ph_logs | [OPEN & CLOSED] May Catch-All

[ Prompts below. Tag this TL to wildcard, she's easily found at the enforcer officer, the O&I, running in the mornings, or generally around. ]

"Hey, Valdis. You wanted to see me?"

Just arrived for the day, CT's very casually twisting the long side of her hair into a braid as she comes to see Valdis, re-doing it where it had loosened on her run in. Her things are already at her desk.

Valdis looks up from the mountain of paperwork on her desk. She's been putting it off, but now she has to get everything in order before what happens next.

"Yes, I had a question for you."

CT ties off the end of the braid and lets it drape over her shoulder, leaning against the door and casting a cursory eye over her desk. "Go ahead, shoot."

"You might want to come in and sit down."

She gestures to the other seat.

CT's brows go up. "That kinda question, huh. Alright."

She pulls the seat out and sits down. "What's up?"

"Yeah, that kind of question."

Valdis signs one more document, slips it into a file and closes it.

"Since Cerrit left I have been managing both the DSA and the Enforcers. Unfortunately, it has become apparent that I cannot do both effectively while also being able to fight the battles and investigate the barrier, the demons and all that entails."

She slides the folder across the desk to CT.

"You were my second in command here, so it seems right that I should offer command of the DSA to you over anyone else."

CT sets her hand on the folder reflexively before the, "Oh," even leaves her mouth. Huh. Yeah, that kind of question.

It makes sense enough—it's not like she hasn't noticed how busy Valdis can get when multiple things need the Chief's attention. Still, the offer somehow manages to come as a surprise. Even after months as Deputy Chief of the unit, command isn't a role she's used to seeing herself in.

"I'd ask if you're sure but I know you wouldn't be asking if you weren't."

Walking under the burning street lamps, it dawns on Ellen that she's never actually been to the Enforcer Offices. Doesn't even know if she'll be permitted entrance, expecting, in many ways, similar treatment to what she's experienced back home. Keycards, codes, personal identification to ensure that no sensitive Weyland-Yutani information reaches the wrong eyes.

It can't be as easy as walking through the front door, right?

Then she'll make her presence known with three hard knuckle-taps, still dressed in her work attire and carrying a cup of coffee in one hand, and wait for someone to open the door. I just got off. I thought I'd congratulate the new Chief of the DSA. A fine excuse to swing by, right? She won't be turned away. Hell, there probably won't be anyone there to send her home if Crichton's word is true.

'She spends all night in her office. Shows up in the morning with a red mark from falling asleep on her pen. You think you can smoke her out?'

I'll see what I can do.

Three hard knocks.

She waits.

If CT was a workaholic before the promotion, well, they might need to invent a new word for whatever she is now. There's so much to do—new responsibilities and procedures, things to keep track of, work to be done. Ask the CT of a year ago if she had her eyes on a command role and she'd have said no way. Being in charge has never been a thing she's coveted, the way some do, but it only seemed logical when the time came. Valdis trusted her enough to hand over the keys, so to speak, and so here she is.

Her coffee's long gone cold in its cup and there's a packet of wrapped food she hasn't touched since buying it this morning.

The knocking snaps her out of tunnel-vision focus on the pile of files and personal notes related to the DSA's current handling of the Coldwood situation. Groaning, she sits back in her chair and stretches, expecting to wait for someone else to handle it—only, no, a glance at the clock tells her that she'd be waiting a hell of a long time.

Fine, then. With a sigh, she stands from her desk and heads out through the main office to the door. She's ready to put on her public-facing face, assuming it's someone in need of assistance who didn't just call in for some reason or another, but when she opens the door—

"How can I— oh! Ripley!" Blink, blink. "Hi. You're not who I was expecting."

"Sorry, I know it's late. I saw the light on, and—" Crichton said you might be here. I'm here to save you from your paperwork Hell. "I wanted to congratulate you on your promotion." She catches her bottom lip. "And see if maybe you wanted some company. Or coffee. I also have coffee."

A smile pulls at the corner of her lips a half-second before she consciously relaxes. She's not sure she totally believes the reasoning, but she's not sure it matters that much if she does or not when Ripley's here regardless. "You're fine, I just thought it might be some resident who favours the face-to-face approach. You're a much better surprise. Especially bearing coffee."

She steps back and opens the door further to let Ripley in. The DSA office is silent and still, any standard officers who would be on duty for the inevitable night duties are either at home waiting on a call or in another area of the building entirely.

