Fic: A Boost of Morale | BSG | Helena Cain/Ellen Tigh | PG-13
Title: A Boost of Morale
Author: jaybee65
Fandom: BSG 2003
Pairing: Helena Cain/Ellen Tigh
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: Roughly 1200
Warnings/Spoilers: Set before the start of the miniseries, so no spoilers of note.
Author's Note: written as part of the getyourtoaster Cain Round challenge for viciouswishes, who wanted to see Cain with Ellen Tigh, with Cloud Nine and no character bashing. Thanks to msgenevieve for the beta help.
Cloud Nine's lounge hums with murmured conversation from cozy little groups of eager lieutenants and their overdressed young spouses. You hate them all with their fresh-faced cheerfulness; you hate the third-rate suite you've been assigned that doesn't even have a decent mini-bar; and more than anything you hate the way Saul ignores you when you're telling him all the things you hate. You're only a few hours out of Fleet Headquarters on Picon on one of those bullshit officers-and-families morale-building weekend excursions, and already you're bored and irritable and far, far too drunk, and by the end of the evening you find yourself flinging an entire glass of ambrosia in Saul's open-mouthed face.
A hush falls over the lounge and you can feel the other patrons gawking at the scene you've caused, but you're used to being the center of attention and at this point in your life you don't really give a shit if it's good attention or bad. When Saul sputters and walks off without a word, you turn to face the rest of the room and everyone hastily pretends not to be looking.
That is, except for the woman in uniform at the far end of the bar, whose stare pierces you like an icepick through the forehead.
"Frak you, too, honey," you say, and blow her a kiss before you sit down to order another drink.
***
An hour later, you're beginning to grow tired of flirting with the twenty-something bartender who's probably gay anyway and just humoring you for tips. You steal a look down the bar at the woman who gave you the evil eye before. She's still there, nursing her drink as she jots notes over whatever paperwork she's doing. Or rather pretending to do, because she doesn't fool you one bit. She's here to pick someone up, just like you, but she's too uptight to be open about it. Which is probably why she isn't having any success. That stick up her ass isn't exactly alluring.
Then again, you're hardly hitting the jackpot tonight yourself, so who are you to judge?
You turn toward her and smile.
"I'm Ellen," you say, offering your hand. "Ellen Tigh. You probably know my husband, Saul. The one I threw the drink on?"
"Can't say that I do. It's a big fleet."
She shakes your hand, but limply, without even feigning interest. She lets your hand drop like a soiled napkin and returns to her paperwork.
"He's the XO on the Galactica," you offer, unwilling to be dismissed quite so quickly.
This makes her look up, an eyebrow arched in disdain. "That junkheap? I hear they're decommissioning it in three months."
You're about to leap to Saul's ship's defense, until you notice the insignia on her shoulder. You count the bars and stripes. More than Saul. More than Bill Adama.
By the Gods, you're sitting next to an admiral. Isn't today just your lucky day?
"They're turning it into a museum," you confirm, leaning a tiny bit closer. "Saul's going to take his pension. I wish he wouldn't." You take a sip of ambrosia and smile demurely. "Say, you don't know of any open postings, do you? Like maybe on your ship?"
"I already have an XO, thanks."
"But he's good. Experienced. Really knowledgeable about all those…." You falter, your hand fluttering in a gesture of exasperation. "About all those XO things."
She sets down her drink with a thump and fixes you with a hard stare.
"XOs are like dogs. All they need to know is how to fetch, roll over, and heel. Can he do that?"
You blink for a moment, and then you laugh. "Actually, he does that pretty well."
A smile creeps across her face. "I think I can guess who trained him."
***
Admiral Cain's suite -- no, Helena's suite, because you knew it wouldn't take you long to get to a first-name basis once you turned on the charm -- is everything you wanted and Saul didn't get. It's got a full living room with a stocked bar, a whirlpool in the bathroom, and now that you've ordered room service there's a platter of the best food Cloud Nine has to offer. All courtesy of a Fleet expense account with higher limits than a colonel will ever see.
