Fic: Contraventions 2 (BSG, rated M, K/L, AU.) (part 1 of 3) And Happy New Year!
Title: Contraventions, Act 2.
Rating: M, for adult concepts and graphic references to sex.
Spoilers: None, haha. This is AU, with references to occurrences in the mini-series.
Length: I have no idea. Long. This post is the first of 3.
A/N & Disclaimer Starbuck, Apollo, Adama and various other characters and concepts are the property of RDM, Sci-Fi and the rest. Used without permission, but right now with more love than the show seems to possess. For those of you who have been reading this continuation at FF.Net, this is the entirety of chapters 7-12, the last of which is now up also at FF.Net. For those of you who haven't read the initial story, Contraventions, Act 1, is here with links to ensuing parts. I think I wrote this one mostly for stars_like_dust, because she prodded and poked me into making it happen the first time around. Thanks to you, Claira, for your inspiration.
Summary: If there's rules to be broken, Kara Thrace is your woman... usually. This time, it's one Lee Adama who's breaking regulations, end of the worlds or not.
1.
He woke up thinking about ribbons, about the way dog tags would look swaying between her bare breasts, and wondered if he was ever going to stop fantasizing about Kara Thrace.
Lee Adama's berth on Orion was the only private space in his daily life, and in former years, he'd have done his best to soften the clinical corners of it. He wasn't the centerfold-ogling type, but he remembered once pinning up photographs of girlfriends, of his mother and grandparents, a shot of the charming, dilapidated house he grew up in; college reminisences and good friends filling gaps between Viper stills, blueprint diagrams, flight schedules and his calendar. His brother had appeared - vitality frozen in time - in some of the relics of real life. Now the walls of his bunk were stark and bare, except for the calendar, its blank grids filling up, days marked off with boldly inked crosses. It was too hard to drift off looking at the life he was yearning to get back to; too hard to wake up to reminders of it. It was easier to wake up if he didn't dream about the things he was missing.
Except, of course, that he was dreaming about those things, or, at least, about one of them in particular. One that wasn't technically part of civilian life either, given that she was a pilot herself, and that the most they'd had together was one night of sublime sex and an uneasy cup of coffee the next morning. Still, that had been sufficient to convince him he wanted more from his relations with her than a good time whenever he was in port. And anything 'more' was something that had to wait until he was done with Battlestars and flying shifts and spending a year on a tour to the outer stations, performing wargames and simulations in preparation for nothing. So nothing was on the wall, no distractions... other than the ones supplied by his very vivid subconcious.
There was only one prompt, one thing, other than the calendar, pinned on the wall of his bunk. Wedged above the daily planner was an oblong piece of yellow card with a name and some numbers and 'Starbuck' written in a flowing, confident hand. It probably didn't help him think about something else to have his only tangible reminder of her pinned up right where it was usually the first - and last - vision of each and every day. Realistically, he thought he should take it down, before the itch to do something about it now became too great to withstand. Besides, Lee didn't even really need the card anymore; the numbers were stuck in his head like the combination of his locker or his Flight ID number, and given that he knew who she was and what she was, he could have found her anywhere in the colonies with a single wireless call. Could have, but hadn't, not once in the four - no, nearly five months - since they'd parted on Picon. And he wouldn't. Not yet.
Lee sat up, knuckled his eyes, ignored the drowsy arousal still pulsing low in his gut; he had no time to deal with more physical distractions today. As D-CAG (one of the youngest in the Fleet) he had more to do with his work hours than he had hours to do them in: flight evaluations of his squadron, maintenance to oversee, keeping tabs on the medical and mental states of his direct subordinates... as well as his own personal duties of patrol and maintenance and standing a watch in CIC or the Flight Deck as assistant LSO.
It would have been nice if he'd been thought to deserve any of it. He'd never been afraid of work, or backed away from a challenge, but since the moment he'd set foot on Orion and the CAG and XO had noted his surname, there hadn't been any other possible outcome. The worst part, Lee told himself as he got up, was that he actually had earned his status... but there was no reward for doing simply what your superiors already expected of you. And of course, the other pilots, or most of them, had different expectations of him, ones he had no inclination to fulfil; it was almost more than he could stand to know his squadron fully expected him to trade on the family name, and when he didn't, decided it was due to arrogance, not shame.
"Morning, 'Pollo," he heard his bunkie Elektra (callsign: Legs, aptly, and one of the few people who didn't seem to give a frak about his surname) yawn in his direction as he shoved back his curtain. "You worked late."
"Yeah," he responded, his laugh a brief huff that didn't really show humor, "don't ever buck for d-CAG, Legs. You get to do everything the boss can't be bothered with."
"Privileges of rank," she grinned back. Legs was nice, and Lee half-ogled as he reached to the end of his bunk for some sweats: long blonde hair that she was twining into a braid, the long stems nicely displayed by the towel she had wrapped around her slim form. But his interest was mostly simple appreciation; when he closed his eyes in the shower, when he dreamed, it was someone more solidly built, more curved, more competetive that filled his vision.
"Not what I'd call 'em." His lower limbs clad, he stood up, stretched; Legs glanced over at him from her locker, and her grin flashed brilliantly. "What?"
"One of the best things about having the bunk over yours, Apollo. The view."
His laughter felt real that time. "Back atcha. But if that's the best, what's the worst?"
"That you're always in it."
"What?"
"Temptation, you moron. I'm a happily married pilot faced every morning with that." She nodded towards his torso. "Still, I can deal with that. But I am getting curious as hades about why you've got Starbuck's digits pinned up in your bunk."
Lee felt the chill, the reflex response to a question he didn't want to answer, go through him, felt his face smooth into a mask. But Legs was a friend, and he couldn't cold-shoulder her about everything if he wanted her to stay a friend. "You know Starbuck?" he deflected.
