more BSG drabbles
The third batch of BSG drabbles, circa season four: f/f slash and gen. Perhaps read the last first-it's the mopey one. The other two are…decidedly not.
Kara/Boomer, for boom_queen
The thing is, it's easy to get Starbuck to flirt with you. It's easy to flirt back and get yourself all worked up (or wiggle helplessly as she does the working). Sometimes, it's so easy you don't even know you want it until you have it. But it's not terribly easy to get her to do anything about it.
Boomer's seen cadet after cadet-male and female-try their hand at getting Starbuck's attention, not just receiving it. She's watched failed attempts at innuendo (failed because coy just does not work), lame, obvious come-ons that made Starbuck laugh appreciatively (like she might at a good dirty joke but not at a lover), impressive games of cards that won them everything and everybody in the room (except what-who-they really wanted), drinking contests that ended in Kara Thrace emerging, despondent, or else Starbuck being her most (her worst) Starbuck. Boomer has seen it all: what worked, what didn't, and most important: why.
It started out as a hobby; idiot-watching, she called it. One day, she realized she was one of the idiots. And even worse, not just in an abstract way, the way everybody who's interested in women (and even some that aren't) is drawn to Starbuck. No-in a real way. Real enough, anyway. She's pretty sure Starbuck knows, but she tells herself it will make this easier.
She comes to Starbuck's table when it's too late to go home but too early to pass out. As she does, she sets the ambrosia down with a clunk, and she waits for Starbuck to take a swig from the bottle. When she sets it back down, she's already smiling like she's plotting and moving like she's being watched.
But she's good at watching, too. That's a good sign: the way she watches Boomer lean back in her chair and drain some more of the green liquid. Boomer feels it burn on the way down (because she's absolutely sober now; has to be), and she feels Starbuck's eyes burning at her throat, too. Starbuck likes skin.
So Boomer sits up again, finally, and leans over the table, bare arms stretched out in front of her and between them, trying to keep her eyes wide open as she says: "There any chance you're harboring a secret desire to frak me?"
Starbuck smiles, not the least hint of a smirk even if it's in her voice. "Now, if I told you that, it wouldn't be much of a secret, huh?"
"It never has been," Boomer says with a lazy smile. "Was just trying to see if you'd admit it or not."
A few minutes later, with Starbuck's hand down her pants and her tongue in her ear, she laughs to herself, thinking about how she had it right all along. The general rule for getting Starbuck to put her hands on you: be brave enough to 1) know if she wants it and 2) call her on it.
And ambrosia always helps. For her general good humor or your courage. Or both.
Kara/Showboat, for boom_queen
Showboat totally kicked her ass at Triad once. Didn't just beat her but absolutely put her to frakkin' shame. With a sly, wicked smile on her face.
Luckily, no one was around to see it but Helo, who had been up for hours, who was drinking himself stupid in an attempt to avoid reality. Might've done an even better job of it if he hadn't passed out just before the free live action lesbian porn started. Because, damn, the kind of shit they were doing-spurred on by the kind of shit they pointedly weren't doing, not in the middle of the rec room-seemed like something designed for an audience.
Maybe it was, come to think about it. Each other, anyway. Showboat had been trying to get her frakkin' attention for days, weeks. Starbuck figured if she could beat her in Triad, maybe it was worth it. So she put on a show of her own, a show for one: she came and straddled her lap and grinned at her, hands twined in her hair, breathing against her temple as she asked her what she wanted.
Just frakkin'--
Kara sucked at her neck, kissed ridiculous hickeys into her skin until she moaned. Then Kara swallowed up those moans, wishing she was the kind of girl who could frak somebody out in the open.
Or that, godsdammit, the privacy of the showers wasn't so frakkin' far away.
Jean Barolay, for lyssie
[ETA: And please to be forgiving me for forgetting that Jean wasn't actually ever a pilot, right?]
It's the anonymity that bothers Sam. Nobody knows she's gone because nobody knew she was there. He tells himself that the people who matter know, and they care. He cares. Kara. What's left of the C-Bucs. But that's just it. What's left.
This is left: her bunk: pictures of people whose names he doesn't remember (if he ever knew them), a box of trinkets she collected as they crawled across empty Caprica (when she could have taken anything she wanted but instead saved bottle caps and useless car keys and lockets with strangers' pictures), a well worn mystery novel (for which everyone already knew the killer), a handwritten IOU from Narcho for 'full service' (whatever the frak that meant-other than, of course, that Narcho had been beaten at cards again).
And this is left: her locker: clothes that still smell like her, boots she never got the chance to break in (that she avoided, given that they were a size too small, and Kat's, who she never met), a tacky refrigerator magnet celebrating their last championship win, hash marks that he's pretty sure reflect how many toasters she shot down (if they're like the marks she kept on Caprica).
And this is left: her body: eyes closed like they rarely were in life (unless you caught her-or held her-sleeping), a scar on her nose from where she'd had it pierced as a teenager but took it out to become a Caprica Buccaneer, a scar on her elbow from where they'd had a nasty fight and came out bloody but calm (settled, even), a bruise on her wrist she must've incurred from being another civvies playing (playing?) soldier, an amateur tattoo of a circle on the inside of her arm, the stain of tobacco on her fingers.
Because she always rolled her own cigarettes. She always rolled dice, too; and well. She could listen better than anybody who ever put up with him, drunk or sober. And when she talked, you listened.
