Fic: Contraventions (BSG, pilots, NC-17. AU, pre-mini) 1/3
Miss Claira, I evidently also fail at sleep. Le voila: finished pilot!au!angst!smut!happyendings.
I will be sleeping through brunch.
Title: Contraventions, part 1 of 3.
Rating: NC-17. Pilots are sexing.
Spoilers: none. This is AUish, because there is no Zak.
A/N, Disclaimer: mine! but only in that I borrowed them from RDM, and promised not to whore them out. Many thanks to stars_like_dust for the encouragement, but this story is as yet not beta'd.
Summary: He wasn't usually so uncertain when it came to casual sex, but then again, this wasn't the usual method; the casual frak scene had several unspoken rules, and some were being a little bent tonight.
1-
"You're not supposed to be here."
Starbuck didn't look up from her desk, hoping that if she looked focused enough on her flight review paperwork, her CO would just give up and go away. "Sir?"
"Cut the crap, Kara. You're on leave, remember? The leave you haven't taken in three years? The leave that's etched in titanium in the Fleet Code? The leave that will hopefully make you stop scaring the crap out of the nuggets and everyone else around here and make room in the flight schedule for some other pilots to get air time?"
"Frak it, Deak. I don't want leave, I don't need leave. Consider it taken. And if all the little flyboys and girls aren't scared of me, then I'm not doing my job."
Colonel Deacon Metsfield, Commanding Officer, Sparta Fleet Academy of Picon, ran fingers through his thinning hair and exhaled noisily. "I can't consider it taken, not this time. Not again. This isn't just about me being your boss, Starbuck. It's about the review board wanting to know why your name is always up on the flight roster, even while you're supposedly off base. And the medical supervisor wanting to know when you're going to report for your annual from last year, let alone this year. And most of all, it's about me watching you pushing things too far, again, and wondering if this is the year you break."
She put her pen down, tried not to snarl her response. "Sorry to be such an inconvenience, Colonel."
"Don't be a bitch. You need to get out, Kara. You need to shake your head loose from these idiot kids and brass-plated orders and remember how to be yourself. Take time off. Please."
"Gods, Deak... this is me you're talking to: Starbuck, remember? The one who routinely ignores regs and ranks and does whatever the hell she wants? I get plenty of fun..." It was true, as far as that went; there was never an order given her that was followed without condsideration of the alternative, even if there was no reason to balk other than simply to rattle whoever had given it. She went out in her off-duty hours, entertained herself and her fellow pilot-instructors, occasionally got drunk or laid or involved in a brawl to burn off some energy. How could anyone even contemplate the idea that she needed a break from her job? from the base? "It's not like I have anything else to do," she added, a sly grin slanting at her boss.
"And that's my point. I get that you love your job; I do. You're career Fleet, it's written all over you. I think you need the rules and regs, as much to buck against as follow, but it isn't all there is to life. You know that. Three years is long enough to spend ignoring it."
"My last shot at the civillian trimmings didn't work so well that I'm keen to try again," Kara muttered.
"Nobody says you have to buy real estate and build a picket fence," Deak told her. "Just... get off base. Stay away from the usual bars, from the same old crew. Remember what the whole point of having a Fleet is for: to protect the good things in life, the things we tend to give up while in service. Sleeping in, food that isn't on a chow line, lack of schedules and stupid formalities and people knocking on your door fourteen hours a day."
The way he described it, real life sounded almost inviting. "Medical really on your back about me?"
"Frak, yes. Terwillger even pulled me aside at the pyramid game last night to tell me you missed your appointment again. And while I know you thrive on confrontation, Starbuck, I don't. I told him you were on leave - like you are supposed to be - so please. Back me up. Don't make me make it an order."
Kara sighed, closed the file full of reviews and shoved it in a drawer. "What's the minimum time I can take?"
"Two weeks. I'd say three but I don't think you'd make it that long."
Fourteen days. Frak, she'd be climbing the walls after four. "One."
"Don't try it. You're officially relieved of duty for the next fourteen days, Kara, and if I see you set foot on this base for anything short of a new Cylon war until fifteen days from now, I'll officially haul your ass up to Terwillger myself." Deak wasn't kidding.
"Can't I stay in quarters?"
"No. I won't expect you to get off Picon or even out of Sparta City, but you are going to be off Fleet territory. Get a hotel. Leave allowance covers accomodation expenses, and you have enough accrued to stay at the godsdamned Constellation if you want." Her C.O. leaned over, ruffled a hand through her short hair and grinned. "I've got tickets to a Panthers game on the sixth. You can use one, call me if you're free. Now scat."