"I can't promise I'm doing anything interesting," she says. She takes the chance to stretch again, cracking the kinks in her back from bending over a desk all night. The buttons of her blouse are undone just far enough without getting outright indecent, to get some air in the humid evening, vest long since abandoned over the back of her chair. "There's just a lot of things to get in order."

Connecticut's smile is returned in kind. "Here, it's still warm."

Ripley follows her inside. The DSA is everything and nothing like she expects. There's a glaring (and unsurprising) lack of computers, which leaves ample room for files and stacks of books on every desk. Charts, maps and scores of notes spread across a designated wall. Names she doesn't recognize. Crude drawings. She tries not to stare.

Tries, and fails.

She'll stare at something else, then. CT, for instance. She catches her with hands perched at either hip to bend herself backward, rewarded by a few dull pops from her overworked spine. A button on her blouse comes undone. Her skin dews.

"That's okay. I'm used to boring."

Ripley weaves between desks and blackboards to pull out CT's chair, where she makes herself right at home. "Classified things?"

Her smile slips lopsided and she cocks her head, a playful little 'really?' look to match Ripley's chair-based thievery before she walks over to join her.

"Some of it." She reaches over Ripley's shoulder to flip one file closed and then leans against the edge of the desk, fresh coffee in hand. "But I write most of my notes in a personal shorthand, so I'm not too worried about you catching a peek."

She drinks and exhales. The shot of energy will be sorely needed, after the long day. She never really has grown any appreciation for the taste of the stuff, but that's never been why she drinks it.

"The rest of it's just... logistical stuff. To-do lists, reports. Honestly, I'm still getting used to the idea of being in command of something."

"Big shoes to fill," She remarks, tipping her head up to meet CT's gaze; her throat, a pale expanse scuffed by the underground. "Valdis trusts you, and that's what's important." On her desk (aside from the newly covered reports) is a cup of coffee, lukewarm and separated. A sandwich untouched in its wrapper. If it doesn't pertain in some way to her newly appointed position, evidence states CT has no interest in it.

Her tired eyes, thirst for coffee and pair of empty ink containers; evidence she's been here far too long.

"You know..." Ripley starts in a tone that's fully prepared to be objected and therefore careful in its delivery. "It is late. If you were a pilot they would have booted you weeks ago. Don't you think it might be best to call it for the night?"

"I'll say." Valdis is infinitely better versed in the supernatural, being something far older and more powerful than human herself. For all her apparent faith in CT and the benefits of having eyes that don't just glance past the unusual as usual, she still feels out of her depth sometimes. Like she's going to miss something important.

Another swig of coffee.

"Well, I'm not a pilot," she says, just to be a shit. "You should have seen the hours I used to work." Well. Not that they're much better now, truth told. Not better at all, really. "I'm used to it, and the work has to get done one way or another. It's not like there's anything I have to get back to at home."

Except, of course, her bed. Proper food. Unimportant things like that.

"Are those voluntary hours or written into the handbook?" She has a feeling she already knows the answer. Pans, over-exaggerated, from one side of the office to the other. "It's funny, I don't see anyone else here. They must be content with doing their night-work at home. That, or your brain must be pretty infallible. You sure you aren't a vampire or something?"

Ripley moves languidly out of CT's deck chair, gesturing for her to take up the hot-seat. "Please, by all means."

CT gives her a playfully flat look, head tilting the other way. Her hair must have been twisted into a braid at some point, but it's long since started falling apart where it falls over her shoulder.

"Now I'm the boss, I literally make my own hours." This, of course, does not help her case whatsoever and she knows it, but it's not really meant to. She eyes the chair for a moment, torn between playing along or playful pushback, before sliding into it and looking up at Ripley, head tilted all the way back. "And I've always been a bit of a night owl."

"Oof, does that mean we'll have to start sparring here? Since I assume it'll be impossible to get you to leave at any point. Need help moving your mattress in, while we're at it? Maybe a nightstand? Or, no— the desk drawers should work fine." She could go all night like this, smirking along as she pokes, prods and annoys.

Ripley stands behind her desk chair, peering down at the up-turned face, tucking a loose strand of hair back where it belongs. Lets her forefinger linger at CT's temple.

"Me too."

She slides both hands across the other woman's shoulders, then. Her thumbs work an even pressure there.

"All this paperwork must kill your back."

"Mm. Is this where I'm meant to admit to sleeping at my desk?" Which isn't an admission, in itself, but it isn't not an admission either. It's not so bad, actually, no worse on her spine than the bunks on military vessels ever were—something that says a lot more about the quality of the bunks than the desk.

