FICLETS! Holiday: Day Thirty-One
For asta77
Lee/Helo
“So. You’re a civilian now.”
Lee doesn’t look up from his drink or the bar. He knows better than to respond. The last time he did, he got the frak beaten out of him by four pilots, all cursing him for deserting them now when they need him as opposed to back on Caprica when he didn’t serve a single damn purpose.
Helo sits next to him and orders a drink, as well as another round for Lee. “How’s that working out for you?”
“Did you need something, Karl?”
“Karl. Hmm. We’re on a first name basis, are we now?” Helo sips his drink, watching Lee out of the corner of his eye.
“Hard to know what rank you are these days. But you want to be Helo, I can call you that.” Lee picks up his glass and finishes his first drink, setting the glass down beside the full one. “And, yes. I’m a civilian. And whether I quit or the old man fired me depends on whose story you’re listening to.”
“You seen Kara yet?”
“Have I seen the prisoner that they have identified as having the characteristics of Kara Thrace? No.”
“Rumor is she’s looking for a lawyer.”
“Rumor should tell her to talk to Romo.” Lee picks up his drink. “What do you want?”
“Wanted to buy you a drink.”
“And you did.”
“Want you to thank me.”
Lee looks at him, surprised to see the hollowness in Helo’s eyes until he remembers that Kara meant something to him too. “Thank you, Karl.”
Helo nods and slides off his stool, looking at Lee like there’s something missing, something he’s missing. “Your place around here?”
Lee nods, finishing his drink and sliding off his own stool to lead the way. Helo stays close behind him, too close for the differences in their stride, but they reach Lee’s door at the same time, twenty seconds before they reach Lee’s bed.
There’s too much pain and anger to make it good, but there’s enough of everything else to make enough to get them through. Karl lays there after, taking up more of the bed than he has a right to, breathing Lee’s air like he owns it. “There’s something wrong on Galactica.”
“Nothing I can fix, Karl.” Lee’s voice is tinged with sadness. “Nothing he’d let me fix.”
“He doesn’t have to know.”
Lee climbs out of the rack, over Karl and starts to dress, careful to keep his eyes averted, careful not to see the same knowledge in Karl’s eyes. “He would though. He always does.”
For dukesfreers
Bush
It is the evenings that break him.
Not in half or in ways that show, but in the hairline cracks like wrinkles in his skin, starting to show in the creases around his eyes and his mouth and in his hands. Weathered skin growing soft and pale in the candlelight where he sits at his table or by his fire or on his bed and stares out at the night, sipping whiskey or rum or scotch until his throat burns with it and chases away anything that might have the lingering taste of regret.
During the day there is enough to keep him busy, occupied with menial tasks and paperwork that require nothing of a captain and everything of a Lieutenant, which suits him as he knows how to be one and has no clue of the other, save what he’s seen in the men he’s known - Nelson so brave and honest and bold in battle, Sawyer so broken and bent beyond recognition despite his tall stance and posture, and Hornblower so stoic and assured of victory even in the face of defeat - but he is none of those things. Neither too much of one or enough of the other or anywhere in between. He is a sailor and he knows the ships like his own flesh and he can make them bend to his will, but now he walks on land and courts them from a distance and they spurn every advance he makes.
He would laugh at his own fancy if it didn’t feel so raw and true, if it weren’t so clear that what he loves about his life is what he no longer has. He stares into fires and at papers, seeing nothing that lies in front of him, but a past that seems distant and a future that seems as empty as the view from his window, full of clouds and hills and of nothing of the sea.
Lee/Helo
“So. You’re a civilian now.”
Lee doesn’t look up from his drink or the bar. He knows better than to respond. The last time he did, he got the frak beaten out of him by four pilots, all cursing him for deserting them now when they need him as opposed to back on Caprica when he didn’t serve a single damn purpose.
Helo sits next to him and orders a drink, as well as another round for Lee. “How’s that working out for you?”
“Did you need something, Karl?”
“Karl. Hmm. We’re on a first name basis, are we now?” Helo sips his drink, watching Lee out of the corner of his eye.
“Hard to know what rank you are these days. But you want to be Helo, I can call you that.” Lee picks up his glass and finishes his first drink, setting the glass down beside the full one. “And, yes. I’m a civilian. And whether I quit or the old man fired me depends on whose story you’re listening to.”
“You seen Kara yet?”
“Have I seen the prisoner that they have identified as having the characteristics of Kara Thrace? No.”
“Rumor is she’s looking for a lawyer.”
“Rumor should tell her to talk to Romo.” Lee picks up his drink. “What do you want?”
“Wanted to buy you a drink.”
“And you did.”
“Want you to thank me.”
Lee looks at him, surprised to see the hollowness in Helo’s eyes until he remembers that Kara meant something to him too. “Thank you, Karl.”
Helo nods and slides off his stool, looking at Lee like there’s something missing, something he’s missing. “Your place around here?”
Lee nods, finishing his drink and sliding off his own stool to lead the way. Helo stays close behind him, too close for the differences in their stride, but they reach Lee’s door at the same time, twenty seconds before they reach Lee’s bed.
There’s too much pain and anger to make it good, but there’s enough of everything else to make enough to get them through. Karl lays there after, taking up more of the bed than he has a right to, breathing Lee’s air like he owns it. “There’s something wrong on Galactica.”
“Nothing I can fix, Karl.” Lee’s voice is tinged with sadness. “Nothing he’d let me fix.”
“He doesn’t have to know.”
Lee climbs out of the rack, over Karl and starts to dress, careful to keep his eyes averted, careful not to see the same knowledge in Karl’s eyes. “He would though. He always does.”
For dukesfreers
Bush
It is the evenings that break him.
Not in half or in ways that show, but in the hairline cracks like wrinkles in his skin, starting to show in the creases around his eyes and his mouth and in his hands. Weathered skin growing soft and pale in the candlelight where he sits at his table or by his fire or on his bed and stares out at the night, sipping whiskey or rum or scotch until his throat burns with it and chases away anything that might have the lingering taste of regret.
During the day there is enough to keep him busy, occupied with menial tasks and paperwork that require nothing of a captain and everything of a Lieutenant, which suits him as he knows how to be one and has no clue of the other, save what he’s seen in the men he’s known - Nelson so brave and honest and bold in battle, Sawyer so broken and bent beyond recognition despite his tall stance and posture, and Hornblower so stoic and assured of victory even in the face of defeat - but he is none of those things. Neither too much of one or enough of the other or anywhere in between. He is a sailor and he knows the ships like his own flesh and he can make them bend to his will, but now he walks on land and courts them from a distance and they spurn every advance he makes.
He would laugh at his own fancy if it didn’t feel so raw and true, if it weren’t so clear that what he loves about his life is what he no longer has. He stares into fires and at papers, seeing nothing that lies in front of him, but a past that seems distant and a future that seems as empty as the view from his window, full of clouds and hills and of nothing of the sea.