"Yes, sir."
He mock-cuffed her and let himself out of her office, calling back over his shoulder when she didn't get up from the desk. "You have an hour before I send Wilkins to escort you off base, Kara."
Frak. It would take her an hour to find her civvy clothes, let alone pack them. "Frakking regulations" she muttered at his back, and went to get started.
---
Lee Adama tugged the thick leather of his coat more snugly around his frame, ducked his chin towards his chest: he'd forgotten how chilly the springs of Picon could be. No, he amended, flicking a glance at the lowering sky, not forgotten. Willfully disregarded. Blocked out, perhaps. He hadn't enjoyed his three years of cadetship so greatly that anything about Sparta formed part of happy recollections, but the chill - unseasonal by Caprican standards - of late Gaia held some particularly unpleasant associations. Some of them guided his steps now, turning him resolutely away from the district patronised by the general run of Colonial cadets, carrying him further down the rain-shimmered esplanade towards the commerical center. Chill air whispered around his ears, so he hunched further into the collar of his jacket and wished he were anywhere else. Anywhere, he thought bitterly, including Hades, so long as it's warmer and nobody calls me 'Apollo'.
The thought sliced through him again: if only it were as easy to ditch his surname as it might be to abandon his callsign. And everything that came with either appellation. No such luck. The Adama name carried weights he had no hope of shedding, and even his callsign was half in reference to his descent, a sad, sarcastic joke at first that became an entirely new insult later on. "Frak that," he hissed into the wind. "I'm on leave for two weeks. And I'm not going anywhere near the base. This is the last respite I'll have for a year from all of that... and I'm going to need every second of it."
Nobody was on the street to hear his muttered invective; most people in the coastal city, long inured to this kind of weather in Gaia, were well indoors, more genially occupied. But those who noted him through their car windows or from the glazed facades of their office buildings knew what he was, if not whom. Stride military-brisk, his long coat doing nothing to counteract the fact that he carried a Fleet duffel slung over a shoulder, his confident and graceful steps the heavier type, like those of someone accustomed to the adjusted gravity of an abode in space. The doorman of the hotel he selected at random from among those on the shore was a former marine, and with the instinct of a man who'd spent his life in the military, knew an officer when he saw one.
Lee almost winced when the man tossed him a casual salute, tried to keep his face expressionless when he returned a reluctant nod. The desk clerk, a prettyish woman with a no-nonsense smile, lifted an eyebrow at his driver's license. "You may not be aware, Mister... Adama, but we have special rates for those with Fleet I.D..."
That was the difficulty with taking every scrap of leave one could lay their hands on; officially he was not due for leave for another three months, but he doubted he'd make it through to that point with his sanity intact, and so the leave had been granted, but he didn't have the same benefits as someone who waited in line. Most of these two weeks would be coming out of his own pocket; he'd only come to Picon - and Sparta in particular - because it was close, relatively economical, and quiet this time of year. It still cost more than he liked, but as far as Lee Adama was concerned, it was a question of survival. He had to get away! Still, it would be stupid beyond principle to ignore the fact that he could get his room cheaper by admitting he was Fleet. Hopefully it was the last such admission he'd ever have to make.
Ten minutes later, after half the reception staff had been made aware that their newest guest was a viper pilot and a captain and Lee's remaining reserve of patience was nearly exhausted, he finally stepped into the elevator and let it carry him up. With the peculiar awareness of someone who lived shipboard, he could feel the flex and roil of the sea breeze buffetting the building; every minute movement of the structure, he felt. After the absolute stillness and void of space and the relatively cramped conditions of his Orion posting, the small apartment seemed luxurious, even lavish, and the slight shift beneath his feet reminded him constantly that he was not on a battlestar.
If only the well-meaning concierge and her cronies would let him forget; if only his luck held, and his family, such as it was, didn't come looking for him.
He emptied his duffel on the bed and stowed the clothing haphazardly in the wardrobe, leaving out a pair of black jeans and a burgundy shirt. It was not by accident that he possessed nothing gray or navy that wasn't part of his uniform; neither was it chance that he had none of those articles with him. Along with the rest of his kit, they were back in the quarters assigned him on the Orion; he'd left them there, travelled down in civilian gear on the first available shuttle, and made to disappear. Apart from his ID, there was only one other item that proclaimed his military status: his tags, which, legally, he wasn't permitted to remove without orders.
