Victory!
Most fics I write tend toward the <500 words length, so this was quite a challenge. I also ended up writing a character I haven't tried before since the others all refused to miss anything but people. How rude. Anyway.
Title: Prohibition
Author: Ilana
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: just Tigh
Spoilers: through 33, with a couple non-spoilery references to later episodes (don't worry, you won't even know they're there if you haven't seen the episodes)
Summary: Tigh misses being able to forget...
Archive: Umm...sure, just ask.
Length: 962 words
There were a lot of things that hadn’t mattered until the end of the world. It hadn’t made a difference that the Galactica had a gift shop instead of one of her launch bays because they rarely needed to launch anything. No one had cared that the chief of the deck crew was sleeping with one of the raptor pilots because she never had to give him more of an order than “Fix the fraking gimbal.” It hadn’t mattered that the ship’s XO spent all his off-duty time either getting or being drunk and the better part of his on-duty time recovering from it. They hadn’t fought a war or even seen their enemies in 40 years; what difference did it make in peacetime if an officer couldn’t make quick decisions through a killer hangover headache?
Then the Cylons blew up the Colonies and there was a war again, and suddenly everyone needed to be on their toes. The XO couldn’t very well be stumbling around drunk when the fleet was being attacked every 33 minutes. Even when that stopped, there was a good chance of the Cylons showing up at any moment and Tigh couldn’t risk being caught unprepared, so he’d been avoiding drinking as best he could.
It was easier than he might have thought, probably because he didn’t really have a choice. There was barely any alcohol left in the fleet, let alone on the Galactica. He’d heard rumors that the deck gang had rigged up a still (learning to make your own alcohol was said to be almost a rite of passage on the deck), but he wasn’t about to ask them for a taste. Tyrol (and by extension the rest of his devoted crew) hated him since the fire, and if they did give him anything it would probably kill him, or leave him wishing it had. But even aside from that, he could no longer afford to be drunk. He had to be ready for anything at any time, and that meant keeping his wits about him and alcohol away from him.
It would be a lie to say he hadn’t had a drink since the Colonies had been destroyed, but he hadn’t gotten properly drunk in all that time. His body, so used to the presence of alcohol, was protesting the deprivation, but he was getting used to ignoring it. It was just another thing to deal with along with the lack of food, water and sleep. He didn’t really miss the physical sensation of drunkenness, that pleasant feeling of lightness and motion that was a bit like flying a viper if you closed your eyes. He didn’t really miss the taste of ambrosia sliding, burning, down his throat; he hadn’t drunk to enjoy the taste in years.
No, what he missed was being able to let go of everything for a while. He missed being able to forget, to let all his memories and regrets slip away behind the haze of drunkenness. He missed being able to forget about responsibility and self-control and let his emotions take him where they wanted, whether to laughter or anger or bitter self-pity. He’d learned control, but he wasn’t made for it the way Adama was, and sometimes he needed to take a break.
Tigh had never been a very good officer. There was a reason that, at his age, he was still Galactica’s XO instead of having his own command, and it wasn’t because he liked serving under William Adama. He was competent enough when it came down to it, but if the Galactica had made it to the decommissioning, he probably would have retired and slipped away, forgotten, instead of going out with his ship in a flurry of ceremony and speeches.
He hadn’t been a very good husband either, or at least he hadn’t picked a very good wife, and there was nothing else in his personal life to make up for that. He’d wasted the last 40 years not realizing that, in the absence of the Cylons or any other enemy to give the military a purpose, he had to be something more than a good pilot to be worth anything. He wasn’t introspective by nature, and he rarely stopped to consider how his life had turned out, but when he did he came up with a lot of regrets. They’d been bad enough when he’d been able to keep them at arms’ length with drink, and he’d been able to forget them and everything else except the Cylons for a while as they fought for survival.
Now that there were no immediate crises and he had time to stop and think, all his old regrets loomed up, as big as ever. If anything, they were worse now that he couldn’t say he’d make up for things once he retired. He’d lost his last chance to make things better with his wife and maybe make something of himself, somehow. When the alarms stopped going off and there was nothing to distract him, he thought about that, and it made him want to run to his quarters and drink himself to the floor.
But that was no longer an option. He was no hero, no commander, no leader of humanity’s last chance at survival. But he was the XO of the Colonies’ last battlestar and second in command of all that remained of the Colonial Fleet. He didn’t have much pride left after all these years, but he was damned if he was going to be an embarrassment to his commander or his ship or the pathetic remnants of his people. He could try to do his part to help save the human race, and whichever way things went, he wouldn’t need the bottle anymore.
