BSG04: William Adama, 060. Drink
Title: The Morning After the Night Before
Author: Karihan
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica '04
Character: William Adama
Prompt: 060. Drink
Word Count: 2280
Rating: PG-13
Summary: There had to be something in that last drink ...
Notes: No spoilers except for use of a character from the pre-Razor minisodes. This is another trip into the Wayback Machine.
"... nnnnnggggghhhhh ..."
Bill Adama ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to evict the small furry animal that had crawled into his mouth and died during the night. It wasn't his first hangover, but it definitely qualified as his worst to date.
He tried to raise a hand to rub his throbbing temples, only to have it flop onto his stomach when even that exertion proved too much. Prying his eyes open was definitely out of the question -- frak, even his eyelids hurt. What the hell did I drink?
A subtle sense of wrongness teased at the young lieutenant's over-stressed brain, sliding past the more obvious issues of headache, nausea and a well-upholstered tongue. He worked to pin it down, absently tapping his fingers on his abdomen. Tapping -- his brow furrowed.
The material under his fingers was definitely not the crisp fabric of the uniform he'd worn last night. It felt smoother, almost slick to the touch. Like satin ...
Other subtle changes chose that moment to make themselves known to him, slotting into place one by one. Another soft groan escaped Bill as an inexorable wave of realization rolled over him. He now needed to open his eyes, but he sure as frak didn't want to.
Suck it up, Husker. You're an officer and a Viper jock; you can handle this.
He looked. And kept looking, eyes widening in horror. He was indeed stretched out on the couch in the bar's back room, where he and his new shipmates from Galactica had spent the previous night boozing and playing Triad. To welcome five new pilots to the ranks, or so the others had said.
But instead of Colonial blue, his torso was now encased in pink satin, striped with black and trimmed with black lace. Tightly encased, except where they'd stuffed it out to ... well, he had no idea of what the cup size would be, but they weren't small. He just hoped they'd used clean socks.
A silver-studded leather belt clasped his waist. The snug black miniskirt had ridden up just far enough to show the lace trimming the tops of the sheer, dark, thigh-high stockings they'd ... wait a minute, how the frak had they -- his eyes went from widened to bulging as his body yanked itself into a sitting position.
"They shaved my frakking legs?!!"
The combination of the sudden outburst and the sudden sit-up sent a lance of pain stabbing just behind his eyeballs. Hissing, Bill clutched his head, shifting his legs to bring his stocking-clad feet to the floor. The pounding eventually calmed enough that he was able to feel grateful for the fact that he had nothing to shave off his chest ... and for the glass of water and two painkillers someone had left on the table beside him. He tossed back the tablets and washed them down with almost all the water.
His stomach contemplated rebellion at the incursion, then decided it wasn't worth the effort and let everything stay down. He was barely aware of the wash of nausea, however, staring as he was at the lipstick stain he'd just left on the rim of the glass. His unwilling eyes tracked down to the thumb grasping just underneath the stain, the nail of which had been painted in a matching shade.
More surprises to come, apparently. Lovely.
Determined by now to find out the worst, he levered himself off the couch and trudged over to one of the room's decorations, a mirror printed with a colorful ambrosia ad. Not even pausing to brace himself, he looked.
And looked. And looked some more. Eventually his response trickled out in the gravelly baritone that had earned him his call-sign.
"Frak ... me ... running."
As colorful as the mirror was, Bill outshone it. He'd been aware of the presence of the wig, of course, along with the bangle around his neck and the clip-on earrings. Now he could see that the wig was a lurid shade of red, fake enough that it seemed to have pink highlights. Or maybe that was just reflections from the satin.
But the makeup they'd applied went far beyond the dusky burgundy lipstick and nail polish. The bronzed planes and angles of his face had been softened and lightened with powder, blush and gods knew what else. The arch of his eyebrows had been delicately emphasized, and liner and shadow had transformed his eyes into something ... sultry. He found himself sliding past outrage into a kind of dazed amazement at the artistry of it all.
If he had to be the victim of a let's-turn-the-rook-into-a-working-girl-on-the-make prank, it was at least nice to know they'd gone all-out.
And it wasn't as if there was anything personal involved, really. Out of the four other rookie pilots joining Galactica's roster yesterday, one was six-five, another was built like a barn, and the remaining two were already quite female, thank you very much. His trim, five-nine self was the only logical target.