Like he cared. He tugged the chain off over his head, tossed it on the night table, and disappeared into the unaccustomed luxury of a private bathroom for a long shower. His last two weeks of leave. Then one more year, one more year of required service, and he could forget he was ever captain of anything. He'd get a job with Aerospace on Caprica or Leonis, save his credits, buy a little bar-bistro where the only orders ever heard were demands for another round, or a plate of the evening's special. One more year. He planned to store up as much reality as possible in the next two weeks, to get him through that year. Starting that night.
With any luck, he'd time his emergence with the end of the working day, lose himself in the civilian crowds which would throng the waterfront entertainment district. Like any number of them, he planned to spend this week's end night cozied up to a bar, and maybe later to a blonde; preferably one sassy and rebellious, someone who didn't belong in a uniform and couldn't give a frak about rules and regulations.
---
She didn't seriously consider the Constellation for more than five seconds; no matter how much accomodation credit she had accrued, the luxury hotel wouldn't have had room for her. Even if they'd had an entire wing vacant, that velvet-lined establishment would have been hesitant, Kara'd imagined, to welcome someone who would likely walk in dressed in liberated camouflage gear, smoking a cigar, and who steadfastly refused to hand her duffel to a bellhop or allow doors to be opened for her. Or tip.
Starbuck allowed herself some wry amusement at the thought, and summoned the bartender for a second beer. Picture that, Mom. Picture your hardass daughter, still in combat boots because you always said it was a waste to buy her pretty things, being escorted up to the Parnassus Suite, with a bottle of '63 chilling and a welcome basket waiting in the kitchenette. Picture her calling for burgers and a six-pack on the room-service phone. Picture her later leading some nameless boy-frak back through the big front doors, and the poor fool sneaking out in the morning.
Yeah. I'd laugh too, Mom.
The beer was cold as the weather, but a damn sight more pleasant - and she'd avoided being out in the latter by ducking into a municipal kiosk (godsdamned tourism bureau had these things everywhere) to find out where civilians stayed when they came to Sparta. She'd probably have been nonplussed to have to ask someone to recommend digs, but it wasn't like this was something she'd had to do before; she'd lived on one college campus or military base or other since the day she turned sixteen. What did she know about hotels?
The list of options was surprisingly long, but Kara eventually chose the Fortuna, for various reasons, and when she'd scored a welcome basket anyway because she smiled at the doorman and flashed her Fleet ID, she wasn't disappointed. The room was better than she'd expected, plenty of space, welcoming and servicable without being cheap. And the service had the right mix of humor and helpfulness, and a remarkable lack of obsequouy. The bath, roughly half the size of her office, was the clincher, though. She stayed in it half the afternoon, and was agreeably surprised that she wasn't now standing here at the bar with pruney fingers and toes.
She almost hadn't picked the Fortuna. On the beachfront halfway between Sparta Base and the civillian spaceport, the only traffic she could hear came from groundcars and city transport flights; she couldn't see a freighter - or hear one - from her balcony, let alone a Viper patrol, and the thought of being so far away from flying had set her teeth on edge. That was, it bothered her right up until she remembered she wouldn't be flying for the next two weeks anyway, and then Kara realised that maybe a little distance would be a good thing. On the plus side, the Fortuna was half a block from Sparta's single casino, and had possibly the best hotel bar on Picon, if the publicity blurb was to be believed.
The third beer she took slower, enjoying the idea that maybe she could drink in a more leisurely fashion. She had all night. She didn't have early patrol, or an oh-nine-hundred class or sim session. She didn't even have to get to the mess before breakfast was over or cook for herself: breakfast at the Fortuna was served whenever you rang for it. It was a nice idea. It partially made up for the ache of not flying... partially. The only real problem was drinking slower left her more time to think.
Midway through the fourth beer, she found companionship: a group of guys, evidently construction workers from Mykenoi, who obviously found her interesting. They bought her beer, and weren't pushy. In fact, they were too nice, their education obviously lacking. One called her ma'am. Another tried to teach her to play pool. "Gonna advise me not to drink too much, too?" she asked, grinning, but they didn't get it. Kara shrugged off the desire to enlighten them and stole another look at the man by the bar.
It wasn't a hardship. Not tall, not brawny, but built. Dark hair clipped close, professional-neat, but not the military buzz she saw more often than not in this town. Chiselled features set off by the bar lighting, which also darkened his eyes to indiscriminate shadows at the distance, and a casual, attractive posture which nevertheless made her think that his evident relaxed poise was a hair trigger for something more confrontational.
That was more interesting than anything else.
What was it about rivalry that got her so worked up? Not in the cockpit - she'd never had someone push her hard enough in a Viper to make her feel challenged, at least, not since her own Basic Flight days - but on the deck, or on the court, or in the bed... she was a sucker for a worthy opponent. Not that she found many.