Title: Prohibition
Author: Ilana
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: just Tigh
Spoilers: through 33, with a couple non-spoilery references to later episodes (don't worry, you won't even know they're there if you haven't seen the episodes)
Summary: Tigh misses being able to forget...
Archive: Umm...sure, just ask.
Length: 962 words
There were a lot of things that hadn’t mattered until the end of the world. It hadn’t made a difference that the Galactica had a gift shop instead of one of her launch bays because they rarely needed to launch anything. No one had cared that the chief of the deck crew was sleeping with one of the raptor pilots because she never had to give him more of an order than “Fix the fraking gimbal.” It hadn’t mattered that the ship’s XO spent all his off-duty time either getting or being drunk and the better part of his on-duty time recovering from it. They hadn’t fought a war or even seen their enemies in 40 years; what difference did it make in peacetime if an officer couldn’t make quick decisions through a killer hangover headache?
Then the Cylons blew up the Colonies and there was a war again, and suddenly everyone needed to be on their toes. The XO couldn’t very well be stumbling around drunk when the fleet was being attacked every 33 minutes. Even when that stopped, there was a good chance of the Cylons showing up at any moment and Tigh couldn’t risk being caught unprepared, so he’d been avoiding drinking as best he could.
It was easier than he might have thought, probably because he didn’t really have a choice. There was barely any alcohol left in the fleet, let alone on the Galactica. He’d heard rumors that the deck gang had rigged up a still (learning to make your own alcohol was said to be almost a rite of passage on the deck), but he wasn’t about to ask them for a taste. Tyrol (and by extension the rest of his devoted crew) hated him since the fire, and if they did give him anything it would probably kill him, or leave him wishing it had. But even aside from that, he could no longer afford to be drunk. He had to be ready for anything at any time, and that meant keeping his wits about him and alcohol away from him.
It would be a lie to say he hadn’t had a drink since the Colonies had been destroyed, but he hadn’t gotten properly drunk in all that time. His body, so used to the presence of alcohol, was protesting the deprivation, but he was getting used to ignoring it. It was just another thing to deal with along with the lack of food, water and sleep. He didn’t really miss the physical sensation of drunkenness, that pleasant feeling of lightness and motion that was a bit like flying a viper if you closed your eyes. He didn’t really miss the taste of ambrosia sliding, burning, down his throat; he hadn’t drunk to enjoy the taste in years.
No, what he missed was being able to let go of everything for a while. He missed being able to forget, to let all his memories and regrets slip away behind the haze of drunkenness. He missed being able to forget about responsibility and self-control and let his emotions take him where they wanted, whether to laughter or anger or bitter self-pity. He’d learned control, but he wasn’t made for it the way Adama was, and sometimes he needed to take a break.
Tigh had never been a very good officer. There was a reason that, at his age, he was still Galactica’s XO instead of having his own command, and it wasn’t because he liked serving under William Adama. He was competent enough when it came down to it, but if the Galactica had made it to the decommissioning, he probably would have retired and slipped away, forgotten, instead of going out with his ship in a flurry of ceremony and speeches.
He hadn’t been a very good husband either, or at least he hadn’t picked a very good wife, and there was nothing else in his personal life to make up for that. He’d wasted the last 40 years not realizing that, in the absence of the Cylons or any other enemy to give the military a purpose, he had to be something more than a good pilot to be worth anything. He wasn’t introspective by nature, and he rarely stopped to consider how his life had turned out, but when he did he came up with a lot of regrets. They’d been bad enough when he’d been able to keep them at arms’ length with drink, and he’d been able to forget them and everything else except the Cylons for a while as they fought for survival.
Now that there were no immediate crises and he had time to stop and think, all his old regrets loomed up, as big as ever. If anything, they were worse now that he couldn’t say he’d make up for things once he retired. He’d lost his last chance to make things better with his wife and maybe make something of himself, somehow. When the alarms stopped going off and there was nothing to distract him, he thought about that, and it made him want to run to his quarters and drink himself to the floor.
But that was no longer an option. He was no hero, no commander, no leader of humanity’s last chance at survival. But he was the XO of the Colonies’ last battlestar and second in command of all that remained of the Colonial Fleet. He didn’t have much pride left after all these years, but he was damned if he was going to be an embarrassment to his commander or his ship or the pathetic remnants of his people. He could try to do his part to help save the human race, and whichever way things went, he wouldn’t need the bottle anymore.