He sighed. Time to figure out how to deal with this situation. A quick scan of the room confirmed that his uniform was MIA as expected, though he did find a pair of shoes. Barely-heeled sandals, fortunately. Apparently nobody wanted to be responsible for the new pilot spraining or breaking something.
When he cautiously stuck his head out the door to the front, a faint clinking sound proved to be the barman/owner restocking his glassware. At this hour of the morning, the bar was otherwise deserted, which only partially eased the young pilot's hesitation. "Um ... morning."
The barman looked up. "Ah." His calm acceptance of the apparition before him confirmed that Bill wasn't the first victim of this kind of joke to sleep it off in his back room. "Didja wake up okay? I can mix you up a little something to help fight off that mickey, if you like."
So they had slipped him something. "I'm okay, I think. Look, do you have any clothes I could borrow for a couple of hours?" The grizzled older man was at least five inches taller and eighty pounds heavier than he was, but still.
His hopes sank at the barman's headshake. "Sorry, kid. I'd be glad to help you out, but over two thirds of my business comes from Picon Base and the ships' crews that come through here on leave. If I start messing with their initiation stunts ..." He gave a shrug and an apologetic smile that turned thoughtful after a moment.
"Tell you what I can do; I'll give you some change for the pay phone." He nodded at the antiquated piece of machinery occupying a back corner. "Maybe you can talk one of your buddies on base into having some mercy on you. Worth a shot, anyway." He slapped a few coins on the bar top.
"Thanks." He collected the change and headed back to the phone, contemplating who would be the best person to call. Running through a litany of the faces and names of those crewmates he'd met narrowed the possibilities down to one. Lt. Jaycie McGavin. The blond looker of a Raptor pilot that had given them a quick tour and orientation yesterday ... he thought he might have spotted a warm, speculative gleam in her eye when she smiled at him, which she'd done quite a bit. Might not be much to bank on, but it was better than nothing.
He slotted the coins and punched in the number. Luckily the guy who picked up the phone in the common room asked no questions before yelling for Jaycie to take the call. It took only his mumbled greeting to put her in tune with the situation.
"Husker! Aw, man, are you still at the bar? Dammit, I told them to be careful with how much they dosed your drink ..." A warm blend of concern and amusement tinged her voice.
"No prob. I've had worse," he lied, then dropped the bravado for the meat of his call. "Listen, Jayce, do you think you could slip down here with one of my uniforms? I'm tricked out like a hooker with bills to pay. There's no way I can get back on base looking like this!"
"I'm sorry, Billy." She sounded it, too. "No can do. It'll be my ass if I try."
In his current circumstances, Bill was definitely not too proud to beg. "Ah, c'mon Jaycie. Please? You guys took my base pass with everything else. Even if I can talk my way back in, you know that at least half the pilots are gonna stake out my room with cameras before I get there. Please?"
"Well ... okay. Here's what I can do," she unknowingly echoed the bartender as she lowered her voice. "I can smuggle your uniform up to my quarters; my bunkmates are out right now anyway. If you can get to the north gate-- that's only four blocks away from the bar --I'll meet you there and slip you in quietly. Sneak you up to where you can change in private. You copy?"
Best he could do, apparently. "I copy. Thanks, Jayce. I'll see you soon." Nothing else for it, even if those four blocks were going to seem like forty miles.
After hanging up the phone, he nodded at the barman with a confidence he was a long way from feeling, then crossed to the door. As he reached for the knob, a sudden mental picture of the expression his father would wear if he could see his son now doubled him over with snickers. What the hell. He was Lieutenant William frakking Adama, and if he had to walk back to base in full drag, he was damned well going to do it with style.
With that he straightened up, pulled back his shoulders, called up all his memories of watching flirtatious young women walk the piers and boardwalks of Qualai ... and sashayed out the door.
His bravura act carried him all the way back to base, past a scattering of men who were obviously still feeling the effects of their late-night carousing, and allowed him to respond to the calls of hey baby, you're up early and c'mon sugar, don't be like that with no more than an arched eyebrow and a toss of carmine not-hair.
When he got to the north gate, a surge of relief poured through him at the sight of Jaycie waving him forward. Somehow she'd charmed the gate guards into doing no more than snigger as they let in the scantily-clad lieutenant. Jaycie herself kept sliding him sidelong looks and biting her lips.
A last burst of sass made Bill arch his neck and give her what he hoped was a smoldering look. "Is it me?" he asked in an alto purr.