You stuff a cracker heavily laden with caviar into your mouth, and when briny liquid runs down the side of your thumb you lick it off with gleefully overt relish. She sits next to you on the leather sofa and says nothing, and you're not sure whether the flush of pleasure you feel warming your skin comes from the fact that you've just tasted one of Picon's rarest delicacies or the fact that she studies the movement of your tongue like she's imagining it doing something quite different.
When she leans in and kisses you, her own tongue darting and swirling, you get a good idea what that something might be. But you pull away, because you can't resist making just one suggestion.
"It's a waste of the suite not to use the whirlpool, you know." You giggle, you hope coquettishly and not merely drunkenly.
"Later," she says. She pushes you down onto the sofa, and as her tongue slides along your neck and her hands along your waist and toward your breasts, you don't even mind that you haven't had a chance to eat any of the Geminese chocolate yet.
***
The next morning, she's up at a hideously early hour, showered and alert and doing brisk pushups in her underwear while you groan and pull the covers over your head, wishing to the Gods that your headache would just kill you now and get it over with.
She stands and starts to dress. "I'm leading a seminar for the junior officers at 0600, but you're welcome to stay as long as you like." Her mouth twitches in a mild smirk. "You know the number for room service, don't you?"
You nod. Coffee. Coffee would be wonderful. Oh, and maybe a stack of pancakes with fresh berries, or a selection of fresh fruit, so you can feed yourself grapes while you finally get some use out of that whirlpool, since you never made it there last night and after what Helena did to you you've got some bruises that could use a good soaking.
You're so lost in the possibilities that it takes you a moment to notice that she's already headed out the door, looking back at you with an expression devoid of any warmth whatsoever.
"You're a smart woman, Ellen. I hope you realize that I'm not going to give your husband a job just because you let me frak you."
It's a slap in the face, but you're not going to let her see it affect you. You give her the sweetest smile in your arsenal. "I can't believe you would think such a thing of me."
When the door closes behind her, you're up in an instant, pawing through the closet as you gather Cloud Nine bathrobes to stuff into your suitcase as souvenirs. You may not get what you came here for, but you're not leaving empty-handed.
After all, this cruise is supposed to be about boosting morale. No one said it couldn't be yours.
Author: jaybee65
Fandom: BSG 2003
Pairing: Helena Cain/Ellen Tigh
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: Roughly 1200
Warnings/Spoilers: Set before the start of the miniseries, so no spoilers of note.
Author's Note: written as part of the getyourtoaster Cain Round challenge for viciouswishes, who wanted to see Cain with Ellen Tigh, with Cloud Nine and no character bashing. Thanks to msgenevieve for the beta help.
Cloud Nine's lounge hums with murmured conversation from cozy little groups of eager lieutenants and their overdressed young spouses. You hate them all with their fresh-faced cheerfulness; you hate the third-rate suite you've been assigned that doesn't even have a decent mini-bar; and more than anything you hate the way Saul ignores you when you're telling him all the things you hate. You're only a few hours out of Fleet Headquarters on Picon on one of those bullshit officers-and-families morale-building weekend excursions, and already you're bored and irritable and far, far too drunk, and by the end of the evening you find yourself flinging an entire glass of ambrosia in Saul's open-mouthed face.
A hush falls over the lounge and you can feel the other patrons gawking at the scene you've caused, but you're used to being the center of attention and at this point in your life you don't really give a shit if it's good attention or bad. When Saul sputters and walks off without a word, you turn to face the rest of the room and everyone hastily pretends not to be looking.
That is, except for the woman in uniform at the far end of the bar, whose stare pierces you like an icepick through the forehead.
"Frak you, too, honey," you say, and blow her a kiss before you sit down to order another drink.
***
An hour later, you're beginning to grow tired of flirting with the twenty-something bartender who's probably gay anyway and just humoring you for tips. You steal a look down the bar at the woman who gave you the evil eye before. She's still there, nursing her drink as she jots notes over whatever paperwork she's doing. Or rather pretending to do, because she doesn't fool you one bit. She's here to pick someone up, just like you, but she's too uptight to be open about it. Which is probably why she isn't having any success. That stick up her ass isn't exactly alluring.