"Know her? Anyone who went through Sparta in the last three years knows about her. But she was a squadmate of mine in Basic and then in flight - Cadet Kara Thrace was one of the reasons I survived that first year in Delphi, in fact - and while we're not close, we look each other up from time to time."
"You did Basic on Caprica? wow. I figured you were a Virgon homebody all this time."
"I am, and don't change the subject. They shipped us to Delphi after three weeks because the spring floods had turned Ephesus into a mudbath. But how do you know Kara?"
Lee hesitated, then shrugged. "We met in Sparta when I was on leave."
"She kick your ass at Triad?"
"Pool." Legs laughed, and Lee narrowed his eyes at her. "She plays Triad?"
"No. She wins Triad. Not plays."
"Good to know."
Legs was dressing, but she hadn't looked away; Lee tried to ignore her scrutiny as he sat down again to lace his trainers. It didn't help. "Lee."
"Yeah?"
"Call the woman."
"Why?"
Elektra rolled her eyes, reached into the bunk and grabbed the card, brandished it in his face. "Starbuck's a magnet, but she's not easy to get close to. Occasionally she might choose a guy, but it's only ever a casual thing. And I never, ever saw her give her call-code to anybody. She gave this to you, she wants you to use it."
Lee took the card out of her fingers, felt it fit into his palm. Remembered Kara slipping it out of her wallet, the way her fingers had looked curved around his pen. Wondered if she'd kept the stylus the way he'd kept her card. He stuck it back behind the calendar's edge. "How do you know I want to call her?"
Legs stared back at him, shook her head. "How many of your casual partners leave you their digits, Apollo?" He didn't answer, because they both knew that when they were in port he came back from his long off-shifts and emptied his pockets into the trash. "You kept hers."
Michaelson stuck his head through the hatch. "Apollo? CAG wants to see you."
Saved by the bell. "Frak. Thanks Mick." He got up and dressed rapidly, all the while knowing Elektra was frowning at the back of his head.
---
"Thrace."
"Incoming call for you, Lieutenant." The comms officer, a nice guy she'd turned down a few times, but gently, sounded sour this morning. Immediately, and like every other time her 'phone buzzed in the last few months, her thoughts went straight to the call she hoped it would be; her stomach did a slow roll, like she'd just flipped her viper.
"Thanks, Dent," she said, fake cheer in her voice. "Who'd I piss off this time?"
"Call prefix says it's someone on a battlestar... call's coming subspace, so its a long ways out, sir."
"Wow. Guess I'm surpassing myself." She got the expected snort of laughter. "Put it through, willya?"
There was the usual two-tone signal of switchover, and her heart was in her throat. "Thrace..." The note of question in her own voice bothered her, but the thought that it might be Lee -
"Lieutenant!" It wasn't him. "Good to hear your voice."
"Major Rollins, sir, a pleasant surprise!" It was, even if it wasn't the surprise she was hoping for. Her former CAG, back on the Bellerophon where she'd served a year after Officer training, was a gruff, sarcastic veteran who'd been a sharp pilot in his prime and was now XO on the ship. "What can I do for you, Rocky? Cigars this time?"
"Sure thing. You can bring 'em yourself, too."
"What? Is the Bell heading into Picon space at long last?"
"Nope. Still on station out in Leonis territory, but you can wangle some leave time, can't you?"
"If I have a good reason. Somehow I don't think Deak is gonna buy the whole 'special delivery' thing, though."
"How about a retirement party?"
Starbuck dropped the pen she'd been lazily marking theory papers with. "What?"
"I'm being ousted," Rocky told her, but the way he said it made it clear that he didn't mind at all. "I'm two years from forced retirement anyway, Starbuck, and Command made me a good offer for a desk job until then. They had to make a few holes, after all."
"What for this time? Another downsize?
"Nope. Haven't you heard they're finally canning Galactica?"
She had, of course. Legendary ship, legendary commander, but both getting past their prime according to modern standards. "I'd forgotten that. So which tyro from Husker's crew is taking over on the Bell?"
"Tyro he's not - Ripper and I served a term together on Picon when he was just fresh out of the Academy; he'd be forty or so now, I'd guess. He's been Adama's CAG for close on a decade now. The Galactica's being ceremonially decommissioned on the fifteenth, next month; Jack Spencer - that's Ripper - will be out here a day after. But Commander Peters wants to throw me a party and told me to round up the people I wanted to see. And that's you. And Fastball and Novey if I can figure out where the frakheads have got to -"
She should have been listening; Rocky had been a great CAG to start out with for a young reckless pilot. He'd been a steadying influence without being a crushing one, and it had been mainly his fault - the effect of his teaching - that she'd been so quickly picked up as part of the training corps and hauled back to Sparta. But after Rocky had mentioned Adama, she barely heard one word in three.
Commander of the Battlestar Galactica, William Adama. Husker.
A pilot on the Orion. A captain Adama. Lee.
And -
And a cadet in one of Strut's classes - nice guy, cute, but with a little too much brass and a little too little talent - who'd shot himself a few years back when Strut had flunked him out of Flight. His name had been Zak? something like that. He'd had a hell of a winning smile in the one class she'd taught his squad. She'd liked him. But Kara hadn't known his last name until it appeared on the inquest papers; it had never occurred to her before then that it might be more than the weight of his own disappointment that drove him to eat a bullet. Adama, Zachary. Twenty years old.
Oh, frak.
Rocky went on with his list of people, almost unheard, while she put the pieces together in her head. But when he stopped, prompted her with a questioning 'Starbuck?' she jerked her thoughts back to the present. "Sorry, Rocky - all these pilots, got me thinking. What?"
"So you'll come, won't you? On the fifteenth? Take a three day pass and fly yourself out here, come say so-long to an old man?"
"You got it, if Deak can spare me. I took a few weeks a few months back, not sure how much time I have left for vacations."