One snorting guffaw escaped before she regained control. "Don't get me started laughing now, or I'll never get you upstairs."
"Oh, looking to get me upstairs now, are you?" he chuckled in his normal register. "I'm so flattered."
Giggling, she waved him to silence as they slipped up the stairwell. On the floor that contained visiting crews' quarters, she poked her head out the door, then nodded back at him. "All clear. Mine's the third door on the left."
He sighed as he followed her pointing finger. "Thanks, Jaycie. I owe you one." Opening the indicated door, he stepped through -- into a barrage of camera flashes.
The blaze of light slowly resolved into what looked to be all of Galactica's pilots and a smattering of her deck crew, all crammed into the room, cheering and applauding. He blinked, then turned to his supposed rescuer, narrowing his eyes at her cheeky grin. "I definitely owe you one," he growled, which only dissolved her into giggles once more.
Because he knew it was expected, he produced a few hipshot, pouty poses for the cameras, keeping his cheerful plans for payback hidden behind a genial hey, no hard feelings grin. His four fellow rookies couldn't quite disguise their relief that it had been him, not them, but he could tell by the speculative looks they were getting behind their backs that their turns would come soon enough.
Jaycie finally shooed them all out. "C'mon, people, he's been a good sport. Now get out of here and let him get back into uniform." After pushing the last of them into the hall, she shut the door -- with her still on the inside.
Bill raised his eyebrows, a slow smile curving his lips. "What happened to changing in private?"
That warm, speculative gleam was back in her eyes. "Thought I might be able to escape retribution if I made it up to you." She crossed the room to stand only inches away.
"I don't know ..." At her inquiring look, he pitched his voice back to alto. "I wouldn't want you to think I'm easy, after all." He twirled a bit of the wig around one finger.
She grinned. "No chance of that," she purred as she eased closer. "But I bet you're worth it."
As she placed her hands on his augmented chest, he slid his onto her waist. "You'll have one advantage, anyway." He grinned wickedly. "You'll know how to get the damn bra unfastened--"
She let out a hoot of laughter and shoved him onto a bunk. Following right after him, she soon proved him right about the bra ...
... and she looked even hotter than he did in burgundy lipstick.
FIN
Author: Karihan
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica '04
Character: William Adama
Prompt: 060. Drink
Word Count: 2280
Rating: PG-13
Summary: There had to be something in that last drink ...
Notes: No spoilers except for use of a character from the pre-Razor minisodes. This is another trip into the Wayback Machine.
"... nnnnnggggghhhhh ..."
Bill Adama ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to evict the small furry animal that had crawled into his mouth and died during the night. It wasn't his first hangover, but it definitely qualified as his worst to date.
He tried to raise a hand to rub his throbbing temples, only to have it flop onto his stomach when even that exertion proved too much. Prying his eyes open was definitely out of the question -- frak, even his eyelids hurt. What the hell did I drink?
A subtle sense of wrongness teased at the young lieutenant's over-stressed brain, sliding past the more obvious issues of headache, nausea and a well-upholstered tongue. He worked to pin it down, absently tapping his fingers on his abdomen. Tapping -- his brow furrowed.
The material under his fingers was definitely not the crisp fabric of the uniform he'd worn last night. It felt smoother, almost slick to the touch. Like satin ...
Other subtle changes chose that moment to make themselves known to him, slotting into place one by one. Another soft groan escaped Bill as an inexorable wave of realization rolled over him. He now needed to open his eyes, but he sure as frak didn't want to.
Suck it up, Husker. You're an officer and a Viper jock; you can handle this.
He looked. And kept looking, eyes widening in horror. He was indeed stretched out on the couch in the bar's back room, where he and his new shipmates from Galactica had spent the previous night boozing and playing Triad. To welcome five new pilots to the ranks, or so the others had said.
But instead of Colonial blue, his torso was now encased in pink satin, striped with black and trimmed with black lace. Tightly encased, except where they'd stuffed it out to ... well, he had no idea of what the cup size would be, but they weren't small. He just hoped they'd used clean socks.
A silver-studded leather belt clasped his waist. The snug black miniskirt had ridden up just far enough to show the lace trimming the tops of the sheer, dark, thigh-high stockings they'd ... wait a minute, how the frak had they -- his eyes went from widened to bulging as his body yanked itself into a sitting position.
"They shaved my frakking legs?!!"
