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CHARACTERS: Taylor "Tyke" Kee (

puppydogeyes) and OPEN
LOCATION: Holodeck 1
WARNINGS: Swearing.
SUMMARY: Tyke + bottle of space vodka + cello. Not as destructive a mix as you might think.

The cello's been in Taylor's locker for a month now, appearing with a load of her clothes from the Academy on the last jump. She'd pulled a face at it, first finding it – taken the clothes and shut the door. The rest of the month had been enough to put it out of her mind, though she hadn't entirely forgotten it. It was an unwelcome reminder, tied way too closely to Instructor Pinset and everything she liked to say (and Taylor hadn't been able to ignore just how good her mind had been at cooking up the woman's voice when she was under the influence of that toxin shit), but ignoring it didn't do anything. It was still there, a month on, when Taylor went back to check her locker for anything new – something she didn't get to on her initial move out after the jump, Tommy helping her back to her room to recover from how the jumps liked to fuck her up.

It's still there, and she's tempted to pull another face at it and shut the door again, but she ends up standing at staring for a good long while instead. Stitches still in her shoulder and back, she's benched from security, from 'strenuous activity', and stir crazy didn't quite go far enough to cover how she's been feeling. Finding outlets where she could, even if it involved pulling the stitches once (twice), but she's been doing better on that since she gave in and hit the ship's stock of space alcohol.

The cello offered something to do, and she holds onto that, shakes off any of her resentment for the instrument or what it represented. Hauls it out of the locker, opening the case to check it over, but there's no way she's going to try any tuning or playing in the medbay. Way too public.

Half an hour later and she's made it to holodeck 1. Snagged a bottle of something clear and engine fuel flavoured on the way, programmed herself up a chair and settled the cello into position against her body. The two dogs she's got with her are in a half-doze a few metres away, undisturbed by her tuning the instrument, broken snatches of songs as she slowly reminds herself how to play.

[[OOC: feel free to have characters hear the music and come investigate or whatever! Opener is prose but I prefer action tags, thanks.]]

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[The cello's out of shape. Almost like it's been neglected for months, and Taylor wonders if that's the truth of it. That life was carrying on back home without her, that her cello had been sitting untouched in the corner of Instructor Pinset's classroom since she first woke up on the Tranquility. It's not a thought she really likes lingering on, it makes her head hurt, and she's already paused in adjusting the strings to reach down and grab the bottle of space-alcohol when she hears him speak. Recognises his voice even as she glances over, half a frown.

She didn't want to be the musical type. It was Pinset that had insisted she was, insisted on dragging her to class every time she attempted to ditch, insisted there was talent there when Taylor picked up the cello - talent and skill in general. Taylor fought her every step of the way, and here she was, willingly playing the cello, as far away from the Academy and Pinset as she could get.]

There's some shit they say about first impressions, right?

[Grudging and defensive, though she couldn't say against what. She takes a short drink out of the bottle, swallowing the mouthful with barely any reaction to the foul taste, quiet for a moment after. But she'd just said about first impressions, and Oxford wasn't living up to his right at the moment.]

You lose your razor?

[ Her response does not surprise him, and with a faint smile, Oxford takes this as some amount of permission to come closer. He feels as though he has intruded upon a private moment, but natural curiosity beckons him to stay rather than do the necessarily polite thing and leave her be. Of course, he personally thinks that a strong drink mixed with instruments is always a good idea, but then again, he's the type that would enjoy the sensation of being drunkenly serenaded with somewhat sloppy Elgar at four in the morning. That, however, had been at university many years ago and conducted with a piano, not on a spaceship with a cello.

He resists a faint urge to touch his own jaw, with mild self-consciousness. If memory serves him correctly, over the years he has never looked like this; always clean shaven, neat and classically handsome, as a few had pointed out to him along the way. This is unnatural. Oxford's starting to get used to unnatural, and he doesn't like that very much. ]

No, I have not, I merely haven't felt much of an inclination to use it.

[ He maintains the smile, without the slightest hint of antagonism. ]

Edited 2012-08-03 01:08 (UTC)

[Taylor frowns at him, his smile and his lack of inclination to shave. Not living up to his first impression, and maybe there should be a part of her feeling vindicated - she'd told him, that shit didn't matter. They were in space, dealing with all sorts of fucked up. His shirts and his cuff-links and his classically neat jaw weren't going to help shit.

But Taylor's always been the sort to pick fights like that. It doesn't necessarily mean she knows what she's going to do when she wins. And seeing him like this doesn't sit right at all, seems sad more than anything. Like he's giving up on something that he really shouldn't be giving up on - maybe a bit like her, playing a cello she'd always maligned as a useless lump of wood.]

That's fucking weird.

[There's a decisive kind of edge to the way she says it, like she knows the rest of what's swimming in her head and doesn't want to touch it, too much of herself tangled up. But she holds out the open bottle to him. If they were going to be shucking first impressions like this, they might as well have a drink together over it.]

Mm, isn't it? I don't believe I've ever gone a day like this before, but then again, I never expected to be spending months after months in space, so I suppose it was time to move with changes rather than resist them all the time. [ A pause, and he continues with a remark that he feels might annoy Tyke vaguely. ] Besides, don't you think I look terribly dashing? I'm starting to rather like it.

[ If she thinks that there is some defeat behind his appearance, there is. He maintained his appearance as part of an image, as an outward facet of personality that gave you a glimpse of the man he was; meticulous, tidy and smart. Sometimes it was an impression that caused some to admire him, others to mock him, but that didn't matter, that was just him. In a way, he has started to accept that he's losing himself, to a certain extent. Who cares about cuff-links and expensive shirts in space, after all?

The offered bottle surprises him, a little, but it also causes him to maintain his smile. He doesn't remember the last time he had a drink, but even if this stuff is terrible, why not give it a go. It's been long enough, and there's nothing like a bit of alcohol to help you bond. He takes it, with a nod. ]

Thank you.

[Taylor's frown turns into a scowl at the dashing comment, but she at least lets him take the bottle still before she very definitely turns her attention back to the cello.]

Don't think much about how you look.

[She'd noticed the scruff, obviously, but she'd been trained into observation. About what appearance could mean for the person underneath, wearing it, their status socially or mentally. But what she thought about it - in terms of things like dashing and shit like that - didn't come up. Not much. Definitely hadn't with Oxford.]

No, I didn't think you would.

[ Taking a healthy swig from the bottle, Oxford immediately remembers why he gave up drinking anything outside gin, scotch and wine on a regular basis long ago. The burn in his throat is unpleasant, and he winces as it goes down, but there's something oddly cleansing about it in the midst of all the discomfort. Running his tongue over his teeth, he merely looks at the bottle in hand for a long moment before he speaks again, his eyes on the cello. ]

May I ask what prompted this?

[She's quietly tuning the instrument by the time he speaks again, fingers thrumming the strings carefully, adjusting the pins as she goes. It's an almost absentminded practice, long familiar; she doesn't look up, even as she answers him.]

Won't let me run patrols. [A shrug. Her arms and shoulders are bare except for the slim straps of the shirt she's wearing, white against the black stitching run through the healing bite circling one shoulder.] Been climbing the fucking walls.