All of which makes the pressure against the stiff muscles a pleasant surprise. She straightens up a touch reflexively, shoulders rolling under the touch as the hands settle. Her own hands stay wrapped around the coffee, but don't lift to drink again.

"If you're feeling honest, sure." Ripley teases, kneading the tight band of muscle across the base of her neck. "Or you could tell me the opposite and get a big laugh. Seriously, you don't get shoulders like these without working for it." And we all know how you like to work. That much goes unsaid.

Her thumb crawls against shoulder's edge, working away at knots slow, slow, sinking beneath loose hemline. That's it, lull her straight out of her work-groove. Then she's bound to go home.

"Go on," She plays perfectly coy. "Get that work done. Don't let me stop you."

(Ripley does, indeed, have every intention of stopping her.)

"I feel like your—" a slow exhale, "—words and actions are rather at odds right now, Ellen Ripley."

Something's certainly working, and so far it's not CT. It is rather difficult to pull her attention back to the pile of notes in front of her when those thumbs are unspooling her muscles like thread. Fuck that's nice.

She succeeds in half-releasing the mug, but doesn't make it as far as her pen.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Pressure along the trapezius muscle. Weeks worth of filing, list-making and desk-bound-logistics begin to creep away beneath Ripley's finger pads. She rocks ever so slightly forward to follow through with the motion. A dire case that will take more than one five-minute massage, if she can help it.

Coffee down. One foot in the door. Keep ignoring that pen, she tells herself, and we'll get you out of here in no time.

Her breath is warm beside CT's cheek.

"An office is no place to relax, now is it? I'll walk you home."

"I'm not meant to be relaxing. Isn't that—" another exhale, almost edging on a moan, "—our whole point of contention, here? So much for not letting you stop me, huh?"

Her resolve is melting as steadily as the tension in her muscles, much as she tries to resist. The relief blooms along her frayed nerves, pleasurable enough that it's a conscious effort not to allow noises that dance on the line of obscenity to slip past her lips. They're still in the middle of her office, after all, much as she's starting to take Ripley's cue to wish she wasn't.

It is late. Her head sags back.

Ripley nods along to a workaholic's faulty reasoning, an 'aha' on her lips. (And on CT's, clear evidence she's overdue for some tentative care.)

"Mhm, you caught me."

Connecticut's head falls back, heavy where it presses against her knuckles. And almost yielding. So nearly there Ripley can feel the night atmosphere breathe against her skin. Hear the office door close and lock behind them. She levels a look at CT's upturned face; your paperwork won't grow legs and run away, I promise.

"And I thought I was the sneaky one."

Goddammit. She should keep at it (no, she shouldn't) she really should (there's nothing here that can't be done tomorrow by the light of day) but it's not as if she's going to be able to focus with Ripley here being a very persistent distraction, is it? And it's not like she wants to kick Ripley out, or even really tell her to stop, either.

Her face cracks with a smile and the breath of a laugh, eyes opening fully where they'd started threatening to close to look up at Ripley instead. "...fine. You win. For now."

Some have said that Shen Qingqiu struggles to learn from his mistakes, and they may even be right. But there's one mistake he's absolutely determined not to make, and that's not letting his boss know what he's been doing. Seriously, trying to arrest Elias Coldwood was very nearly a farce, and he'd like to avoid embarrassing himself or the office like that again.

So he makes an appointment with CT to speak to her in her office, and shows up on time with a copy of his report on the arrest and some of the progress reports he's filed on Glory, just in case she hasn't seen them yet. He's going for full information redundancy here!

CT looks up from her mountain of personal notes and official documentation when he arrives. It is entirely likely that she hasn't so much made sure to be here on time for the appointment as she simply hasn't left her office.

"Shen Qingqiu, hi—come on in." She pushes some of the mess of files and notes aside. "I'm guessing you wanted to talk about the Coldwood situation?"

[ Prompts below. Tag this TL to wildcard, she's easily found around the forests hunting, downtown doing day-to-day things, or if you know to you might be able to find her at the Leeds estate. ]

[ Prompts below. Tag this TL to wildcard. She's found most easily at the radio station after her daily radio show, at the O&I, at Martin's tea shop, or doing chores. She's blind and uses a white cane. ]

[ Prompts below. Tag this TL to wildcard. Most easily found at Hawkeye's clinic where she works, helping at the orphanage, the O&I, or generally around. ]

[OPEN & CLOSED] May Catch-All

Agent Connecticut / CT

for Valdis

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Office Visit

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Daisy Tonner

Melanie King

Major Margaret Houlihan