He wants to tell everyone he meets about Jean Barolay, before she (and before he) becomes another person nobody remembers to remember.
~
Kara/Boomer, for boom_queen
The thing is, it's easy to get Starbuck to flirt with you. It's easy to flirt back and get yourself all worked up (or wiggle helplessly as she does the working). Sometimes, it's so easy you don't even know you want it until you have it. But it's not terribly easy to get her to do anything about it.
Boomer's seen cadet after cadet-male and female-try their hand at getting Starbuck's attention, not just receiving it. She's watched failed attempts at innuendo (failed because coy just does not work), lame, obvious come-ons that made Starbuck laugh appreciatively (like she might at a good dirty joke but not at a lover), impressive games of cards that won them everything and everybody in the room (except what-who-they really wanted), drinking contests that ended in Kara Thrace emerging, despondent, or else Starbuck being her most (her worst) Starbuck. Boomer has seen it all: what worked, what didn't, and most important: why.
It started out as a hobby; idiot-watching, she called it. One day, she realized she was one of the idiots. And even worse, not just in an abstract way, the way everybody who's interested in women (and even some that aren't) is drawn to Starbuck. No-in a real way. Real enough, anyway. She's pretty sure Starbuck knows, but she tells herself it will make this easier.
She comes to Starbuck's table when it's too late to go home but too early to pass out. As she does, she sets the ambrosia down with a clunk, and she waits for Starbuck to take a swig from the bottle. When she sets it back down, she's already smiling like she's plotting and moving like she's being watched.
But she's good at watching, too. That's a good sign: the way she watches Boomer lean back in her chair and drain some more of the green liquid. Boomer feels it burn on the way down (because she's absolutely sober now; has to be), and she feels Starbuck's eyes burning at her throat, too. Starbuck likes skin.
So Boomer sits up again, finally, and leans over the table, bare arms stretched out in front of her and between them, trying to keep her eyes wide open as she says: "There any chance you're harboring a secret desire to frak me?"
Starbuck smiles, not the least hint of a smirk even if it's in her voice. "Now, if I told you that, it wouldn't be much of a secret, huh?"
"It never has been," Boomer says with a lazy smile. "Was just trying to see if you'd admit it or not."
A few minutes later, with Starbuck's hand down her pants and her tongue in her ear, she laughs to herself, thinking about how she had it right all along. The general rule for getting Starbuck to put her hands on you: be brave enough to 1) know if she wants it and 2) call her on it.
And ambrosia always helps. For her general good humor or your courage. Or both.
Kara/Showboat, for boom_queen
Showboat totally kicked her ass at Triad once. Didn't just beat her but absolutely put her to frakkin' shame. With a sly, wicked smile on her face.
Luckily, no one was around to see it but Helo, who had been up for hours, who was drinking himself stupid in an attempt to avoid reality. Might've done an even better job of it if he hadn't passed out just before the free live action lesbian porn started. Because, damn, the kind of shit they were doing-spurred on by the kind of shit they pointedly weren't doing, not in the middle of the rec room-seemed like something designed for an audience.
Maybe it was, come to think about it. Each other, anyway. Showboat had been trying to get her frakkin' attention for days, weeks. Starbuck figured if she could beat her in Triad, maybe it was worth it. So she put on a show of her own, a show for one: she came and straddled her lap and grinned at her, hands twined in her hair, breathing against her temple as she asked her what she wanted.
Just frakkin'--
Kara sucked at her neck, kissed ridiculous hickeys into her skin until she moaned. Then Kara swallowed up those moans, wishing she was the kind of girl who could frak somebody out in the open.
Or that, godsdammit, the privacy of the showers wasn't so frakkin' far away.
Jean Barolay, for lyssie
[ETA: And please to be forgiving me for forgetting that Jean wasn't actually ever a pilot, right?]
It's the anonymity that bothers Sam. Nobody knows she's gone because nobody knew she was there. He tells himself that the people who matter know, and they care. He cares. Kara. What's left of the C-Bucs. But that's just it. What's left.
This is left: her bunk: pictures of people whose names he doesn't remember (if he ever knew them), a box of trinkets she collected as they crawled across empty Caprica (when she could have taken anything she wanted but instead saved bottle caps and useless car keys and lockets with strangers' pictures), a well worn mystery novel (for which everyone already knew the killer), a handwritten IOU from Narcho for 'full service' (whatever the frak that meant-other than, of course, that Narcho had been beaten at cards again).
And this is left: her locker: clothes that still smell like her, boots she never got the chance to break in (that she avoided, given that they were a size too small, and Kat's, who she never met), a tacky refrigerator magnet celebrating their last championship win, hash marks that he's pretty sure reflect how many toasters she shot down (if they're like the marks she kept on Caprica).
And this is left: her body: eyes closed like they rarely were in life (unless you caught her-or held her-sleeping), a scar on her nose from where she'd had it pierced as a teenager but took it out to become a Caprica Buccaneer, a scar on her elbow from where they'd had a nasty fight and came out bloody but calm (settled, even), a bruise on her wrist she must've incurred from being another civvies playing (playing?) soldier, an amateur tattoo of a circle on the inside of her arm, the stain of tobacco on her fingers.
Because she always rolled her own cigarettes. She always rolled dice, too; and well. She could listen better than anybody who ever put up with him, drunk or sober. And when she talked, you listened.
He wants to tell everyone he meets about Jean Barolay, before she (and before he) becomes another person nobody remembers to remember.
~