Ragnar Meral knew he should be asleep, but every time he got close to it another flash of desire moved through him, warm and sharp and very definitely not his own. There was something else tangled beneath it too, something he could not quite identify through the noise. Loneliness, perhaps, or frustration, or the particular ache of wanting something you had already decided you could not have. Whoever it belonged to was somewhere aboard the Dutchman, close enough and loud enough that blocking it out had become an exercise in failure. He could have used a hypo, but he hated the heavy emptiness the blockers left behind, and getting drunk was out of the question when he still had work to do once the ship woke properly. So instead he had got dressed and gone somewhere practical, where the task would bleed out any residual desire that wasn't his own.

The armoury may once have been Starfleet, but it was reinforced and rebuilt for function rather than Starfleet neatness, its racks holding a collection of rifles that had been repaired, altered and kept alive with parts from several different manufacturers. Nothing new out here, although it did make things more interesting.

Ragnar had stripped five of them so far, their components arranged across the central workbench in clean rows while a diagnostic display ran power cells and emitter coils through a sequence of amber warnings. He worked slowly, cleaning residue, checking connections for heat damage and fitting each weapon back together until every piece clicked into place beneath his hands. It gave him something solid to concentrate on. Metal, solvent, pressure, sequence. Things made sense when they could be dismantled properly and rebuilt without anyone lying about what they were.

Another pulse of borrowed want went through him hard enough to make his fingers still against the rifle casing, and Ragnar exhaled through his nose before forcing his attention back to the work. He wore loose dark trousers, boots and a white shirt chosen for movement rather than appearance, although the front was already marked with grey smears from cleaning oil and one cuff had picked up something darker from the bench before it had been rolled up. Looking down at himself, he realised belatedly that he needed considerably less white in his wardrobe. The thought was easier to deal with than whatever was happening elsewhere on the ship, so he reached for the next rifle, released the power cell and set it into the diagnostic cradle while the Dutchman hummed quietly around him.

Perhaps it was Lindsy and Zedd, perhaps it was a random coupling from a few of the general crew they had retained to assist them in this mission; Tiraa didn't really want to press in more to figure out. It bothered her less now than it had a few days ago as she had become more used to the environment she found herself in and the general mental current of the ship. This wasn't the Prism where emotions and passions were loud and at the forefront of everything to the point where it had become a quiet din – no, the Dutchman was more of a quiet pong, and stronger moments of feelings still rippled out and tickled the back of her mind in a mildly irritating way. It would pass eventually, but now was not eventually.

Instead of making her way back to her quarters after her evening shift on the bridge per her agreement with Zedd, she had decided to take a walk around the ship while it was quiet. It was good for her mind and good for her body and would be helpful to her in normalizing these ripples of feelings that would certainly remain commonplace on this ship from one coupling or another. She was allowing her own mind to wander and drift, but a different feeling invaded as she walked close to one of the doors. She paused and turned toward it – frustration. Her black eyes moved to the door itself which read "Armory". There were familiar notes in the emotional presence, but she couldn't pin it down exactly. Curiosity driving her, she tapped the panel and opened the door.

Her eyes immediately found Ragnar as she stepped inside, and her brows went up on seeing him working on the rifles in front of him. "A bit late for this, isn't it, Ragnar?"

Ragnar looked up, his green eyes meeting hers before a grin pulled at his mouth. He had not expected to see her, but the surprise settled easily enough. Tiraa was beautiful, certainly, but that was hardly the most interesting thing about her. She was clever, composed and difficult to read in all the ordinary ways Ragnar trusted, giving little away through her expression, posture or the careful way she carried herself, and he found that he enjoyed the effort of it more than he probably should. Her company sharpened a room rather than filling it, which suited him just fine. “No time like the present, Princess,” he said, his voice light and playful even as his hands continued dismantling the projectile rifle in front of him. “Couldn’t sleep anyway. What’s your excuse?” He glanced across at her as he set the firing assembly carefully on the workbench, one eyebrow lifting in silent challenge.

“I just left the bridge and decided on a walk before I go and settle in for the night.” Her eyes were settled on his face, and at his challenge she simply smiled in response. She moved from the door and walked toward him, her gait was easy, though her hips swayed in a distracting way; perhaps it was natural, perhaps it was learned – regardless it drew the eye. She stopped on the side of the table opposite of him and looked down at the rifles with mild curiosity.

“What’s keeping you awake?”

He looked at her, wondering what he could or couldn't tell her. He was clear that she was one of his superiors, and stood between him and his cut of it all if he displeased her. But, such was life. After all, he had chosen this ship himself. "It's been a long time since I've been on a ship," he said, before moving the rifle he was working on. "Long time since I was on a ship with lovers…" he left it at that.