When the guy by the bar finally stopped watching and made a move, Kara wondered if she'd misread his interest. He didn't flirt, or make suggestive remarks, or try and brush past her space when he moved around the table to make a shot. He didn't even spend much time eying the fit of her jeans or the cut of her shirt (a donation from a former roommate, who used to despair of her taste), or even ask what her name was, let alone her call code. He just played the game, and played it damned well. And if their eyes - his were a feakishly vivid blue that had made her blink as he came close - met more frequently over the tip of the cue than was strictly necessary, well...
The game drew her in. The liquor drowned the disappointment she felt that he wasn't more obviously interested, let her relax; it was almost like hanging out at the O-club on base, where the available men knew better than to hit on her. She enjoyed his company, whoever this guy was. She enjoyed the way he didn't cut her slack. Kara also enjoyed the way his jeans fit, but seeing she knew better than to stare, that was her business, right?
--
Halfway through his fifth beer at the smoky bar-nightclub he'd found by walking in the opposite direction to Sparta Base, Lee found exactly the right girl. She had a challenging smile, he noticed, watching her over the rim of his glass. Four or five men were in attendance as she wisecracked over a pool table, but none of them were given any particular encouragement. While Lee watched, she managed to sucker not one but two of the men into playing against her; not a bad player himself, he could tell when she wasn't playing with all her abilities. She kind of gave herself away by the easy grace of her shots. The other three men begged off, and she laughed, bought the group a round. "Next time, don't assume a girl can't play".
His attention hadn't gone unnoticed, either. He'd been looking openly enough, comparing her mentally to his usual type and wondering why she held so much more appeal. He'd been amused by her hustle, impressed by how easily she deflected the more amorous of her opponents. And interested - definitely interested - by her obviously physical nature. She lifted her glass, tossed him a wink over the edge of it, and it was a definite challenge. It took him precisely three seconds to reassure himself that she didn't look in the least like a military type; decision made, Lee swallowed the rest of his beer and wandered over.
"Play you for the table?" he inquired.
"If that's all you're after," she agreed. Her fan club hooted a little, but she ignored them. "How about we goose up the action a little?"
"What'cha got in mind?" The table wasn't a bad one, even though the felts were a little worn.
"Lets start with a deck" she suggested, "and see where we go from there?"
He nodded, but narrowed his eyes at her; 'deck' was standard fleet slang for the ten credit note. Still, the Colonial Fleet didn't hold a monopoly on the word; this was a military base town, everyone could be using it. He flicked his eyes over her again to reassure himself: slim-fitting jade coloured halter-top, blue jeans, leather halfboots. No sign of dog-tags, and her posture was relaxed, slouched, almost, if slouching could describe the informal grace in her posture. "Fine. You break."
She played it close the first time, narrowly beating him - but then, he wasn't playing full out either; they didn't talk, but the implicit challenge only rose higher. He doubled the bet for their second game, and beat her. She doubled again in the third, and won. She bought a bottle of ambrosia and they shared it during the fourth and fifth, and her cheer quad vanished somewhere during the bottle he bought after that. The count stood at four games apiece, and both of them were too intent on the game - and each other - to care how much the bet was for.
She was ahead by one shot when the barkeeper summarily kicked everyone out during the ninth game. "Frak," she said, looking at the rain-slick sidewalks. "It can't be that late..."
"Early," he assured her. "Anywhere else in this place that stays open?"
"Nope," she shrugged, tossed him a rueful grin. "Lame military towns, sticks up their asses."
That was reassuring; he didn't know anything about her, but hearing her call the military establishment 'lame' suited his inclinations. "Lee Adama" he said, offered her a hand. She looked at him, fine cloud of blonde hair curling against her neck in the damp halo of the bar's doorway lighting, and pressed her fingers into his, smiling.
"Kara Thrace."
The heat between their palms shouldn't have been so magnetic; it wasn't that cold. He didn't let go, and felt his own smile waver about the same time hers did. He wasn't usually so uncertain when it came to casual sex, but then again, this wasn't the usual method; the casual frak scene had several unspoken rules, and some were being a little bent tonight. She hadn't been precisely on the prowl, and he hadn't verbally flirted, made his interest plain - hadn't exchanged more than a dozen words all night not related to their competition or their bet - and all he had to judge her response by was the way their eyes seemed to catch over the table. Finally the silence was too heavy. "I'm glad I met you, Kara. You got game."
"You do, too," she agreed. "But is the game over now?" The challenge was in her voice, but her eyes were very wide and dark, and her lips were parted. Lee drew in a breath, tugged her a little closer, and shook his head.