"Knowing you? Probably enough to help me move back to Picon after we both get over the hangovers."
"Maybe I better fly out in a Raptor then? Give you a ride back?"
"Sounds better than the shuttle I had in mind."
"Of course, I'm not sure you still fit a flight suit."
"If you can fit that ego in a helmet, I can fit my ass in a flight suit, Lieutenant."
"Yes, Sir."
"See you in a couple weeks, Kara."
Two minutes later, she hung up the 'phone again; Deak had no trouble with her going, was already lining up a Raptor for her and grumbling good-naturedly about how much crap their Hanger CPO was going to give him for letting a Viper jock near one of his precious sentry birds. But Kara sat, staring at the pen - Lee's pen - that lay on her pile of unmarked papers, wondering how in all the hells she'd not recognised the name when she'd heard it, months before.
Lee Adama. He wasn't just 'a pilot', he was Apollo.
She knew about Apollo, of course - youngest D-CAG in thirty years, reputation for being one hell of a pilot, the kind commanders love in their squadrons because they leave the ego mostly at the flight deck door. And he was a model officer too; if rumor was to be believed. Apollo might have been a joke - son of Zeus - when they gifted him with the nickname, but it was more apt than any of them might be willing to admit. And because of that, because he was a good pilot and a good man, everyone was sure there was some kind of flaw he was hiding.
Kara had heard the tone in his voice when he'd spoken of Fleet service, about how he'd planned to get away from it for his entire leave, and figured she knew what the flaw was. Now she thought she knew why.
Lee's pen felt heavy in her fingers, but she ignored that; tried to go back to marking papers. It was hard, her mind kept wandering, turning over the memories, straying close to the ones in the hotel room that she dreamed about sometimes before she metaphorically yanked herself back into reality. It worked, sort of: Kara stopped thinking about that night, for a while. Instead, she wondered if he'd found out anything about her, since that morning in the city, if he'd heard about her reputation, if he'd thought about her at all since then.
If he was ever going to call.
---
"You wanted to see me, sir?" Why was it that whenever he heard those words out of his own mouth, he was about to have his father inflicted on him, yet again?
Yeah, the CAG wanted to see him, to send him up to see Commander Dumarr. And that visit required a trip back to the bunkrooms to shower and put his uniform on - one didn't go up to see the Boss in tracks and trainers, not even at breakfast - and then a fast walk through the wakening ship to the command level.
He didn't particularly like that part of the ship, of any ship. It seemed the minute you hit CIC territory, the corridors widened and arched more, the temperature of the artificial atmosphere dropped about ten degrees and the people started having masks for faces, himself included. The cheerful close quarters of combat-ready living were sacrificed for the trappings of rank, and those were things he couldn't really abide. It wasn't hypocrisy that he had intentionally put himself on the fast track to acquire rank, responsibility and a reputation for being the best: he wanted those things. Wanted them as badly as his father ever had.
Wanted them for the express purpose of tossing them all out an airlock once he'd proved he was just as good - or better - than his old man. Wanted them, because once he'd served a year as captain, he'd be in the same circle of command that his father had been, right up until the Armistice had interrupted his career.
Lee was going to see his old man the day he turned in his resignation. He was waiting for that hour, planning on it, the moment in time when he saw the elder Adama realise that his son was a man, got his viper wings and his rank pips and did it better, faster and smoother than he himself had managed, even in a war. And then he was going to see Lee walk away from it, because one of them, at least, realised there were more important things, and no amount of influence or string-pulling was going to stop him.
It was the only willing contact he'd have with Commander William Adama for the next ten years, at least.
Unfortunately, there'd be unwilling contact, much, much sooner than that. In two weeks, in fact. 'You wanted to see me, sir?' would probably be useful in that situation, too.
Commander Dumarr had been nonplussed to realise that Lee didn't want to go to Galactica's retirement, though; he'd been surprised and then disapproving to have to make it an order. But Lee's excuses - he'd already used all his leave time, some in advance even, that he'd had too much work to do to make the three-day Viper round trip to Caprican space - had fallen on obstinately deaf ears: he was going. The ceremonial farewell was traditional to a retiring Battlestar, and when it was also the farewell to one of the few still-serving combat veterans of the Cylon War, there was no chance at all that the son of said veteran, being under orders despite his reservist status, would be able to skip it.
The military liked its symmetry and poetic endings way too much; a peacetime indulgence, Lee supposed as he stalked back through the cold, cathedral-arched corridors, his footsteps ringing on theshiny metal deck,and went in search of more familiar territory. Well, Lee liked contrasts, himself. Black and white. Polarities. Clear-cut differences. He especially liked them when they made a point.
The bunkroom was quiet - empty save for Hoppy, his left foot protruding from the curtain as always as he snored in his rack - and Lee sat down for a minute on his own bunk instead of changing back into his sweats. He was furious, with Dumarr, with the military, with his father. With himself, too, that he couldn't accept the order as graciously as ever, couldn't be the good soldier that he'd trained himself to be, that he'd come off looking like a brat in front of his C.O. That, because the very idea of a ceremony to honor his father and the ship the man loved more than any animate being made his jaw clench and his stomach churn, he'd lost control of his emotions yet again.
Not much made that happen; usually when he felt his patience waning, his teeth gritting as he went about his duties, he took leave, assigned himself an extra CAP, or got drunk: something to ease the strain. But it didn't happen often, not unless his father was involved. Muffling a curse so Hoppy wouldn't be disturbed, Lee leaned down and tugged his uniform shoes undone, yanked them off and then leaned back into his bunk, as he did so catching sight of his calendar... and Kara's card.
