Triad, Helo/Dualla, G.
Triad, drabble written for lyssie 's birthday.
Helo/Dualla
Rated G
He doesn’t know how she does it. Those eyes, those huge, innnocent eyes with that crystalline color, the same color as his own, hide the hardest card shark on Galactica. With a quiver of her dewy lip, she’ll snatch cubits out of your pocket faster even than Starbuck, and you’ll enjoy the pain and come back for more. No one can be that innocent looking and so devious at the same time.
Helo’s drunk, which isn’t helping, since he knows that he can’t bluff for shit and Dualla’s all about subtlety in her Triad. He’s too used to Starbuck’s uncanny luck and kamikaze betting; he can’t seem to get his head around the new way, and he’s losing his ass, quite literally. Dualla’s got all his money, what Gaeta hadn’t won before the Petty Officer showed up, and the only thing he had left to bet was himself. And he was going to lose, and other than regs, nothing was stopping Dualla from doing anything she wanted to do with him, although knowing her, he was going to be shining boots forever.
Dualla calls the hand, and Helo’s done; he’s lost both the bluff and the game. Gaeta’s laughing at him, in that laughing-but-not-laughing way he has, and the ready room is clearing out- people have CAP, and briefings, and Galactica starts way too early sometimes after a night of hard play.
His voice is rusty from the drink, when he asks Dualla what she wants from him. He’s not expecting the look in her eyes, but when she answers, he’s game. The table’s easy to clear, and Dualla lies across it gracefully, tanks riding up to show sleek brown skin. She’s gorgeous, he’s always thought so, elegant and compact, and sexy with it, and Helo wishes for a moment that the bet had been his to win.
But he has her foot in his hands, and the groan of pleasure she’s making is its own reward, as he works his thumbs down her instep.