---
Part two is here. please keep comments for part 3.
I will be sleeping through brunch.
Title: Contraventions, part 1 of 3.
Rating: NC-17. Pilots are sexing.
Spoilers: none. This is AUish, because there is no Zak.
A/N, Disclaimer: mine! but only in that I borrowed them from RDM, and promised not to whore them out. Many thanks to stars_like_dust for the encouragement, but this story is as yet not beta'd.
Summary: He wasn't usually so uncertain when it came to casual sex, but then again, this wasn't the usual method; the casual frak scene had several unspoken rules, and some were being a little bent tonight.
1-
"You're not supposed to be here."
Starbuck didn't look up from her desk, hoping that if she looked focused enough on her flight review paperwork, her CO would just give up and go away. "Sir?"
"Cut the crap, Kara. You're on leave, remember? The leave you haven't taken in three years? The leave that's etched in titanium in the Fleet Code? The leave that will hopefully make you stop scaring the crap out of the nuggets and everyone else around here and make room in the flight schedule for some other pilots to get air time?"
"Frak it, Deak. I don't want leave, I don't need leave. Consider it taken. And if all the little flyboys and girls aren't scared of me, then I'm not doing my job."
Colonel Deacon Metsfield, Commanding Officer, Sparta Fleet Academy of Picon, ran fingers through his thinning hair and exhaled noisily. "I can't consider it taken, not this time. Not again. This isn't just about me being your boss, Starbuck. It's about the review board wanting to know why your name is always up on the flight roster, even while you're supposedly off base. And the medical supervisor wanting to know when you're going to report for your annual from last year, let alone this year. And most of all, it's about me watching you pushing things too far, again, and wondering if this is the year you break."
She put her pen down, tried not to snarl her response. "Sorry to be such an inconvenience, Colonel."
"Don't be a bitch. You need to get out, Kara. You need to shake your head loose from these idiot kids and brass-plated orders and remember how to be yourself. Take time off. Please."
"Gods, Deak... this is me you're talking to: Starbuck, remember? The one who routinely ignores regs and ranks and does whatever the hell she wants? I get plenty of fun..." It was true, as far as that went; there was never an order given her that was followed without condsideration of the alternative, even if there was no reason to balk other than simply to rattle whoever had given it. She went out in her off-duty hours, entertained herself and her fellow pilot-instructors, occasionally got drunk or laid or involved in a brawl to burn off some energy. How could anyone even contemplate the idea that she needed a break from her job? from the base? "It's not like I have anything else to do," she added, a sly grin slanting at her boss.
"And that's my point. I get that you love your job; I do. You're career Fleet, it's written all over you. I think you need the rules and regs, as much to buck against as follow, but it isn't all there is to life. You know that. Three years is long enough to spend ignoring it."
"My last shot at the civillian trimmings didn't work so well that I'm keen to try again," Kara muttered.
"Nobody says you have to buy real estate and build a picket fence," Deak told her. "Just... get off base. Stay away from the usual bars, from the same old crew. Remember what the whole point of having a Fleet is for: to protect the good things in life, the things we tend to give up while in service. Sleeping in, food that isn't on a chow line, lack of schedules and stupid formalities and people knocking on your door fourteen hours a day."
The way he described it, real life sounded almost inviting. "Medical really on your back about me?"
"Frak, yes. Terwillger even pulled me aside at the pyramid game last night to tell me you missed your appointment again. And while I know you thrive on confrontation, Starbuck, I don't. I told him you were on leave - like you are supposed to be - so please. Back me up. Don't make me make it an order."
Kara sighed, closed the file full of reviews and shoved it in a drawer. "What's the minimum time I can take?"
"Two weeks. I'd say three but I don't think you'd make it that long."
Fourteen days. Frak, she'd be climbing the walls after four. "One."
"Don't try it. You're officially relieved of duty for the next fourteen days, Kara, and if I see you set foot on this base for anything short of a new Cylon war until fifteen days from now, I'll officially haul your ass up to Terwillger myself." Deak wasn't kidding.
"Can't I stay in quarters?"
"No. I won't expect you to get off Picon or even out of Sparta City, but you are going to be off Fleet territory. Get a hotel. Leave allowance covers accomodation expenses, and you have enough accrued to stay at the godsdamned Constellation if you want." Her C.O. leaned over, ruffled a hand through her short hair and grinned. "I've got tickets to a Panthers game on the sixth. You can use one, call me if you're free. Now scat."
"Yes, sir."