He stared, felt a trickle of heat leaven the cold fury. That had been another time he'd lost control, too - and it hadn't been a bad thing; but good. Very good. When he'd woken up, an hour and a half ago, he'd woken imagining slow, dizzying sex with the woman whose name was on that card, and it had been a good way to start the day. Now he thought - brief, brilliant flash of imagination - of Kara Thrace, naked in his rumpled bunk, grinning up at him the way she'd grinned over the pool table. Saying in that low, smoky-toned voice: "you wanted to see me, sir?"
He'd definitely prefer to hear her say that.
Lee Adama made a deal with himself: if he had to do this stupid thing, go to Galactica, to his old man's retirement, he was going to claim a reward before he left, something to buffer his mood, someone else to think about during the three days that were sure to be a round-trip to Hades. Before he left, he was going to call Kara Thrace. And he was going to find some way to relive that unforgettable night in Sparta City, and this time, he wasn't going to let her out of the bed until all the details of his coming ordeal were obscured by better memories.
---
Eight in the evening, dark for more than an hour, and still Sparta was sweltering. On a planet known for its erratic weather, this coastal city never went more than three days without rain, but presently the Nereus Coast was baking in the hottest, driest summer in thirty years. The beaches had been crowded that day; the lucky nuggets who had theory classes (in the climate-controlled Flight suite) had worn their cool, crisp undress khakis and gloated over those who'd had to struggle into sweatbox 'planes, in sweatbox flight suits. But now it was eight o'clock, the humid compound was quiet, and Kara Thrace was still at work on class prep and assessment schedules in her tiny, stifling office.
It wasn't that Starbuck was disorganized; the three-and-a-half years in which she'd been an instructor would have been maddening if she hadn't been mentally disciplined enough to do what she needed to do before it was necessary to panic over it. It wasn't even that she was overburdened with work: she had the three day schedule for her three squad of nuggets planned out well in advance. But it was the night before she was scheduled to fly out to Bellerophon and the shady quadrangle had emptied of sweating cadets, the rest of the offices in her building showed dark windows as the rest of her colleagues had abandoned work for their air-conditioned quarters. But Kara was still at her desk. Doing things she didn't need to be doing. Procrastinating.
Oh, not about the trip out to the Bell, she had no qualms about that. In fact, despite the Raptor she was flying for the trip, she was looking forwards to it: two hours to reach the Rampling Station, in deep orbit off the mining planet of Arges and pick up three other pilots on their way to Rocky's send-off, a short blip to the jump point and then one FTL hop to her old ship, in deep station well off Leonis. No - no worries about the flight at all; she'd even managed to wangle an ECO for the trip who wouldn't try and tell her how to fly that glorified station-wagon: Crash had been one of her cadets a few years back, after all. And it would be good to get out into space again; the short patrol flights, no more than an hour or two given atmospheric burn, that she got to fly as part of Sparta's wing just didn't fill the need, let alone training flights where she couldn't take her mind off the nuggets for an instant, not even to enjoy the view. Plus, space was cold, which right now would be a nice change.
No, she wasn't nervous about the flight. Kara realised she was stalling about leaving her office because she'd done something stupid, yet again, and under the papers on her desk was a small green notepad with some very useful numbers on it. Yes, that morning she'd hooked into the military database and found the call-code for Captain Lee Adama. Leaving the office meant she wouldn't call him, and she very much wanted to call him. And given her appalling inability to resist temptation, she was surprised she hadn't dialled those numbers hours ago. Of course, she had her moments, Kara acknowledged ruefully. Startlingly, when faced with the temptation to stay and sleep beside Lee Adama, she hadn't given in to it.
Kara knew she was a screw-up by nature, but in hindsight, that had been a screw-up of interplanetary magnitude. It had cost her precious sleep many times since then, wondering all the potential what-if's; it had highlighted her lack of self-confidence (where relationships that weren't just about sex were concerned) and made her wonder if Lee's interest had been real or not. After all, if she'd hurt his pride with her precipitous departure, who could blame him for stringing her along a little in punishment?
It didn't seem like something he'd do, not that she could really tell, based on their brief and quite physical acquaintance, but then it could be just what she deserved. So, determined not to get herself into a painful situation, she'd grasped at the straws of convention rather than take a shot at something better: obviously she was a coward, too.
Starbuck, she reminded herself, would pick up that 'phone, dial in the Orion's code then Lee Adama's then add the suffix that meant personal traffic. But Starbuck acted on instinct; Starbuck wasn't a coward, would gleefully fly through a meteor storm for the thrill of it. Kara Thrace, on the other hand... Kara Thrace couldn't even stay on good terms with her easygoing father, let alone (and let a long way away) her mother. Kara Thrace had loved only two things before she found flying, and the Fleet: one had been pyramid. The other had been a pyramid player. Neither had been a fairy-tale. No; Kara Thrace wanted very much to call that number, even though, conventionally speaking, it was up to Lee to call her. But Kara Thrace didn't believe in happy endings anymore.
She sighed, closed the folder on lesson prep that wouldn't be needed until a month after she'd returned to Sparta, got up and reached for her jacket. She didn't want to put it on; it had hung over the back of her chair all day, starched collar wilting with the weight of her pilot's insignia and the heat and was warm with body heat. Time to go home, stand in the shower - tepid water, two degrees above outright cold - and maybe dig up some of that herbal tea her old roommate had enjoyed. A stiff drink would be better, make her sleep faster, but she was flying a Raptor in the morning, a long flight, and if she screwed up, booze better not be the reason. Not that she'd screw up; despite the CPO's opinion, flying a Raptor was no more difficult than flying a Viper. It was landing the heavy, clumsy minibus-of-a-space-vehicle that was the fun -
The 'phone rang.
The sudden noise in the stillness of the office made her jerk upright next to the desk. "Frak." It was probably just Deak, seeing the light on in her office window, still, and about to read her the riot act about long flights and plenty of sleep. Kara picked up. "Thrace."
"Hey, Kara."
It was Lee.
