead as he holds up both of them in a defensive gesture. Clearly he didn't expect quite this level of reaction from her, but he'll play it sort of carefully. "There's a trick to the hatch," he murmurs, after watching her go back to it. "Lemme?"

Kalypso's jaw tightens. He probably thinks she's mad at him. There's some of that, but mostly, the woman is mad at her own lapse in self-control. She tugs down on the hem of her dress, blonde hair a bit of a mess since she hasn't stopped to get a look at herself. The woman takes a small step back from the door, nodding to him in permission for him to open it. Maybe she has calmed down. Just a little bit. "By all means." The faster the door is open the faster she can retreat and find someone to update her on what the hell happened last night. Well… ahem… what happened other than, uh… yes, the drinking and nudity and… ahem. Moving on! The woman does keep her eyes from drifting, looking instead at the door.

Probably! Its not like morning-after confusion is an entirely alien concept to Paris, but the 180 from the clingy pilot in the slinky dress of the previous night is a little sharp. There's a bit of a question in terms of how much he should care - where the fact that he's not more enthusiastic to toss her out after slugging him suggests at least some sort of nagging interest. But his head hurts too much to worry about it, to argue with her or otherwise. Cautious of further violence as he steps in close, the man puts both hands on the handles of the hatch, giving a sort of pull-push tug before twisting them. It works like a charm, and there's a bit of a gasp as the seal breaks. He'll inadvertently moon the deck below as he turns his back to the open hatch and moves back past her. "Sorry if you're… whatever." He doesn't have the energy.

Kalypso clears her throat as the hatch is opened and starts out the door. The woman does pause to look back and lift a brow at his backside as he retreats back into his ship. She flexes the fingers on her right hand, knuckles sore from the force she put behind that punch, and then shakes her head. Exiting, she calls over her shoulder in a flat tone, "Sorry about your face."

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