FIC: Helo & Chief & Sharon (in absentia)
Title: Black in the Eyes
Author: violentmedusa
Rating: no sex, though allusions to canon helo/boomer, boomer/chief abound
Spoilers: up to and including Pegasus
Summary: Helo, Tyrol (& others) - written at demon_rabbit's request for "what they're talking about while they're waiting to *spoiler*" You get the picture. Less than one thousand words. Cross-posted.
Between Galactica and Pegasus, they don’t talk. Tyrol catches Helo glancing at him, once, twice. Like a kid with a crush. It embarrasses them both. They both try to stare ahead, glare at the pilots and the marine who are too stiff to even harass them. The corpse at their feet.
Tyrol wonders about death, and the sense-memory of driving anger that somehow resulted in the dead gaze that he can’t avoid. He thinks about Baltar and Crashdown. Over and over, Baltar and Crashdown.
He finds that there is no need to glance back at Helo. He knows what’s there.
--
There are so many men aboard the Pegasus, and Helo is trouble. The pilots hand them off to young, younger marines. Helo’s a big guy. They grab just above his elbows, but aren’t so stiff as the pilots. There are taunts that roll like cigar smoke, vulgar and male and they push them there, in the weak spots around corners.
Tyrol watches Helo go down, roll off on his shoulder, and as the marine steps forward to kick him or haul him up, Tyrol trips him with edging feet. Another fall and grunt, and then Tyrol is black in the eyes with a sucker punch from the other marine.
They keep moving.
--
When Cain visits, her chin tilts like that of an empress.
“My methods seem harsh. But we’ve had months of nothing but fighting these things. We’ve lost a third of our crew. We’ve lost our homes. We haven’t had the comfort of a hope to flee towards. We haven’t had civilians to mitigate our training.”
She watches them both. But they sulk, schoolboys who’ve tasted air and rain and machinal flesh.
“You took a life to protect the - the dignity of the enemy. You may as well be cylons yourselves.”
She leaves them in their glass cage. Helo looks over, and Tyrol smiles a bit, lost.
--
From the glass, which is plastic and thick and could hold its own against an airlock, Helo says, “I think Starbuck’ll take care of her.”
Tyrol, into his knees: “She’ll take care of herself.”
“On Caprica, on Kobol. She saw what Sharon’s capable of. She believes in her. Almost.”
Tyrol is sick with the food they were given: soft, rancid clots of powdered egg, stirred without the benefit of salt. His stomach toils, active as his mind. “You think it’s that much better over there? Adama’s so soft?”
“Better than here.”
“You didn’t see Sharon - my Sharon - catch a bullet in the gut. Without trial, without - without any kind of punishment.” It groans, the egg in his belly. Not egg, just extract and injected vitamins and flour maybe. Powder. Synthetic, artificial. The lights in their cell glare like impotent gods, and there are no clocks.
Helo is silent. He says, “You really think Cally’s gonna want to shoot her twice?”
--
They sleep on the side further from the entry hatch in the viewing gallery, further from the stinking puddle Tyrol heaved by the head. They sleep, they don’t sleep. They lie on their backs, their sides, bored like dogs.
A marine told them they were going to die, a while back. He tried to laugh at Helo’s demand for a line with Galactica. He looked like one of the kids from the massacre. He pushed his helmet back on his head, cocked his rifle on his shoulder and smiled. He said, “Cain says you’re traitors. You’ll be lucky if you make it to the execution.”
Tyrol thinks of Cally with the pistol, Cally in the brig. He watches Helo turn his face to the wall, and pray for Sharon and their daughter.
--
Crashdown with his gun sliding out of his hands. Crashdown with shocked dog-eyes, with his mouth a little open. Cally’s schoolgirl voice lost in her own terror and panic, Baltar stiff and useless as the corpse that was Crashdown.
Tyrol remembers the sick, silent way the new ECO used to hover after Sharon, after landings. Tall and bald and useless. Is it the fate of all traitors to love cylons?
--
Helo has been looking at him, says, “We aren’t going to die, Chief.”
“You think I don’t frakking know that? I know that.”
“We’ll take them at the door. Before they’re all in. These windows will take a bullet or two.”
“Once we have one rifle, they’ll back off.”
“It’s just if she comes in. If she comes with them we’ll take her hostage.”
“Demand a raptor. Good plan, LT.”
--
In the end, it’s Starbuck who comes for them. She is foul and bloody and out in the corridor, they find Baltar supporting a narrow, broken woman in one hand and a pistol in the other.
Helo’s jaw hangs unhinged, and Kara rolls her eyes, gestures with her rifle to follow. She shakes her head all the way down the corridor. And it is Helo who mutters, with a croak of irony, “May as well pick up all the cylon-lovers at once.”
In the dead eyes of the beaten cylon, Tyrol can see Crashdown and the murdered interrogator. Their last glares.