---
Part Two of Act Two is here. Please save your comments for the end of part 3.
Rating: M, for adult concepts and graphic references to sex.
Spoilers: None, haha. This is AU, with references to occurrences in the mini-series.
Length: I have no idea. Long. This post is the first of 3.
A/N & Disclaimer Starbuck, Apollo, Adama and various other characters and concepts are the property of RDM, Sci-Fi and the rest. Used without permission, but right now with more love than the show seems to possess. For those of you who have been reading this continuation at FF.Net, this is the entirety of chapters 7-12, the last of which is now up also at FF.Net. For those of you who haven't read the initial story, Contraventions, Act 1, is here with links to ensuing parts. I think I wrote this one mostly for stars_like_dust, because she prodded and poked me into making it happen the first time around. Thanks to you, Claira, for your inspiration.
Summary: If there's rules to be broken, Kara Thrace is your woman... usually. This time, it's one Lee Adama who's breaking regulations, end of the worlds or not.
1.
He woke up thinking about ribbons, about the way dog tags would look swaying between her bare breasts, and wondered if he was ever going to stop fantasizing about Kara Thrace.
Lee Adama's berth on Orion was the only private space in his daily life, and in former years, he'd have done his best to soften the clinical corners of it. He wasn't the centerfold-ogling type, but he remembered once pinning up photographs of girlfriends, of his mother and grandparents, a shot of the charming, dilapidated house he grew up in; college reminisences and good friends filling gaps between Viper stills, blueprint diagrams, flight schedules and his calendar. His brother had appeared - vitality frozen in time - in some of the relics of real life. Now the walls of his bunk were stark and bare, except for the calendar, its blank grids filling up, days marked off with boldly inked crosses. It was too hard to drift off looking at the life he was yearning to get back to; too hard to wake up to reminders of it. It was easier to wake up if he didn't dream about the things he was missing.
Except, of course, that he was dreaming about those things, or, at least, about one of them in particular. One that wasn't technically part of civilian life either, given that she was a pilot herself, and that the most they'd had together was one night of sublime sex and an uneasy cup of coffee the next morning. Still, that had been sufficient to convince him he wanted more from his relations with her than a good time whenever he was in port. And anything 'more' was something that had to wait until he was done with Battlestars and flying shifts and spending a year on a tour to the outer stations, performing wargames and simulations in preparation for nothing. So nothing was on the wall, no distractions... other than the ones supplied by his very vivid subconcious.
There was only one prompt, one thing, other than the calendar, pinned on the wall of his bunk. Wedged above the daily planner was an oblong piece of yellow card with a name and some numbers and 'Starbuck' written in a flowing, confident hand. It probably didn't help him think about something else to have his only tangible reminder of her pinned up right where it was usually the first - and last - vision of each and every day. Realistically, he thought he should take it down, before the itch to do something about it now became too great to withstand. Besides, Lee didn't even really need the card anymore; the numbers were stuck in his head like the combination of his locker or his Flight ID number, and given that he knew who she was and what she was, he could have found her anywhere in the colonies with a single wireless call. Could have, but hadn't, not once in the four - no, nearly five months - since they'd parted on Picon. And he wouldn't. Not yet.
Lee sat up, knuckled his eyes, ignored the drowsy arousal still pulsing low in his gut; he had no time to deal with more physical distractions today. As D-CAG (one of the youngest in the Fleet) he had more to do with his work hours than he had hours to do them in: flight evaluations of his squadron, maintenance to oversee, keeping tabs on the medical and mental states of his direct subordinates... as well as his own personal duties of patrol and maintenance and standing a watch in CIC or the Flight Deck as assistant LSO.
It would have been nice if he'd been thought to deserve any of it. He'd never been afraid of work, or backed away from a challenge, but since the moment he'd set foot on Orion and the CAG and XO had noted his surname, there hadn't been any other possible outcome. The worst part, Lee told himself as he got up, was that he actually had earned his status... but there was no reward for doing simply what your superiors already expected of you. And of course, the other pilots, or most of them, had different expectations of him, ones he had no inclination to fulfil; it was almost more than he could stand to know his squadron fully expected him to trade on the family name, and when he didn't, decided it was due to arrogance, not shame.
"Morning, 'Pollo," he heard his bunkie Elektra (callsign: Legs, aptly, and one of the few people who didn't seem to give a frak about his surname) yawn in his direction as he shoved back his curtain. "You worked late."
"Yeah," he responded, his laugh a brief huff that didn't really show humor, "don't ever buck for d-CAG, Legs. You get to do everything the boss can't be bothered with."
"Privileges of rank," she grinned back. Legs was nice, and Lee half-ogled as he reached to the end of his bunk for some sweats: long blonde hair that she was twining into a braid, the long stems nicely displayed by the towel she had wrapped around her slim form. But his interest was mostly simple appreciation; when he closed his eyes in the shower, when he dreamed, it was someone more solidly built, more curved, more competetive that filled his vision.
"Not what I'd call 'em." His lower limbs clad, he stood up, stretched; Legs glanced over at him from her locker, and her grin flashed brilliantly. "What?"
"One of the best things about having the bunk over yours, Apollo. The view."
His laughter felt real that time. "Back atcha. But if that's the best, what's the worst?"
"That you're always in it."
"What?"
"Temptation, you moron. I'm a happily married pilot faced every morning with that." She nodded towards his torso. "Still, I can deal with that. But I am getting curious as hades about why you've got Starbuck's digits pinned up in your bunk."
Lee felt the chill, the reflex response to a question he didn't want to answer, go through him, felt his face smooth into a mask. But Legs was a friend, and he couldn't cold-shoulder her about everything if he wanted her to stay a friend. "You know Starbuck?" he deflected.
