rebelliousrose2

Ship of The Dead, written for bsg_remix 2009

2009-07-14T21:26:04Z

Title: Ship of the Dead
Author: rebelliousrose, fanfic located at rebelliousrose2
Summary: Battlestar. Zombies. Angst.
Characters: Helo, Lee (in part), Dualla, Matthias, various enlisted and officers.
Pairings: Helo/Dualla
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: If zombies traumatize you, maybe skip this one.
Title, Author and URL of original story: Hungry Zombies, Led by Helo’s and Dee’s Love Child, Eat Lee Adama or Helo and Lee Have No Pants by sabaceanbabe
Beta Thanks: trovia, Pierre at Across The Salt
Author Notes: Getting sabaceanbabe as my bsg_remix assignment was both pleasing and terrifying- pleasing because she’s my friend and I love her and her work, and terrifying because, well, she’s sabaceanbabe! How can you improvise on perfection? It took me longer to find something I could remix than it did to actually remix it! (I really wanted to call it “Dee of the Dead” but I went for the pun instead.)

“Dee, come on!” The grenade boomed, clearing the hallway with a stench of rotting bodies, a shower of fleshy gobbets and a blinding flash

Helo in the hallway from the brig, still wearing his dress grays and holding a bouquet of wilted New Caprican foliage in one hand. His huge shoulders slumped, and his feet seemingly stuck to the deck, unable to go forward or back. She takes his hand, and he lets her lead him to his new quarters and undog the hatch and sit him down on the couch. She holds his hand again and watches him quietly with those beautiful eyes, and after a while she begins to talk idly about her life Before, and what she thought it would be, and how it will be now. No one’s life is how they thought it would be, and it seems that everyone is making do, taking what they can find, instead of what they want. Nothing will ever be simple, or perfect, again.

There are so many of Them, but they are mercifully slow and incredibly fragile. The worst part is seeing faces that she knows, or worse yet, loves. Once-elegant Felix Gaeta is crawling, missing a leg, dragging himself toward them with a single-minded determination that leaves a trail of smeared putrescence on the deck. She’s quivering against Helo’s broad back, not crying, but shaking as he finally has no choice, to kill a friend to save the three of them and his gun chatters

He’s so pale, even after standing in the hard sun that day, except for the reddened nose and redder eyes. His skin is milky and sleek and male, and her hands look almost saturated with color. She plays idle connect-the-dots with the freckles on his neck and he flinches. They both have so many memories of the times things were right, of the hands that played familiar games and touched familiar spots, that this is a minefield of precarious feeling. Every gentle touch can wound. Her mouth finds his, and the salt comes from both of them.

There is so much screaming, and cordite, and noise. The baby is sobbing, and Galactica’s halls are running with blood and worse. This virus, or whatever it is, is fast, and terrible. It began on Pegasus. She’s gone silent. The civilian ships are reporting clean. Galactica’s down in it, but she’s fighting hard, every step of retreat an agony. Adama’s holding the CIC, and the speakers are broadcasting instructions that no one has time to listen to, since the priority is to stay alive. Her boots squash through the broken remnants of…someone, and she shifts the baby to her free hand and grabs the downed weapon with the other, coming up in time to shoot by his hip and it flies into the wall, away from the door as they back into the hatch and he throws another grenade, the last

She’s on top of him. His eyes are intent, but she’s not sure he’s really seeing her. She’s never seen him so broken, this man who always does the right thing. His compass is more clear than any she’s ever known, but he’s lost the true north that guides him. She closes her eyes in a combination of pleasure and heartbreak. He’s touching things inside of her that she’s kept hidden for an eternity of running out of time, loving her with every touch, every movement. He does love her, and she loves him, and that’s what makes this even worse- they love each other but the real love, the hard, painful love, is for the ones who aren’t there. One in a cell, walled around with bars colder than iron, and one dancing light-footed around the truth under a starry sky.

One of the Marines tries to take the baby from her, but she holds on. They push him back, closing armored bodies around the three of them and laying down a coordinated suppressing fire. One of the soldiers is Matthias, and she’s grim, and competent. She’s always grim and competent. She’s relaying sitrep to Helo, and snatches of words are audible over the bullets and the smack of rending spongy flesh. “Holding’s secure, sir…CIC clear…venting port side, then starboard...airtight compartments…” her words cut off as one of Them drops on her from the gantryway above and Helo literally rips it off Matthias, tears off the torso and throws it away, still flailing and shrieking. One of the arms drops at Dee’s feet and she kicks at it as it grabs her foot. When she sees the commander’s piping

He holds her and she holds him up. Tenderness is more a part of them than passion. They’ve burned out passion on the coals of crushed hearts, and what’s left is a love that has no ups and downs, no doubts or difficulties. It just is, and it sustains them through the daily life. If he thinks about a time when he ran through forests, and she holds close and secret stolen moments, neither feel cheated. Memories define them, and what they’ve held on to is each other, and what they’ve made here alone together at the end of the world.