Then again, you're hardly hitting the jackpot tonight yourself, so who are you to judge?
You turn toward her and smile.
"I'm Ellen," you say, offering your hand. "Ellen Tigh. You probably know my husband, Saul. The one I threw the drink on?"
"Can't say that I do. It's a big fleet."
She shakes your hand, but limply, without even feigning interest. She lets your hand drop like a soiled napkin and returns to her paperwork.
"He's the XO on the Galactica," you offer, unwilling to be dismissed quite so quickly.
This makes her look up, an eyebrow arched in disdain. "That junkheap? I hear they're decommissioning it in three months."
You're about to leap to Saul's ship's defense, until you notice the insignia on her shoulder. You count the bars and stripes. More than Saul. More than Bill Adama.
By the Gods, you're sitting next to an admiral. Isn't today just your lucky day?
"They're turning it into a museum," you confirm, leaning a tiny bit closer. "Saul's going to take his pension. I wish he wouldn't." You take a sip of ambrosia and smile demurely. "Say, you don't know of any open postings, do you? Like maybe on your ship?"
"I already have an XO, thanks."
"But he's good. Experienced. Really knowledgeable about all those…." You falter, your hand fluttering in a gesture of exasperation. "About all those XO things."
She sets down her drink with a thump and fixes you with a hard stare.
"XOs are like dogs. All they need to know is how to fetch, roll over, and heel. Can he do that?"
You blink for a moment, and then you laugh. "Actually, he does that pretty well."
A smile creeps across her face. "I think I can guess who trained him."
***
Admiral Cain's suite -- no, Helena's suite, because you knew it wouldn't take you long to get to a first-name basis once you turned on the charm -- is everything you wanted and Saul didn't get. It's got a full living room with a stocked bar, a whirlpool in the bathroom, and now that you've ordered room service there's a platter of the best food Cloud Nine has to offer. All courtesy of a Fleet expense account with higher limits than a colonel will ever see.
You stuff a cracker heavily laden with caviar into your mouth, and when briny liquid runs down the side of your thumb you lick it off with gleefully overt relish. She sits next to you on the leather sofa and says nothing, and you're not sure whether the flush of pleasure you feel warming your skin comes from the fact that you've just tasted one of Picon's rarest delicacies or the fact that she studies the movement of your tongue like she's imagining it doing something quite different.
When she leans in and kisses you, her own tongue darting and swirling, you get a good idea what that something might be. But you pull away, because you can't resist making just one suggestion.
"It's a waste of the suite not to use the whirlpool, you know." You giggle, you hope coquettishly and not merely drunkenly.
"Later," she says. She pushes you down onto the sofa, and as her tongue slides along your neck and her hands along your waist and toward your breasts, you don't even mind that you haven't had a chance to eat any of the Geminese chocolate yet.
***
The next morning, she's up at a hideously early hour, showered and alert and doing brisk pushups in her underwear while you groan and pull the covers over your head, wishing to the Gods that your headache would just kill you now and get it over with.
She stands and starts to dress. "I'm leading a seminar for the junior officers at 0600, but you're welcome to stay as long as you like." Her mouth twitches in a mild smirk. "You know the number for room service, don't you?"
You nod. Coffee. Coffee would be wonderful. Oh, and maybe a stack of pancakes with fresh berries, or a selection of fresh fruit, so you can feed yourself grapes while you finally get some use out of that whirlpool, since you never made it there last night and after what Helena did to you you've got some bruises that could use a good soaking.
You're so lost in the possibilities that it takes you a moment to notice that she's already headed out the door, looking back at you with an expression devoid of any warmth whatsoever.
"You're a smart woman, Ellen. I hope you realize that I'm not going to give your husband a job just because you let me frak you."
It's a slap in the face, but you're not going to let her see it affect you. You give her the sweetest smile in your arsenal. "I can't believe you would think such a thing of me."
When the door closes behind her, you're up in an instant, pawing through the closet as you gather Cloud Nine bathrobes to stuff into your suitcase as souvenirs. You may not get what you came here for, but you're not leaving empty-handed.
After all, this cruise is supposed to be about boosting morale. No one said it couldn't be yours.