"Know her? Anyone who went through Sparta in the last three years knows about her. But she was a squadmate of mine in Basic and then in flight - Cadet Kara Thrace was one of the reasons I survived that first year in Delphi, in fact - and while we're not close, we look each other up from time to time."
"You did Basic on Caprica? wow. I figured you were a Virgon homebody all this time."
"I am, and don't change the subject. They shipped us to Delphi after three weeks because the spring floods had turned Ephesus into a mudbath. But how do you know Kara?"
Lee hesitated, then shrugged. "We met in Sparta when I was on leave."
"She kick your ass at Triad?"
"Pool." Legs laughed, and Lee narrowed his eyes at her. "She plays Triad?"
"No. She wins Triad. Not plays."
"Good to know."
Legs was dressing, but she hadn't looked away; Lee tried to ignore her scrutiny as he sat down again to lace his trainers. It didn't help. "Lee."
"Yeah?"
"Call the woman."
"Why?"
Elektra rolled her eyes, reached into the bunk and grabbed the card, brandished it in his face. "Starbuck's a magnet, but she's not easy to get close to. Occasionally she might choose a guy, but it's only ever a casual thing. And I never, ever saw her give her call-code to anybody. She gave this to you, she wants you to use it."
Lee took the card out of her fingers, felt it fit into his palm. Remembered Kara slipping it out of her wallet, the way her fingers had looked curved around his pen. Wondered if she'd kept the stylus the way he'd kept her card. He stuck it back behind the calendar's edge. "How do you know I want to call her?"
Legs stared back at him, shook her head. "How many of your casual partners leave you their digits, Apollo?" He didn't answer, because they both knew that when they were in port he came back from his long off-shifts and emptied his pockets into the trash. "You kept hers."
Michaelson stuck his head through the hatch. "Apollo? CAG wants to see you."
Saved by the bell. "Frak. Thanks Mick." He got up and dressed rapidly, all the while knowing Elektra was frowning at the back of his head.
---
"Thrace."
"Incoming call for you, Lieutenant." The comms officer, a nice guy she'd turned down a few times, but gently, sounded sour this morning. Immediately, and like every other time her 'phone buzzed in the last few months, her thoughts went straight to the call she hoped it would be; her stomach did a slow roll, like she'd just flipped her viper.
"Thanks, Dent," she said, fake cheer in her voice. "Who'd I piss off this time?"
"Call prefix says it's someone on a battlestar... call's coming subspace, so its a long ways out, sir."
"Wow. Guess I'm surpassing myself." She got the expected snort of laughter. "Put it through, willya?"
There was the usual two-tone signal of switchover, and her heart was in her throat. "Thrace..." The note of question in her own voice bothered her, but the thought that it might be Lee -
"Lieutenant!" It wasn't him. "Good to hear your voice."
"Major Rollins, sir, a pleasant surprise!" It was, even if it wasn't the surprise she was hoping for. Her former CAG, back on the Bellerophon where she'd served a year after Officer training, was a gruff, sarcastic veteran who'd been a sharp pilot in his prime and was now XO on the ship. "What can I do for you, Rocky? Cigars this time?"
"Sure thing. You can bring 'em yourself, too."
"What? Is the Bell heading into Picon space at long last?"
"Nope. Still on station out in Leonis territory, but you can wangle some leave time, can't you?"
"If I have a good reason. Somehow I don't think Deak is gonna buy the whole 'special delivery' thing, though."
"How about a retirement party?"
Starbuck dropped the pen she'd been lazily marking theory papers with. "What?"
"I'm being ousted," Rocky told her, but the way he said it made it clear that he didn't mind at all. "I'm two years from forced retirement anyway, Starbuck, and Command made me a good offer for a desk job until then. They had to make a few holes, after all."
"What for this time? Another downsize?
"Nope. Haven't you heard they're finally canning Galactica?"
She had, of course. Legendary ship, legendary commander, but both getting past their prime according to modern standards. "I'd forgotten that. So which tyro from Husker's crew is taking over on the Bell?"
"Tyro he's not - Ripper and I served a term together on Picon when he was just fresh out of the Academy; he'd be forty or so now, I'd guess. He's been Adama's CAG for close on a decade now. The Galactica's being ceremonially decommissioned on the fifteenth, next month; Jack Spencer - that's Ripper - will be out here a day after. But Commander Peters wants to throw me a party and told me to round up the people I wanted to see. And that's you. And Fastball and Novey if I can figure out where the frakheads have got to -"
She should have been listening; Rocky had been a great CAG to start out with for a young reckless pilot. He'd been a steadying influence without being a crushing one, and it had been mainly his fault - the effect of his teaching - that she'd been so quickly picked up as part of the training corps and hauled back to Sparta. But after Rocky had mentioned Adama, she barely heard one word in three.
Commander of the Battlestar Galactica, William Adama. Husker.
A pilot on the Orion. A captain Adama. Lee.
And -
And a cadet in one of Strut's classes - nice guy, cute, but with a little too much brass and a little too little talent - who'd shot himself a few years back when Strut had flunked him out of Flight. His name had been Zak? something like that. He'd had a hell of a winning smile in the one class she'd taught his squad. She'd liked him. But Kara hadn't known his last name until it appeared on the inquest papers; it had never occurred to her before then that it might be more than the weight of his own disappointment that drove him to eat a bullet. Adama, Zachary. Twenty years old.
Oh, frak.
Rocky went on with his list of people, almost unheard, while she put the pieces together in her head. But when he stopped, prompted her with a questioning 'Starbuck?' she jerked her thoughts back to the present. "Sorry, Rocky - all these pilots, got me thinking. What?"
"So you'll come, won't you? On the fifteenth? Take a three day pass and fly yourself out here, come say so-long to an old man?"
"You got it, if Deak can spare me. I took a few weeks a few months back, not sure how much time I have left for vacations."
"Knowing you? Probably enough to help me move back to Picon after we both get over the hangovers."
