[Fic] Charade (BSG)
Title: Charade
Pairing: Boomer/Chief
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Rating: R for frakkin'
Summary: In the early days of the resistance, Galen Tyrol reaches out to a possible ally.
Author's Note: This was for the Friday Night Fun Post prompt "Boomer/Chief, New Caprica, he's missed this" by embolalia
Boomer's hands are firm on his wrists as she shoves him down the hallway and rips open the door.
“Don’t frakking lie to me, human!” she shouts, perhaps too loudly, but the effect holds. As she shoves him into the interrogation room, her grip on him relaxes. “Tell me what you-” She slams the door.
He spins around in her arms, catching her mouth in his. Their kisses are hungry, greedy.
He has a wife. A baby. He shouldn’t do this.
He tangles his fingers in her hair, so overwhelmed by the force of her presence that it’s all he can do to hold on. She’s multi-tasking, flicking the tip of her tongue between his lips as she unbuttons her shirt.
And now she’s down to her bra. He slides a hand down to her shoulder, across her back to the clasp, and the brush of her skin against his fingers is electric. The last time he touched her, she was dying in his arms, and though his emotions for her have been a fogged by pain, in this moment all he can think of is how much he’s missed this.
Boomer pushes him against the table, and now she’s pulling on the fly of his pants, an obstacle quickly overcome before she sinks to her knees and takes his tip into her mouth. He’s grateful for the table, sinking against it to support weight his knees certainly can’t hold anymore. She doesn’t let him off easily, each movement of her tongue exquisitely slow.
He’s so close, his body arching with his need for her, but she’s well versed in the language of his breaths, and she stops just before release, her lips finding his again. She catches his moan in her mouth, and guides his hands downward-
“I need you,” she whispers, but it could just as easily have come from him.
Her new body doesn’t feel any different from the old one, he notes. He still knows all the ways in which she likes to be touched, can still read the language of her breaths as well, how to elicit the shudders and the short gasps. He knows just the right moment to slide into her, and they both ride the pleasure of it.
He holds onto her hips, and for a time he can almost believe that they’re back in a storage closet on Galactica, before any of this, before they knew they were two separate species. How can they be different, when she fits him so perfectly, when their bodies rock together in time?
“Chief,” she gasps, her breath hot against his collarbone, and now he’s over the edge, a euphoria that fills him up and is over far too soon.
He’s slumps against the table, gasping from the whirlwind of it. They were never a vastly sentimental couple, their stolen moments never lending well to cuddling, but in this moment, more than anything else, he wants to hold her close. Wants the feeling of her skin against his forever. But she doesn’t seem to share the feeling, detaching herself from him to pick her bra up off the floor.
She dresses quickly and opens the door a crack to peer out.
“You’re going to have to fake an escape,” Boomer says, her face all business even if her voice betrays her emotion. “No one’s actually going to believe me when I say I brought you in for interrogation and you escaped, but we should at least give them the charade.”
“Wait,” he says, half lifting a hand. “I need to ask you something.” He needs to actually finish his mission if he wants anyone, even himself, to believe the lie that he didn't seek her out just to frak her. She shuts the door. “Floor plans are great, but we need the security codes to the munitions facility.”
Her intake of breath is so sharp, so surprised. “Give you codes? I can’t do that! You're a…” she begins, her face pale. And he realizes in that moment that they were wrong. “You're one of the terrorists?” They were all so wrong.
Boomer isn’t The Source.
“Oh, gods-”
“Was this just a mission? What, to seduce me into betrayal?”
There’s no sentimentality left. He doesn’t answer her, just pulls up his pants and buttons them as quickly as he can manage.
“And what happens if it doesn’t work, Galen?”
Funny, how the use of his given name underlies a threat.
“Sharon-”
She lunges for him, but he ducks the other way, slipping from her grasp. She’s left the door unguarded, and he slips through, escaping into the hallways. She shouts for Centurions, and now he’s really running, his escape no longer the charade it might have been.
He makes it out alive, though. And that night he drinks until he can’t see straight, but even that isn’t enough to forget the feeling of Boomer’s mouth on his. He throws up all over the floor of their tent and Cally dutifully cleans it up, which only makes him feel worse.
He vows to punch Tigh in the face the next time the Colonel growls out a reference to their Source as “she.” Maybe that will clear the ache that follows Galen around like a dirty shadow.
The Source isn’t a woman.