The combination of the sudden outburst and the sudden sit-up sent a lance of pain stabbing just behind his eyeballs. Hissing, Bill clutched his head, shifting his legs to bring his stocking-clad feet to the floor. The pounding eventually calmed enough that he was able to feel grateful for the fact that he had nothing to shave off his chest ... and for the glass of water and two painkillers someone had left on the table beside him. He tossed back the tablets and washed them down with almost all the water.
His stomach contemplated rebellion at the incursion, then decided it wasn't worth the effort and let everything stay down. He was barely aware of the wash of nausea, however, staring as he was at the lipstick stain he'd just left on the rim of the glass. His unwilling eyes tracked down to the thumb grasping just underneath the stain, the nail of which had been painted in a matching shade.
More surprises to come, apparently. Lovely.
Determined by now to find out the worst, he levered himself off the couch and trudged over to one of the room's decorations, a mirror printed with a colorful ambrosia ad. Not even pausing to brace himself, he looked.
And looked. And looked some more. Eventually his response trickled out in the gravelly baritone that had earned him his call-sign.
"Frak ... me ... running."
As colorful as the mirror was, Bill outshone it. He'd been aware of the presence of the wig, of course, along with the bangle around his neck and the clip-on earrings. Now he could see that the wig was a lurid shade of red, fake enough that it seemed to have pink highlights. Or maybe that was just reflections from the satin.
But the makeup they'd applied went far beyond the dusky burgundy lipstick and nail polish. The bronzed planes and angles of his face had been softened and lightened with powder, blush and gods knew what else. The arch of his eyebrows had been delicately emphasized, and liner and shadow had transformed his eyes into something ... sultry. He found himself sliding past outrage into a kind of dazed amazement at the artistry of it all.
If he had to be the victim of a let's-turn-the-rook-into-a-working-girl-on-the-make prank, it was at least nice to know they'd gone all-out.
And it wasn't as if there was anything personal involved, really. Out of the four other rookie pilots joining Galactica's roster yesterday, one was six-five, another was built like a barn, and the remaining two were already quite female, thank you very much. His trim, five-nine self was the only logical target.
He sighed. Time to figure out how to deal with this situation. A quick scan of the room confirmed that his uniform was MIA as expected, though he did find a pair of shoes. Barely-heeled sandals, fortunately. Apparently nobody wanted to be responsible for the new pilot spraining or breaking something.
When he cautiously stuck his head out the door to the front, a faint clinking sound proved to be the barman/owner restocking his glassware. At this hour of the morning, the bar was otherwise deserted, which only partially eased the young pilot's hesitation. "Um ... morning."
The barman looked up. "Ah." His calm acceptance of the apparition before him confirmed that Bill wasn't the first victim of this kind of joke to sleep it off in his back room. "Didja wake up okay? I can mix you up a little something to help fight off that mickey, if you like."
So they had slipped him something. "I'm okay, I think. Look, do you have any clothes I could borrow for a couple of hours?" The grizzled older man was at least five inches taller and eighty pounds heavier than he was, but still.
His hopes sank at the barman's headshake. "Sorry, kid. I'd be glad to help you out, but over two thirds of my business comes from Picon Base and the ships' crews that come through here on leave. If I start messing with their initiation stunts ..." He gave a shrug and an apologetic smile that turned thoughtful after a moment.
"Tell you what I can do; I'll give you some change for the pay phone." He nodded at the antiquated piece of machinery occupying a back corner. "Maybe you can talk one of your buddies on base into having some mercy on you. Worth a shot, anyway." He slapped a few coins on the bar top.
"Thanks." He collected the change and headed back to the phone, contemplating who would be the best person to call. Running through a litany of the faces and names of those crewmates he'd met narrowed the possibilities down to one. Lt. Jaycie McGavin. The blond looker of a Raptor pilot that had given them a quick tour and orientation yesterday ... he thought he might have spotted a warm, speculative gleam in her eye when she smiled at him, which she'd done quite a bit. Might not be much to bank on, but it was better than nothing.
He slotted the coins and punched in the number. Luckily the guy who picked up the phone in the common room asked no questions before yelling for Jaycie to take the call. It took only his mumbled greeting to put her in tune with the situation.
"Husker! Aw, man, are you still at the bar? Dammit, I told them to be careful with how much they dosed your drink ..." A warm blend of concern and amusement tinged her voice.