"Maybe I better fly out in a Raptor then? Give you a ride back?"
"Sounds better than the shuttle I had in mind."
"Of course, I'm not sure you still fit a flight suit."
"If you can fit that ego in a helmet, I can fit my ass in a flight suit, Lieutenant."
"Yes, Sir."
"See you in a couple weeks, Kara."
Two minutes later, she hung up the 'phone again; Deak had no trouble with her going, was already lining up a Raptor for her and grumbling good-naturedly about how much crap their Hanger CPO was going to give him for letting a Viper jock near one of his precious sentry birds. But Kara sat, staring at the pen - Lee's pen - that lay on her pile of unmarked papers, wondering how in all the hells she'd not recognised the name when she'd heard it, months before.
Lee Adama. He wasn't just 'a pilot', he was Apollo.
She knew about Apollo, of course - youngest D-CAG in thirty years, reputation for being one hell of a pilot, the kind commanders love in their squadrons because they leave the ego mostly at the flight deck door. And he was a model officer too; if rumor was to be believed. Apollo might have been a joke - son of Zeus - when they gifted him with the nickname, but it was more apt than any of them might be willing to admit. And because of that, because he was a good pilot and a good man, everyone was sure there was some kind of flaw he was hiding.
Kara had heard the tone in his voice when he'd spoken of Fleet service, about how he'd planned to get away from it for his entire leave, and figured she knew what the flaw was. Now she thought she knew why.
Lee's pen felt heavy in her fingers, but she ignored that; tried to go back to marking papers. It was hard, her mind kept wandering, turning over the memories, straying close to the ones in the hotel room that she dreamed about sometimes before she metaphorically yanked herself back into reality. It worked, sort of: Kara stopped thinking about that night, for a while. Instead, she wondered if he'd found out anything about her, since that morning in the city, if he'd heard about her reputation, if he'd thought about her at all since then.
If he was ever going to call.
---
"You wanted to see me, sir?" Why was it that whenever he heard those words out of his own mouth, he was about to have his father inflicted on him, yet again?
Yeah, the CAG wanted to see him, to send him up to see Commander Dumarr. And that visit required a trip back to the bunkrooms to shower and put his uniform on - one didn't go up to see the Boss in tracks and trainers, not even at breakfast - and then a fast walk through the wakening ship to the command level.
He didn't particularly like that part of the ship, of any ship. It seemed the minute you hit CIC territory, the corridors widened and arched more, the temperature of the artificial atmosphere dropped about ten degrees and the people started having masks for faces, himself included. The cheerful close quarters of combat-ready living were sacrificed for the trappings of rank, and those were things he couldn't really abide. It wasn't hypocrisy that he had intentionally put himself on the fast track to acquire rank, responsibility and a reputation for being the best: he wanted those things. Wanted them as badly as his father ever had.
Wanted them for the express purpose of tossing them all out an airlock once he'd proved he was just as good - or better - than his old man. Wanted them, because once he'd served a year as captain, he'd be in the same circle of command that his father had been, right up until the Armistice had interrupted his career.
Lee was going to see his old man the day he turned in his resignation. He was waiting for that hour, planning on it, the moment in time when he saw the elder Adama realise that his son was a man, got his viper wings and his rank pips and did it better, faster and smoother than he himself had managed, even in a war. And then he was going to see Lee walk away from it, because one of them, at least, realised there were more important things, and no amount of influence or string-pulling was going to stop him.
It was the only willing contact he'd have with Commander William Adama for the next ten years, at least.
Unfortunately, there'd be unwilling contact, much, much sooner than that. In two weeks, in fact. 'You wanted to see me, sir?' would probably be useful in that situation, too.
Commander Dumarr had been nonplussed to realise that Lee didn't want to go to Galactica's retirement, though; he'd been surprised and then disapproving to have to make it an order. But Lee's excuses - he'd already used all his leave time, some in advance even, that he'd had too much work to do to make the three-day Viper round trip to Caprican space - had fallen on obstinately deaf ears: he was going. The ceremonial farewell was traditional to a retiring Battlestar, and when it was also the farewell to one of the few still-serving combat veterans of the Cylon War, there was no chance at all that the son of said veteran, being under orders despite his reservist status, would be able to skip it.
The military liked its symmetry and poetic endings way too much; a peacetime indulgence, Lee supposed as he stalked back through the cold, cathedral-arched corridors, his footsteps ringing on theshiny metal deck,and went in search of more familiar territory. Well, Lee liked contrasts, himself. Black and white. Polarities. Clear-cut differences. He especially liked them when they made a point.
The bunkroom was quiet - empty save for Hoppy, his left foot protruding from the curtain as always as he snored in his rack - and Lee sat down for a minute on his own bunk instead of changing back into his sweats. He was furious, with Dumarr, with the military, with his father. With himself, too, that he couldn't accept the order as graciously as ever, couldn't be the good soldier that he'd trained himself to be, that he'd come off looking like a brat in front of his C.O. That, because the very idea of a ceremony to honor his father and the ship the man loved more than any animate being made his jaw clench and his stomach churn, he'd lost control of his emotions yet again.
Not much made that happen; usually when he felt his patience waning, his teeth gritting as he went about his duties, he took leave, assigned himself an extra CAP, or got drunk: something to ease the strain. But it didn't happen often, not unless his father was involved. Muffling a curse so Hoppy wouldn't be disturbed, Lee leaned down and tugged his uniform shoes undone, yanked them off and then leaned back into his bunk, as he did so catching sight of his calendar... and Kara's card.
He stared, felt a trickle of heat leaven the cold fury. That had been another time he'd lost control, too - and it hadn't been a bad thing; but good. Very good. When he'd woken up, an hour and a half ago, he'd woken imagining slow, dizzying sex with the woman whose name was on that card, and it had been a good way to start the day. Now he thought - brief, brilliant flash of imagination - of Kara Thrace, naked in his rumpled bunk, grinning up at him the way she'd grinned over the pool table. Saying in that low, smoky-toned voice: "you wanted to see me, sir?"