He mock-cuffed her and let himself out of her office, calling back over his shoulder when she didn't get up from the desk. "You have an hour before I send Wilkins to escort you off base, Kara."
Frak. It would take her an hour to find her civvy clothes, let alone pack them. "Frakking regulations" she muttered at his back, and went to get started.
---
Lee Adama tugged the thick leather of his coat more snugly around his frame, ducked his chin towards his chest: he'd forgotten how chilly the springs of Picon could be. No, he amended, flicking a glance at the lowering sky, not forgotten. Willfully disregarded. Blocked out, perhaps. He hadn't enjoyed his three years of cadetship so greatly that anything about Sparta formed part of happy recollections, but the chill - unseasonal by Caprican standards - of late Gaia held some particularly unpleasant associations. Some of them guided his steps now, turning him resolutely away from the district patronised by the general run of Colonial cadets, carrying him further down the rain-shimmered esplanade towards the commerical center. Chill air whispered around his ears, so he hunched further into the collar of his jacket and wished he were anywhere else. Anywhere, he thought bitterly, including Hades, so long as it's warmer and nobody calls me 'Apollo'.
The thought sliced through him again: if only it were as easy to ditch his surname as it might be to abandon his callsign. And everything that came with either appellation. No such luck. The Adama name carried weights he had no hope of shedding, and even his callsign was half in reference to his descent, a sad, sarcastic joke at first that became an entirely new insult later on. "Frak that," he hissed into the wind. "I'm on leave for two weeks. And I'm not going anywhere near the base. This is the last respite I'll have for a year from all of that... and I'm going to need every second of it."
Nobody was on the street to hear his muttered invective; most people in the coastal city, long inured to this kind of weather in Gaia, were well indoors, more genially occupied. But those who noted him through their car windows or from the glazed facades of their office buildings knew what he was, if not whom. Stride military-brisk, his long coat doing nothing to counteract the fact that he carried a Fleet duffel slung over a shoulder, his confident and graceful steps the heavier type, like those of someone accustomed to the adjusted gravity of an abode in space. The doorman of the hotel he selected at random from among those on the shore was a former marine, and with the instinct of a man who'd spent his life in the military, knew an officer when he saw one.
Lee almost winced when the man tossed him a casual salute, tried to keep his face expressionless when he returned a reluctant nod. The desk clerk, a prettyish woman with a no-nonsense smile, lifted an eyebrow at his driver's license. "You may not be aware, Mister... Adama, but we have special rates for those with Fleet I.D..."
That was the difficulty with taking every scrap of leave one could lay their hands on; officially he was not due for leave for another three months, but he doubted he'd make it through to that point with his sanity intact, and so the leave had been granted, but he didn't have the same benefits as someone who waited in line. Most of these two weeks would be coming out of his own pocket; he'd only come to Picon - and Sparta in particular - because it was close, relatively economical, and quiet this time of year. It still cost more than he liked, but as far as Lee Adama was concerned, it was a question of survival. He had to get away! Still, it would be stupid beyond principle to ignore the fact that he could get his room cheaper by admitting he was Fleet. Hopefully it was the last such admission he'd ever have to make.
Ten minutes later, after half the reception staff had been made aware that their newest guest was a viper pilot and a captain and Lee's remaining reserve of patience was nearly exhausted, he finally stepped into the elevator and let it carry him up. With the peculiar awareness of someone who lived shipboard, he could feel the flex and roil of the sea breeze buffetting the building; every minute movement of the structure, he felt. After the absolute stillness and void of space and the relatively cramped conditions of his Orion posting, the small apartment seemed luxurious, even lavish, and the slight shift beneath his feet reminded him constantly that he was not on a battlestar.
If only the well-meaning concierge and her cronies would let him forget; if only his luck held, and his family, such as it was, didn't come looking for him.
He emptied his duffel on the bed and stowed the clothing haphazardly in the wardrobe, leaving out a pair of black jeans and a burgundy shirt. It was not by accident that he possessed nothing gray or navy that wasn't part of his uniform; neither was it chance that he had none of those articles with him. Along with the rest of his kit, they were back in the quarters assigned him on the Orion; he'd left them there, travelled down in civilian gear on the first available shuttle, and made to disappear. Apart from his ID, there was only one other item that proclaimed his military status: his tags, which, legally, he wasn't permitted to remove without orders.
Like he cared. He tugged the chain off over his head, tossed it on the night table, and disappeared into the unaccustomed luxury of a private bathroom for a long shower. His last two weeks of leave. Then one more year, one more year of required service, and he could forget he was ever captain of anything. He'd get a job with Aerospace on Caprica or Leonis, save his credits, buy a little bar-bistro where the only orders ever heard were demands for another round, or a plate of the evening's special. One more year. He planned to store up as much reality as possible in the next two weeks, to get him through that year. Starting that night.
