BSG Fic: Arithmetic (Starbuck et alia)
Request ficlet the second, for lasultrix, who asked for Starbuck being a playboy. R, 500 words.
This is new BSG, not old. (Is there a standard way to indicate that yet?)
No spoilers past the miniseries.
Arithmetic
Kara is tired, Kara is always tired, and Kara doesn't want to think. Kara doesn't want to think about sabotage, about dead friends, about the Cylons. Kara wants to fly, to shoot, to smash, to win.
Every moment Kara is out of the cockpit is a waste and she tries to find ways to make the time go faster, faster until the seconds and minutes and hours smear together in a blur of lights and colours that will dazzle her eyes and numb her mind.
Kara gambles, for booze, for stogies, for money that no longer has any value, winning more hands than she loses and only cheating when it's a really good pot. Kara works out, pushes her body until it screams, until it hates her, until she can hardly walk without wincing.
And still the thoughts come crawling into her brain, under her skin, buzzing and clicking against her bones. When it gets too loud, Kara finds a boy, a good healthy one, and pulls him into an access corridor and rides him for as long as he'll last. The sweat, the grunts, the skin scraping skin: sex is white noise for Kara and it keeps her mind blank for hours afterwards.
One night, Kara is walking through the corridors, trying to stay one step ahead of the buzzing. And there is Dr Baltar and a girl, a civilian with an access pass hanging on a chain around her neck. Baltar has the same idea as Kara or maybe he's just horny. He's leaning in and touching the girl's hair and whispering something that is sure to be both awkward and oily, perfectly calculated for maximum effect.
Kara stops. She walks up to them. "Lieutenant Thrace," Baltar says and Kara can tell he is adding her into his calculations. One plus two equals three. Even Kara knows that and she's not a genius scientist.
But Kara makes her own calculations. "Is this guy bothering you?" she says and Baltar's mouth drops open.
Three minus one equals Kara and the girl in the corridor, half hidden behind a pile of crates, with Kara's tongue in the girl's mouth and Kara's hand under the girl's shirt. This is new for Kara and she likes it, likes the roundness of the girl and the way she clutches Kara's hair in her fist as they kiss.
Kara keeps her eyes open and watches people passing. She dares them to stop, to say something, but they just stare and keep walking. Nobody wants to mess with Starbuck.
Even Colonel Tigh is walking by, disgust on his face, not quite pissed off enough to stop. But Kara has to meet his eyes, to run her tongue over her lips as the girl kisses her throat.
Two minus one equals Kara in the brig, with Tigh yelling at her from the other side of the bars. Kara wonders if he's going to spit in her face. "Wouldn't you rather be in here with me?" she says when he stops to breathe.
And then he's gone and Kara is alone. In the brig there's nothing else to do but think.
This is new BSG, not old. (Is there a standard way to indicate that yet?)
No spoilers past the miniseries.
Arithmetic
Kara is tired, Kara is always tired, and Kara doesn't want to think. Kara doesn't want to think about sabotage, about dead friends, about the Cylons. Kara wants to fly, to shoot, to smash, to win.
Every moment Kara is out of the cockpit is a waste and she tries to find ways to make the time go faster, faster until the seconds and minutes and hours smear together in a blur of lights and colours that will dazzle her eyes and numb her mind.
Kara gambles, for booze, for stogies, for money that no longer has any value, winning more hands than she loses and only cheating when it's a really good pot. Kara works out, pushes her body until it screams, until it hates her, until she can hardly walk without wincing.
And still the thoughts come crawling into her brain, under her skin, buzzing and clicking against her bones. When it gets too loud, Kara finds a boy, a good healthy one, and pulls him into an access corridor and rides him for as long as he'll last. The sweat, the grunts, the skin scraping skin: sex is white noise for Kara and it keeps her mind blank for hours afterwards.
One night, Kara is walking through the corridors, trying to stay one step ahead of the buzzing. And there is Dr Baltar and a girl, a civilian with an access pass hanging on a chain around her neck. Baltar has the same idea as Kara or maybe he's just horny. He's leaning in and touching the girl's hair and whispering something that is sure to be both awkward and oily, perfectly calculated for maximum effect.
Kara stops. She walks up to them. "Lieutenant Thrace," Baltar says and Kara can tell he is adding her into his calculations. One plus two equals three. Even Kara knows that and she's not a genius scientist.
But Kara makes her own calculations. "Is this guy bothering you?" she says and Baltar's mouth drops open.
Three minus one equals Kara and the girl in the corridor, half hidden behind a pile of crates, with Kara's tongue in the girl's mouth and Kara's hand under the girl's shirt. This is new for Kara and she likes it, likes the roundness of the girl and the way she clutches Kara's hair in her fist as they kiss.
Kara keeps her eyes open and watches people passing. She dares them to stop, to say something, but they just stare and keep walking. Nobody wants to mess with Starbuck.
Even Colonel Tigh is walking by, disgust on his face, not quite pissed off enough to stop. But Kara has to meet his eyes, to run her tongue over her lips as the girl kisses her throat.
Two minus one equals Kara in the brig, with Tigh yelling at her from the other side of the bars. Kara wonders if he's going to spit in her face. "Wouldn't you rather be in here with me?" she says when he stops to breathe.
And then he's gone and Kara is alone. In the brig there's nothing else to do but think.