He’s got the baby, and her, and his strength is all that’s dragging her to what safety they can find. Hers is almost gone, but when she sees, under his shoulder, one of the Marines’ faces suddenly go slack, she can get the pistol out of his holster as fast as she needs to and the face explodes and the body drops. “Good job, sir,” Matthias calls, and the sergeant’s feet crunch over part of her command as they pass through the hatch, safe enough for now that she can rest, and then his side catches her eye, wetly red

The first time she can remember kissing him without anyone else there is when she finally told him what he’s already guessed. His hands have already found the new fullness, the tender spots, and he’s held her over the head and wiped cold sweat from her face, but he’s who he is, and he’ll wait. He’s good at waiting. Her mouth settles on his, and she savors the way he tastes, and feels, and smells. His hand hooks over her cheekbone like a thousand times before it, and this time is the first time. She lets herself sink in, and blend with him, and she’s coming home.

His teeth are clenched and his cheekbones are standing out in stark relief as she winds the bandages tightly around and around the long slash just above his hip. It needs stitches, but there’s no time, no supplies and no skills, so he’ll have to hold. Matthias has a Marine standing watching him with a round in the chamber. There will be time, if it happens, to keep them all safe. It’s incredibly cold in here, since the venting’s begun. They, the things, need oxygen to survive, and this is going to work, save Galactica. It was Gaeta’s idea. Of course it was. Helo’s watching her, and the baby, and smiling, his eyes incredibly clear. She’s never realized before that his eyes and hers are the same color, and she keeps her eyes on his even as his gun hand comes up

She’s drenched and sobbing and her mother’s comment about shitting a football is running through her mind every second, but his lips are pressed against her temple and his soft voice is steady and above all certain. She can do this because he knows she can, and because nature has left her no choice, the sadistic bitch goddess. Every time she bears down, his body’s around her, supporting her, and when she breaks and the warm gush between her legs becomes a thin wailing, she looks into his eyes and it’s only for her. He only sees her. He’s hers, and she’s his, and now theirs. It’s simple, and perfect. For as long as it lasts. The Gods hate perfection.</cut>

Pornbattle Drabbles

2009-07-10T03:30:42Z

Tiger Balm, Bumps and Callsign
Lee/Helo, Helo/Kara, Kara/HotDog
Rated R

Tiger Balm
Written for LJ bsg_pornbattle 2009
Prompt: Lee/Helo, hamstring
Rated R

Helo was lifting, smooth and easy, feeling the slow burn, when Lee Adama screamed and went down, clutching at his leg. He rolled, groaning in agony, fingers digging in and Helo was moving to help, just missing his own foot as he downed the weights. He pinned Lee with one hand and batted the CAG’s fingers off his own leg, grabbing the spasming muscle and digging in. Adama went mostly still, teeth ground together and breath whistling as Helo used both hands on the knot in his thigh.

“Any better?” Helo asked, bearing down with his thumbs and full weight on the twisted muscle.

“Frak, Agathon. Feels like being shot.” Lee gritted, trying to flex his toes and help Helo.

“Try and relax. You’d think with all the algae, we wouldn’t cramp up; it’s pretty potassium heavy.” Helo kneaded hard, big hands pressing into the center of the problem spot, and Lee thought about sobbing like a little girl, but toughed it out through the pain, sucking breath through clenched teeth until the agony eased.

Helo kept up the massage, working out the cramp and the surrounding tension, working his way up to Lee’s lower back and then down again. Adama was limp under his hands, and Helo didn’t mind continuing. With the exception of Racetrack, the younger Adama was the most overstrung person in the service. He vibrated like a tuning fork, and everyone under him got nervy too, except for Helo. His mother’d said he was born calm.

Lee let out a long-held breath. “Thanks, Helo.” He went limp onto the mat-covered floor and let Helo’s firm hands dig into his taut shoulders.

