2007-06-01: The Honeymooners


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Summary: The newlyweds ever so mysterious Aspen St. James and Michael Vessley find themselves somewhere they'd rather not be. At sea!

Date It Happened: June 1st, 2007

The Honeymooners

Somewhere in the South Pacific

A luxurious honeymoon suite is decorated to the nines, befitting of every newlywed in love and on the vacation of their lives. Blue, turquoise and silver lavishes this expansive room, which holds such items as a queen-sized bed with a lush comforter and crisply turned down sheets, a chaise lounge, silver-gilded art deco tables, and tropical flower arrangements. What bliss. What paradise.

"It is /your own bloody fault/ that I locked you in the flipping closet!" A prim British accent tries very hard to sound not-so-prim, and succeeds only in sounding haughtier than usual as it escalates.

Newlyweds getting belated cold feet?

"If you hadn't distracted me—!" Aspen St. James, standing at the door of the suite with her hand on the knob, ready to fly into the hallway, points wildly at the other person in the room. For her own part, she's dressed in … a white bikini, and she's holding a wide-brimmed, matching hat. She huffs. "I'm going to have cocktails." Someone is not invited.

"MY fault?!" comes a loud voice in response, a voice that sounds shocked, offended, and downright angry. "YOU locked me in the closet! I believe that makes it /your/ fault!"

Inside the room stands Michael Vessley, wearing a pair of khaki shorts, Birkenstock sandals, and is currently in the middle of buttoning up a Hawaiian t-shirt (cliche, yes!) over a white undershirt, staring at Aspen through his sunglasses. How in the world did they end up on this cruise together? Oh right. Aspen /locked him in the closet./ "It's not MY fault you can't hold that temper of yours!" Michael says, finishing the last button and making his way towards the door, the intent to blow right past Aspen on his mind. "/I'm/ going to have cocktails, and you'll just have to keep up!" he says, attempting to step past her. "Penny," he adds, and it's somewhat of a shame that a man his age picks up his step after he says it.

Yes, that's right. This is not just a swank hotel. They're somewhere in the South Pacific.

Aspen weaves out of Michael's way. Her eyes, immediately, widen. /How dare he./ "Don't you 'Penny' me, /Mikey-Wikey/, I should have left you in the bloody closet. Caught the plane by myself!" Why didn't she do that again? She breezes out into the hallway after him, plucking a pair of glossy black shades from the tiny string connecting the most important parts of her bikini top and slides them on, thus hiding the fierce look in her eye. She tips her head back and chin up self-importantly and promptly strides down the corridor, in high heels, because she is the type of woman to wear high heels with her swimwear, and hurries it up in what appears to be a childish attempt to get above deck before he does.

Michael nods his head slightly and bobs it as Aspen talks, mocking her, even going so far as to mimic and repeat what she's saying in a high-pitching voice, which is mumbled if anything. It's very clear what he's doing though, and he's enjoying it very much. That's what she'll get for calling him /Mikey-Wikey./ Honestly. "Would you hold your horses!" he calls out, stepping to the side as Aspen hurries up and moves past him. Narrowing his eyes at her, he re-adjusts his sunglasses on his nose, making sure his eyes are perfectly hidden by the lens, and calls out after her. "View's better from back here, anyway."

Aspen cuts a precise swathe through the cruise ship's interior, turning a corner sharply, and woe be to the housekeeping up ahead if she doesn't get out of the way. This would be her ignoring Michael. Oh, wait— not entirely. She can't let that pass, bub. No, she holds up a single hand, the white hat she's toting along flopping ridiculously in the air, and gives him the middle finger without missing a beat.

And then she's dead-ended.

The woman's fast-paced strides, which somehow, /somehow/ manage to regain an unusual measure of elegance even while she is, in no way, 'holding her horses', come to a reluctant stop in front of the glass doors of the elevator that takes passengers above deck and to every stop in-between. She mumbles something about the 'sodding lift' and jabs the button to go up.

There's a snort from Michael's end of the hallway, the snort originating from the man himself, and with a shake of his head, he continues to follow Aspen… only to stop once around the corner, dead-ended himself. Great. He leans against the wall, idly checking the watch on his left wrist as he waits for the elevator to arrive. He looks over to Aspen, smirking slightly, and he can't help but prod and poke at her some more. "Senior operatives get to ride on the elevator first, you know. Protocol."