He'd definitely prefer to hear her say that.
Lee Adama made a deal with himself: if he had to do this stupid thing, go to Galactica, to his old man's retirement, he was going to claim a reward before he left, something to buffer his mood, someone else to think about during the three days that were sure to be a round-trip to Hades. Before he left, he was going to call Kara Thrace. And he was going to find some way to relive that unforgettable night in Sparta City, and this time, he wasn't going to let her out of the bed until all the details of his coming ordeal were obscured by better memories.
---
Eight in the evening, dark for more than an hour, and still Sparta was sweltering. On a planet known for its erratic weather, this coastal city never went more than three days without rain, but presently the Nereus Coast was baking in the hottest, driest summer in thirty years. The beaches had been crowded that day; the lucky nuggets who had theory classes (in the climate-controlled Flight suite) had worn their cool, crisp undress khakis and gloated over those who'd had to struggle into sweatbox 'planes, in sweatbox flight suits. But now it was eight o'clock, the humid compound was quiet, and Kara Thrace was still at work on class prep and assessment schedules in her tiny, stifling office.
It wasn't that Starbuck was disorganized; the three-and-a-half years in which she'd been an instructor would have been maddening if she hadn't been mentally disciplined enough to do what she needed to do before it was necessary to panic over it. It wasn't even that she was overburdened with work: she had the three day schedule for her three squad of nuggets planned out well in advance. But it was the night before she was scheduled to fly out to Bellerophon and the shady quadrangle had emptied of sweating cadets, the rest of the offices in her building showed dark windows as the rest of her colleagues had abandoned work for their air-conditioned quarters. But Kara was still at her desk. Doing things she didn't need to be doing. Procrastinating.
Oh, not about the trip out to the Bell, she had no qualms about that. In fact, despite the Raptor she was flying for the trip, she was looking forwards to it: two hours to reach the Rampling Station, in deep orbit off the mining planet of Arges and pick up three other pilots on their way to Rocky's send-off, a short blip to the jump point and then one FTL hop to her old ship, in deep station well off Leonis. No - no worries about the flight at all; she'd even managed to wangle an ECO for the trip who wouldn't try and tell her how to fly that glorified station-wagon: Crash had been one of her cadets a few years back, after all. And it would be good to get out into space again; the short patrol flights, no more than an hour or two given atmospheric burn, that she got to fly as part of Sparta's wing just didn't fill the need, let alone training flights where she couldn't take her mind off the nuggets for an instant, not even to enjoy the view. Plus, space was cold, which right now would be a nice change.
No, she wasn't nervous about the flight. Kara realised she was stalling about leaving her office because she'd done something stupid, yet again, and under the papers on her desk was a small green notepad with some very useful numbers on it. Yes, that morning she'd hooked into the military database and found the call-code for Captain Lee Adama. Leaving the office meant she wouldn't call him, and she very much wanted to call him. And given her appalling inability to resist temptation, she was surprised she hadn't dialled those numbers hours ago. Of course, she had her moments, Kara acknowledged ruefully. Startlingly, when faced with the temptation to stay and sleep beside Lee Adama, she hadn't given in to it.
Kara knew she was a screw-up by nature, but in hindsight, that had been a screw-up of interplanetary magnitude. It had cost her precious sleep many times since then, wondering all the potential what-if's; it had highlighted her lack of self-confidence (where relationships that weren't just about sex were concerned) and made her wonder if Lee's interest had been real or not. After all, if she'd hurt his pride with her precipitous departure, who could blame him for stringing her along a little in punishment?
It didn't seem like something he'd do, not that she could really tell, based on their brief and quite physical acquaintance, but then it could be just what she deserved. So, determined not to get herself into a painful situation, she'd grasped at the straws of convention rather than take a shot at something better: obviously she was a coward, too.
Starbuck, she reminded herself, would pick up that 'phone, dial in the Orion's code then Lee Adama's then add the suffix that meant personal traffic. But Starbuck acted on instinct; Starbuck wasn't a coward, would gleefully fly through a meteor storm for the thrill of it. Kara Thrace, on the other hand... Kara Thrace couldn't even stay on good terms with her easygoing father, let alone (and let a long way away) her mother. Kara Thrace had loved only two things before she found flying, and the Fleet: one had been pyramid. The other had been a pyramid player. Neither had been a fairy-tale. No; Kara Thrace wanted very much to call that number, even though, conventionally speaking, it was up to Lee to call her. But Kara Thrace didn't believe in happy endings anymore.
She sighed, closed the folder on lesson prep that wouldn't be needed until a month after she'd returned to Sparta, got up and reached for her jacket. She didn't want to put it on; it had hung over the back of her chair all day, starched collar wilting with the weight of her pilot's insignia and the heat and was warm with body heat. Time to go home, stand in the shower - tepid water, two degrees above outright cold - and maybe dig up some of that herbal tea her old roommate had enjoyed. A stiff drink would be better, make her sleep faster, but she was flying a Raptor in the morning, a long flight, and if she screwed up, booze better not be the reason. Not that she'd screw up; despite the CPO's opinion, flying a Raptor was no more difficult than flying a Viper. It was landing the heavy, clumsy minibus-of-a-space-vehicle that was the fun -
The 'phone rang.
The sudden noise in the stillness of the office made her jerk upright next to the desk. "Frak." It was probably just Deak, seeing the light on in her office window, still, and about to read her the riot act about long flights and plenty of sleep. Kara picked up. "Thrace."
"Hey, Kara."
It was Lee.
---
Part Two of Act Two is here. Please save your comments for the end of part 3.