With any luck, he'd time his emergence with the end of the working day, lose himself in the civilian crowds which would throng the waterfront entertainment district. Like any number of them, he planned to spend this week's end night cozied up to a bar, and maybe later to a blonde; preferably one sassy and rebellious, someone who didn't belong in a uniform and couldn't give a frak about rules and regulations.
---
She didn't seriously consider the Constellation for more than five seconds; no matter how much accomodation credit she had accrued, the luxury hotel wouldn't have had room for her. Even if they'd had an entire wing vacant, that velvet-lined establishment would have been hesitant, Kara'd imagined, to welcome someone who would likely walk in dressed in liberated camouflage gear, smoking a cigar, and who steadfastly refused to hand her duffel to a bellhop or allow doors to be opened for her. Or tip.
Starbuck allowed herself some wry amusement at the thought, and summoned the bartender for a second beer. Picture that, Mom. Picture your hardass daughter, still in combat boots because you always said it was a waste to buy her pretty things, being escorted up to the Parnassus Suite, with a bottle of '63 chilling and a welcome basket waiting in the kitchenette. Picture her calling for burgers and a six-pack on the room-service phone. Picture her later leading some nameless boy-frak back through the big front doors, and the poor fool sneaking out in the morning.
Yeah. I'd laugh too, Mom.
The beer was cold as the weather, but a damn sight more pleasant - and she'd avoided being out in the latter by ducking into a municipal kiosk (godsdamned tourism bureau had these things everywhere) to find out where civilians stayed when they came to Sparta. She'd probably have been nonplussed to have to ask someone to recommend digs, but it wasn't like this was something she'd had to do before; she'd lived on one college campus or military base or other since the day she turned sixteen. What did she know about hotels?
The list of options was surprisingly long, but Kara eventually chose the Fortuna, for various reasons, and when she'd scored a welcome basket anyway because she smiled at the doorman and flashed her Fleet ID, she wasn't disappointed. The room was better than she'd expected, plenty of space, welcoming and servicable without being cheap. And the service had the right mix of humor and helpfulness, and a remarkable lack of obsequouy. The bath, roughly half the size of her office, was the clincher, though. She stayed in it half the afternoon, and was agreeably surprised that she wasn't now standing here at the bar with pruney fingers and toes.
She almost hadn't picked the Fortuna. On the beachfront halfway between Sparta Base and the civillian spaceport, the only traffic she could hear came from groundcars and city transport flights; she couldn't see a freighter - or hear one - from her balcony, let alone a Viper patrol, and the thought of being so far away from flying had set her teeth on edge. That was, it bothered her right up until she remembered she wouldn't be flying for the next two weeks anyway, and then Kara realised that maybe a little distance would be a good thing. On the plus side, the Fortuna was half a block from Sparta's single casino, and had possibly the best hotel bar on Picon, if the publicity blurb was to be believed.
The third beer she took slower, enjoying the idea that maybe she could drink in a more leisurely fashion. She had all night. She didn't have early patrol, or an oh-nine-hundred class or sim session. She didn't even have to get to the mess before breakfast was over or cook for herself: breakfast at the Fortuna was served whenever you rang for it. It was a nice idea. It partially made up for the ache of not flying... partially. The only real problem was drinking slower left her more time to think.
Midway through the fourth beer, she found companionship: a group of guys, evidently construction workers from Mykenoi, who obviously found her interesting. They bought her beer, and weren't pushy. In fact, they were too nice, their education obviously lacking. One called her ma'am. Another tried to teach her to play pool. "Gonna advise me not to drink too much, too?" she asked, grinning, but they didn't get it. Kara shrugged off the desire to enlighten them and stole another look at the man by the bar.
It wasn't a hardship. Not tall, not brawny, but built. Dark hair clipped close, professional-neat, but not the military buzz she saw more often than not in this town. Chiselled features set off by the bar lighting, which also darkened his eyes to indiscriminate shadows at the distance, and a casual, attractive posture which nevertheless made her think that his evident relaxed poise was a hair trigger for something more confrontational.
That was more interesting than anything else.
What was it about rivalry that got her so worked up? Not in the cockpit - she'd never had someone push her hard enough in a Viper to make her feel challenged, at least, not since her own Basic Flight days - but on the deck, or on the court, or in the bed... she was a sucker for a worthy opponent. Not that she found many.