Aspen folds her arms and stands directly in front of the elevator, willing it to open. It takes its time. "Like tight spaces, do you?" she snaps back in an acidic sing-song voice. "Lucky for you, this one has glass doors, you won't have to cry like a baby for me to come rescue you." When the elevator door soundlessly slides open, Aspen steps in succinctly, eyes Michael invisibly through the impenetrable shades of her sunglasses, and whirls around to stand in the /very corner/ as /far away from him as possible/. "For the record, /Protocol/ is not being an /exceptional ass/ in the middle of a mission and warranting me to lock you in a closet."

Rolling his eyes, Michael checks his watch again, wishing this elevator would get into gear and arrive already, so /he/ can go in fir— well, so Aspen is getting to go in first this time, but that's okay! He doesn't mind. Stepping in after her, he looks back at her over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes again, but the only evidence she has of this is the crease of his brow. "/I/ wouldn't be an exceptional ass if /someone/ wasn't being so uptight all the time, Miss /Penny./ Besides. I would never lock /you/ in a closet." Which is a bold-faced lie. He totally locked her in a closet at University.

"/Uptight/?" Aspen throws the word back at Michael incredulously. "You are not calling me uptight, Mister Rules and Regulations boy. I am not uptight!" she counters in her well-educated British accent. "I /was/ following protocol." She squares her slender shoulders as they both stand in their respective places in their important sunglasses (the darkness and reflectiveness of which indicate the level of their operative status in badassery, lessened considerably by a lack of clothes and/or Hawaiian flowers, today). She's silent for a moment, but as to be expected, it's short-lived. "And I seem to recall that you would," she murmurs.

"Yeah/ /Uptight./" Michael responds, returning his gaze to the front of the elevator and pointedly ignoring Aspen. For all he cares, this conversation is over. They never get anywhere with these kind— arguing, fighting, and snipping at each other (although it's more Michael that does the snipping— after all, it gets her /so/ worked up.) He's perfectly content to watch the floors slide by on the little elevator dial; that is, until she murmurs that last line. Turning around to face her, there's a look of confusion on his face as he speaks, reaching a hand up to take his glasses off… only to change his mind at the last second. "What do you mean you recall?"

"I mean I have an excellent memory." Aspen, on the other hand, /does/ take off her shades in order to slide them up on her head. She glowers sidelong at Michael, an expression that suits her features naturally. "Are you telling me you don't remember? Girls' dorms? Is that ringing any bells for you? I thought you were having quite the ball." Up, up, up goes the elevator, a slow and smooth ride.

"Well, if you would be so kind to enlighten me, then," Michael responds, shifting his weight to one leg and crossing his arms over his chest, fixing Aspen with an imploring look, even if his sunglasses hide some of it. When she /does/ enlighten him, he looks confused for a moment, and then the realization dawns on him. And, of course, to accompany the realization, a grin begins to slowly spread across his face, but when he catches the glower coming from her, the grin disappears. He turns away, facing the front of the elevator once again. "… 'm sorry," he mumbles.

It's been a stroke of luck that the pair have made the elevator trip without the addition of any more passengers so far, but they're about to be unleashed onto the main level, where people in shirts just as horrifying as Michael's are thick as thieves. Sunlight glints on the glass doors as the elevator glides to a halt. Open sesame! Welcome to the deck. Sparkling turquoise water of both the pool and the vast ocean itself await.

Aspen makes no apology in reply - instead, she lifts both brows, looks at Michael down her nose indignantly despite the fact that he's taller, and then appears to be vaguely self-satisfied. Haha, you apologized and I didn't. That done, she slides her shades back on and saunters out of the lift. "Ciao, darling!" Which means Aspen is going to make a not-so-valiant attempt to ditch Michael for cocktails.

Michael isn't necessarily expecting an apology in return, but his is out there. She can take it, throw it back in his face, apologize too, or do whatever she feels like doing, because once those elevator doors are open, Michael is a free man. He's on a cruise, after all. It's time for a shot of scotch at the bar, then a dip in the pool. When Aspen calls goodbye to him, he turns back, taking another look at the woman, and calls back to her. "See you around, Penny!" With that, he moves to the bar, where all the nearby women think his shirt is simply /marvelous./

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