At least, if it is, she isn’t Boomer.
Pairing: Boomer/Chief
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Rating: R for frakkin'
Summary: In the early days of the resistance, Galen Tyrol reaches out to a possible ally.
Author's Note: This was for the Friday Night Fun Post prompt "Boomer/Chief, New Caprica, he's missed this" by embolalia
Boomer's hands are firm on his wrists as she shoves him down the hallway and rips open the door.
“Don’t frakking lie to me, human!” she shouts, perhaps too loudly, but the effect holds. As she shoves him into the interrogation room, her grip on him relaxes. “Tell me what you-” She slams the door.
He spins around in her arms, catching her mouth in his. Their kisses are hungry, greedy.
He has a wife. A baby. He shouldn’t do this.
He tangles his fingers in her hair, so overwhelmed by the force of her presence that it’s all he can do to hold on. She’s multi-tasking, flicking the tip of her tongue between his lips as she unbuttons her shirt.
And now she’s down to her bra. He slides a hand down to her shoulder, across her back to the clasp, and the brush of her skin against his fingers is electric. The last time he touched her, she was dying in his arms, and though his emotions for her have been a fogged by pain, in this moment all he can think of is how much he’s missed this.
Boomer pushes him against the table, and now she’s pulling on the fly of his pants, an obstacle quickly overcome before she sinks to her knees and takes his tip into her mouth. He’s grateful for the table, sinking against it to support weight his knees certainly can’t hold anymore. She doesn’t let him off easily, each movement of her tongue exquisitely slow.
He’s so close, his body arching with his need for her, but she’s well versed in the language of his breaths, and she stops just before release, her lips finding his again. She catches his moan in her mouth, and guides his hands downward-
“I need you,” she whispers, but it could just as easily have come from him.
Her new body doesn’t feel any different from the old one, he notes. He still knows all the ways in which she likes to be touched, can still read the language of her breaths as well, how to elicit the shudders and the short gasps. He knows just the right moment to slide into her, and they both ride the pleasure of it.
He holds onto her hips, and for a time he can almost believe that they’re back in a storage closet on Galactica, before any of this, before they knew they were two separate species. How can they be different, when she fits him so perfectly, when their bodies rock together in time?
“Chief,” she gasps, her breath hot against his collarbone, and now he’s over the edge, a euphoria that fills him up and is over far too soon.
He’s slumps against the table, gasping from the whirlwind of it. They were never a vastly sentimental couple, their stolen moments never lending well to cuddling, but in this moment, more than anything else, he wants to hold her close. Wants the feeling of her skin against his forever. But she doesn’t seem to share the feeling, detaching herself from him to pick her bra up off the floor.
She dresses quickly and opens the door a crack to peer out.
“You’re going to have to fake an escape,” Boomer says, her face all business even if her voice betrays her emotion. “No one’s actually going to believe me when I say I brought you in for interrogation and you escaped, but we should at least give them the charade.”
“Wait,” he says, half lifting a hand. “I need to ask you something.” He needs to actually finish his mission if he wants anyone, even himself, to believe the lie that he didn't seek her out just to frak her. She shuts the door. “Floor plans are great, but we need the security codes to the munitions facility.”
Her intake of breath is so sharp, so surprised. “Give you codes? I can’t do that! You're a…” she begins, her face pale. And he realizes in that moment that they were wrong. “You're one of the terrorists?” They were all so wrong.
Boomer isn’t The Source.
“Oh, gods-”
“Was this just a mission? What, to seduce me into betrayal?”
There’s no sentimentality left. He doesn’t answer her, just pulls up his pants and buttons them as quickly as he can manage.
“And what happens if it doesn’t work, Galen?”
Funny, how the use of his given name underlies a threat.
“Sharon-”
She lunges for him, but he ducks the other way, slipping from her grasp. She’s left the door unguarded, and he slips through, escaping into the hallways. She shouts for Centurions, and now he’s really running, his escape no longer the charade it might have been.
He makes it out alive, though. And that night he drinks until he can’t see straight, but even that isn’t enough to forget the feeling of Boomer’s mouth on his. He throws up all over the floor of their tent and Cally dutifully cleans it up, which only makes him feel worse.
He vows to punch Tigh in the face the next time the Colonel growls out a reference to their Source as “she.” Maybe that will clear the ache that follows Galen around like a dirty shadow.
The Source isn’t a woman.
At least, if it is, she isn’t Boomer.