When the guy by the bar finally stopped watching and made a move, Kara wondered if she'd misread his interest. He didn't flirt, or make suggestive remarks, or try and brush past her space when he moved around the table to make a shot. He didn't even spend much time eying the fit of her jeans or the cut of her shirt (a donation from a former roommate, who used to despair of her taste), or even ask what her name was, let alone her call code. He just played the game, and played it damned well. And if their eyes - his were a feakishly vivid blue that had made her blink as he came close - met more frequently over the tip of the cue than was strictly necessary, well...
The game drew her in. The liquor drowned the disappointment she felt that he wasn't more obviously interested, let her relax; it was almost like hanging out at the O-club on base, where the available men knew better than to hit on her. She enjoyed his company, whoever this guy was. She enjoyed the way he didn't cut her slack. Kara also enjoyed the way his jeans fit, but seeing she knew better than to stare, that was her business, right?
--
Halfway through his fifth beer at the smoky bar-nightclub he'd found by walking in the opposite direction to Sparta Base, Lee found exactly the right girl. She had a challenging smile, he noticed, watching her over the rim of his glass. Four or five men were in attendance as she wisecracked over a pool table, but none of them were given any particular encouragement. While Lee watched, she managed to sucker not one but two of the men into playing against her; not a bad player himself, he could tell when she wasn't playing with all her abilities. She kind of gave herself away by the easy grace of her shots. The other three men begged off, and she laughed, bought the group a round. "Next time, don't assume a girl can't play".
His attention hadn't gone unnoticed, either. He'd been looking openly enough, comparing her mentally to his usual type and wondering why she held so much more appeal. He'd been amused by her hustle, impressed by how easily she deflected the more amorous of her opponents. And interested - definitely interested - by her obviously physical nature. She lifted her glass, tossed him a wink over the edge of it, and it was a definite challenge. It took him precisely three seconds to reassure himself that she didn't look in the least like a military type; decision made, Lee swallowed the rest of his beer and wandered over.
"Play you for the table?" he inquired.
"If that's all you're after," she agreed. Her fan club hooted a little, but she ignored them. "How about we goose up the action a little?"
"What'cha got in mind?" The table wasn't a bad one, even though the felts were a little worn.
"Lets start with a deck" she suggested, "and see where we go from there?"
He nodded, but narrowed his eyes at her; 'deck' was standard fleet slang for the ten credit note. Still, the Colonial Fleet didn't hold a monopoly on the word; this was a military base town, everyone could be using it. He flicked his eyes over her again to reassure himself: slim-fitting jade coloured halter-top, blue jeans, leather halfboots. No sign of dog-tags, and her posture was relaxed, slouched, almost, if slouching could describe the informal grace in her posture. "Fine. You break."
She played it close the first time, narrowly beating him - but then, he wasn't playing full out either; they didn't talk, but the implicit challenge only rose higher. He doubled the bet for their second game, and beat her. She doubled again in the third, and won. She bought a bottle of ambrosia and they shared it during the fourth and fifth, and her cheer quad vanished somewhere during the bottle he bought after that. The count stood at four games apiece, and both of them were too intent on the game - and each other - to care how much the bet was for.
She was ahead by one shot when the barkeeper summarily kicked everyone out during the ninth game. "Frak," she said, looking at the rain-slick sidewalks. "It can't be that late..."
"Early," he assured her. "Anywhere else in this place that stays open?"
"Nope," she shrugged, tossed him a rueful grin. "Lame military towns, sticks up their asses."
That was reassuring; he didn't know anything about her, but hearing her call the military establishment 'lame' suited his inclinations. "Lee Adama" he said, offered her a hand. She looked at him, fine cloud of blonde hair curling against her neck in the damp halo of the bar's doorway lighting, and pressed her fingers into his, smiling.
"Kara Thrace."
The heat between their palms shouldn't have been so magnetic; it wasn't that cold. He didn't let go, and felt his own smile waver about the same time hers did. He wasn't usually so uncertain when it came to casual sex, but then again, this wasn't the usual method; the casual frak scene had several unspoken rules, and some were being a little bent tonight. She hadn't been precisely on the prowl, and he hadn't verbally flirted, made his interest plain - hadn't exchanged more than a dozen words all night not related to their competition or their bet - and all he had to judge her response by was the way their eyes seemed to catch over the table. Finally the silence was too heavy. "I'm glad I met you, Kara. You got game."
"You do, too," she agreed. "But is the game over now?" The challenge was in her voice, but her eyes were very wide and dark, and her lips were parted. Lee drew in a breath, tugged her a little closer, and shook his head.
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Part two is here. please keep comments for part 3.