Campbell, the engines are getting (damnhot) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2015-11-20 10:49:00 |
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Ugh. What was it with her and sprained wrists? Her left one bandaged up this time (for variety’s sake), Tracey held it close to her chest as she walked through the corridor, heading towards the room that she and Campbell shared with a mug of hot cocoa, liberally sugared, in one hand. The engine failure had been jarring enough for herself, and she didn’t have Campbell’s White Russian experience. It had been 8 years since the White Russian's crash but the memories still left a bitter taste in Campbell's mouth. The sudden stall and subsequent engine failure had drudged up a tangled mess of bad memories. “All good there?” Tracey asked, appearing in the doorway. Silent and still, the other woman lay on her bed with a leg propped up. Campbell cracked an eye open from where she lay and smiled reassuringly. Aside from the bad case of deja vu, the untimely stalling had cause her to lose her footing on a stepladder, leading to a painful stumble and fall. "Bruised ego and hip. Nothing's broken at least." Her smile turned rueful. "Besides the engine that is. Maybe we should have sacrificed your friend to the old girl." “Or maybe she’s angry because she was offended by what we were offering as a sacrifice.” Tracey hooked her foot around the leg of the stool they kept in their room and dragged it over, carefully balancing the cocoa as she did so. Normally she would sit on the end of Campbell’s bed, but she didn’t want to bother her leg. She passed her the mug. “This is for you.” Campbell nodded sagely as she pushed herself into a sitting position. As far as human sacrifices went, the Whiskey Sour navigator wasn't a very good one. The cocoa smelled divine and Campbell took a deep breath. "Thanks. How's the hand?" “All right. I’ve been told not to move it.” Tracey examined the bandaging. It was impossible to miss, and her mother would be less likely to miss it than anyone else. “At least it wasn’t my right one though. This time. And I can’t even say I got it in a fight.” She leant forward on the stool, arms on her knees, a pose relaxed and yet ready. “How long do you have to stay off that for?” Campbell shrugged and took a long sip of her cocoa. Truth was she hadn't bothered getting herself checked out by their medic. It wasn't anything rest and time wouldn't heal. She had been through worse. More pressingly, Campbell wasn't about to be confined to bedrest while the ship's engines were in such bad shape. "I'll be fine." Campbell shifted her weight and congratulated herself for not wincing at the pain. "The engines aren't going to fix themselves.” “We need parts flown in first,” Tracey told her. “You can afford to take it easy.” Truth was, she had always recognised a lot of herself in the other woman: the somewhat (initially) terse manner hiding a soft centre, the tendency to be clucky over others while ignoring their own needs. A slight smile. “Can I offer you one of Sahra’s romance novels?” Campbell didn't bother listing the other things she could do while the parts came. A full system diagnosis to start. Hammer out the dents from Jaime's little outburst. Check the cargo bay doors again. The list just went on. Still, a harmless distraction didn't sound too bad. She wasn't much of a reader but there wasn't anything else she could do while she rested. "Which one? The one with the half-naked hunk that looks like Ireland, or the pirate with the red bandana?" “Oh, so you’re jonesing after Ireland too, are you?” Tracey’s grin widened. Of course, she and everyone else (and possibly even the ship itself) aboard knew that these days, Sahra’s tastes lay in a slightly more rugged direction. “I think that the pirate might be interesting. I’ve always liked those swashbucklers with a heart of gold stories myself.” She chuckled. “Since I loaned Hector that book I had on the Ganymede fishing industry, they may well be your only options.” "No spoilers! I haven't read that one yet." Campbell tossed a small cushion at her friend in mock annoyance. Grinning, she carefully set the mug down on the side table. That was when Tracey hurled the cushion back at her. “Should have kept the cocoa,” she retorted. The cushion was caught deftly in both hands. "Should have used a football." Campbell regarded the other woman with a wry smile. "Think the rest of the crew would be up for a game when we get back to HQ?" she asked. Her gaze flickered to her hip. "Health permitting." “Sure, why not? We could challenge the Whiskey Sour, even. Buy them a round of drinks afterwards.” Tracey shrugged. “As a peace offering for our bathroom holding him hostage.” Campbell clicked her teeth and flicked her wrist. "Serves him right for saying we need a new ship." |