Author: violentmedusa
Rating: no sex, though allusions to canon helo/boomer, boomer/chief abound
Spoilers: up to and including Pegasus
Summary: Helo, Tyrol (& others) - written at demon_rabbit's request for "what they're talking about while they're waiting to *spoiler*" You get the picture. Less than one thousand words. Cross-posted.
Between Galactica and Pegasus, they don’t talk. Tyrol catches Helo glancing at him, once, twice. Like a kid with a crush. It embarrasses them both. They both try to stare ahead, glare at the pilots and the marine who are too stiff to even harass them. The corpse at their feet.
Tyrol wonders about death, and the sense-memory of driving anger that somehow resulted in the dead gaze that he can’t avoid. He thinks about Baltar and Crashdown. Over and over, Baltar and Crashdown.
He finds that there is no need to glance back at Helo. He knows what’s there.
--
There are so many men aboard the Pegasus, and Helo is trouble. The pilots hand them off to young, younger marines. Helo’s a big guy. They grab just above his elbows, but aren’t so stiff as the pilots. There are taunts that roll like cigar smoke, vulgar and male and they push them there, in the weak spots around corners.
Tyrol watches Helo go down, roll off on his shoulder, and as the marine steps forward to kick him or haul him up, Tyrol trips him with edging feet. Another fall and grunt, and then Tyrol is black in the eyes with a sucker punch from the other marine.
They keep moving.
--
When Cain visits, her chin tilts like that of an empress.
“My methods seem harsh. But we’ve had months of nothing but fighting these things. We’ve lost a third of our crew. We’ve lost our homes. We haven’t had the comfort of a hope to flee towards. We haven’t had civilians to mitigate our training.”
She watches them both. But they sulk, schoolboys who’ve tasted air and rain and machinal flesh.
“You took a life to protect the - the dignity of the enemy. You may as well be cylons yourselves.”
She leaves them in their glass cage. Helo looks over, and Tyrol smiles a bit, lost.
--
From the glass, which is plastic and thick and could hold its own against an airlock, Helo says, “I think Starbuck’ll take care of her.”
Tyrol, into his knees: “She’ll take care of herself.”
“On Caprica, on Kobol. She saw what Sharon’s capable of. She believes in her. Almost.”
Tyrol is sick with the food they were given: soft, rancid clots of powdered egg, stirred without the benefit of salt. His stomach toils, active as his mind. “You think it’s that much better over there? Adama’s so soft?”
“Better than here.”
“You didn’t see Sharon - my Sharon - catch a bullet in the gut. Without trial, without - without any kind of punishment.” It groans, the egg in his belly. Not egg, just extract and injected vitamins and flour maybe. Powder. Synthetic, artificial. The lights in their cell glare like impotent gods, and there are no clocks.
Helo is silent. He says, “You really think Cally’s gonna want to shoot her twice?”
--
They sleep on the side further from the entry hatch in the viewing gallery, further from the stinking puddle Tyrol heaved by the head. They sleep, they don’t sleep. They lie on their backs, their sides, bored like dogs.
A marine told them they were going to die, a while back. He tried to laugh at Helo’s demand for a line with Galactica. He looked like one of the kids from the massacre. He pushed his helmet back on his head, cocked his rifle on his shoulder and smiled. He said, “Cain says you’re traitors. You’ll be lucky if you make it to the execution.”
Tyrol thinks of Cally with the pistol, Cally in the brig. He watches Helo turn his face to the wall, and pray for Sharon and their daughter.
--
Crashdown with his gun sliding out of his hands. Crashdown with shocked dog-eyes, with his mouth a little open. Cally’s schoolgirl voice lost in her own terror and panic, Baltar stiff and useless as the corpse that was Crashdown.
Tyrol remembers the sick, silent way the new ECO used to hover after Sharon, after landings. Tall and bald and useless. Is it the fate of all traitors to love cylons?
--
Helo has been looking at him, says, “We aren’t going to die, Chief.”
“You think I don’t frakking know that? I know that.”
“We’ll take them at the door. Before they’re all in. These windows will take a bullet or two.”
“Once we have one rifle, they’ll back off.”
“It’s just if she comes in. If she comes with them we’ll take her hostage.”
“Demand a raptor. Good plan, LT.”
--
In the end, it’s Starbuck who comes for them. She is foul and bloody and out in the corridor, they find Baltar supporting a narrow, broken woman in one hand and a pistol in the other.
Helo’s jaw hangs unhinged, and Kara rolls her eyes, gestures with her rifle to follow. She shakes her head all the way down the corridor. And it is Helo who mutters, with a croak of irony, “May as well pick up all the cylon-lovers at once.”
In the dead eyes of the beaten cylon, Tyrol can see Crashdown and the murdered interrogator. Their last glares.