"No prob. I've had worse," he lied, then dropped the bravado for the meat of his call. "Listen, Jayce, do you think you could slip down here with one of my uniforms? I'm tricked out like a hooker with bills to pay. There's no way I can get back on base looking like this!"
"I'm sorry, Billy." She sounded it, too. "No can do. It'll be my ass if I try."
In his current circumstances, Bill was definitely not too proud to beg. "Ah, c'mon Jaycie. Please? You guys took my base pass with everything else. Even if I can talk my way back in, you know that at least half the pilots are gonna stake out my room with cameras before I get there. Please?"
"Well ... okay. Here's what I can do," she unknowingly echoed the bartender as she lowered her voice. "I can smuggle your uniform up to my quarters; my bunkmates are out right now anyway. If you can get to the north gate-- that's only four blocks away from the bar --I'll meet you there and slip you in quietly. Sneak you up to where you can change in private. You copy?"
Best he could do, apparently. "I copy. Thanks, Jayce. I'll see you soon." Nothing else for it, even if those four blocks were going to seem like forty miles.
After hanging up the phone, he nodded at the barman with a confidence he was a long way from feeling, then crossed to the door. As he reached for the knob, a sudden mental picture of the expression his father would wear if he could see his son now doubled him over with snickers. What the hell. He was Lieutenant William frakking Adama, and if he had to walk back to base in full drag, he was damned well going to do it with style.
With that he straightened up, pulled back his shoulders, called up all his memories of watching flirtatious young women walk the piers and boardwalks of Qualai ... and sashayed out the door.
His bravura act carried him all the way back to base, past a scattering of men who were obviously still feeling the effects of their late-night carousing, and allowed him to respond to the calls of hey baby, you're up early and c'mon sugar, don't be like that with no more than an arched eyebrow and a toss of carmine not-hair.
When he got to the north gate, a surge of relief poured through him at the sight of Jaycie waving him forward. Somehow she'd charmed the gate guards into doing no more than snigger as they let in the scantily-clad lieutenant. Jaycie herself kept sliding him sidelong looks and biting her lips.
A last burst of sass made Bill arch his neck and give her what he hoped was a smoldering look. "Is it me?" he asked in an alto purr.
One snorting guffaw escaped before she regained control. "Don't get me started laughing now, or I'll never get you upstairs."
"Oh, looking to get me upstairs now, are you?" he chuckled in his normal register. "I'm so flattered."
Giggling, she waved him to silence as they slipped up the stairwell. On the floor that contained visiting crews' quarters, she poked her head out the door, then nodded back at him. "All clear. Mine's the third door on the left."
He sighed as he followed her pointing finger. "Thanks, Jaycie. I owe you one." Opening the indicated door, he stepped through -- into a barrage of camera flashes.
The blaze of light slowly resolved into what looked to be all of Galactica's pilots and a smattering of her deck crew, all crammed into the room, cheering and applauding. He blinked, then turned to his supposed rescuer, narrowing his eyes at her cheeky grin. "I definitely owe you one," he growled, which only dissolved her into giggles once more.
Because he knew it was expected, he produced a few hipshot, pouty poses for the cameras, keeping his cheerful plans for payback hidden behind a genial hey, no hard feelings grin. His four fellow rookies couldn't quite disguise their relief that it had been him, not them, but he could tell by the speculative looks they were getting behind their backs that their turns would come soon enough.
Jaycie finally shooed them all out. "C'mon, people, he's been a good sport. Now get out of here and let him get back into uniform." After pushing the last of them into the hall, she shut the door -- with her still on the inside.
Bill raised his eyebrows, a slow smile curving his lips. "What happened to changing in private?"
That warm, speculative gleam was back in her eyes. "Thought I might be able to escape retribution if I made it up to you." She crossed the room to stand only inches away.
"I don't know ..." At her inquiring look, he pitched his voice back to alto. "I wouldn't want you to think I'm easy, after all." He twirled a bit of the wig around one finger.
She grinned. "No chance of that," she purred as she eased closer. "But I bet you're worth it."
As she placed her hands on his augmented chest, he slid his onto her waist. "You'll have one advantage, anyway." He grinned wickedly. "You'll know how to get the damn bra unfastened--"
She let out a hoot of laughter and shoved him onto a bunk. Following right after him, she soon proved him right about the bra ...
... and she looked even hotter than he did in burgundy lipstick.
FIN