“Going to pay me back?” Helo teased, circling his thumbs at the base of Lee’s neck, and grinning at the sound of the CAG’s echoing groan of pleasure. He straddled the smaller man’s back to apply more pressure to the mess that was the back of his shoulder blades, trying not to rest his weight and squash the Admiral’s son like a bug.

Lee’s voice was muffled in the crook of his arm. “You won’t crush me. Or go ahead and crush me. Just don’t stop.”

“Bribe me,” Helo said, amused at the puddle of goo Lee Adama was becoming.

He wasn’t expecting the sudden movement from underneath, and as Lee rolled, he fell to one side, catching himself on knee and forearm face to face with the bluest pair of eyes in the Fleet. Lee’s elbow knocked Helo’s out from under him and then his tongue was in Helo’s mouth and his free hand was attacking the ties to Helo’s loose gym pants. He flipped Helo onto his back and straddled him in return, sucking on Helo’s tongue with a naked hunger, pinning the bigger man’s hands above his head and grasping firmly through the thin knit fabric. “Out of uniform, Agathon. Regs say briefs in the gym.”

Helo laughed, but lost his ability to speak as clever hands and mouth stroked him hard. Lee Adama was grinding into him like a Picon stripper, and each flex of his hips made it harder for Helo to think of all the very good reasons they shouldn’t be doing this, at least not here. Then again, a good officer followed orders….

He got his hands free and clamped both of them tightly to Lee’s ass, adding pressure and controlling his movement. “Slow it down, Apollo. Take a little time.”

“Can’t wait,” Lee panted, “Have a meeting with Showboat in half an hour. Hurry.” He grunted and picked up speed and rhythm, dropping his head to Helo’s shoulder and driving them both.

Helo let him take control, let the rush build at the base of his own spine and take him up and over as Apollo went bowstring taut and gasped against his neck. Lee collapsed onto Helo’s body, heaving in great gulps of air.

Sweat ran off both of them freely, dampening the mats as Helo pulled Lee to his feet, wiping his face with his tanks. He reached down and dug his fingers into the back of Adama’s leg. “Still good?”

Blue eyes flashed and Lee stepped into him and ground. “Paid back yet?”

Helo let his eyes close lazily. “Might need another workout. How long’s that meeting?”

Bumps
Written for LJ bsg_pornbattle 2009
Prompt: Kara/Helo, sex in the cockpit
Rated R

“Godsdamnit, Kara!” Helo nurses his elbow, not sure if that or his knee is hurting more. He’s not made for this. He’s too big, and while in some cases size is an asset (Kara’s not complaining) he’s turning into a collection of bumps and dents.

Kara reaches up and grabs his pouting lower lip between her teeth. “You’re the one who had to be on top, Helo.”

Callsign
Written for LJ bsg_pornbattle 2009
Prompt: HotDog/Kara, more than a frak
Rated R

Her ass is stuck to the briefing desk, and the fake wood is giving out threatening groans. She can see the plaque for Vampire squadron and very little else. He’s thrusting into her slowly, his long face intent, his eyes focused on hers. He hasn’t looked away, and the steady regard makes her squirm inside. She’s not used to not being able to hide. Her flightsuit’s around her feet, and his is simply unzipped. She can’t get her legs all the way apart, and the sensation’s amazing. Something about him is hitting every spot she has, and even though she’s never considered him sexy, or even really male, just a nugget, this is turning into one of the best fraks she’s ever had.

He’s steady, in both his rhythm and his approach to flying. His callsign’s wrong. He’s not reckless, he’s controlled, and measured, and he’s…gods. One hand is digging into her hip, tilting her so he can go deeper and higher, and his other hand is between them, stroking into the creases of her, trailing wet fingers against both of them as he moves.

Slick. He’s slick, and hot, and she drops her head back, offering him her mouth, but he smiles and rakes his teeth over her throat instead, marking her. He’s been hers since he began on Galactica, but right now, right here, she’s his.

Triad, Helo/Dualla, G.

2009-06-13T21:32:10Z

Triad, drabble written for lyssie 's birthday.
Helo/Dualla
Rated G

He doesn’t know how she does it. Those eyes, those huge, innnocent eyes with that crystalline color, the same color as his own, hide the hardest card shark on Galactica. With a quiver of her dewy lip, she’ll snatch cubits out of your pocket faster even than Starbuck, and you’ll enjoy the pain and come back for more. No one can be that innocent looking and so devious at the same time.

Helo’s drunk, which isn’t helping, since he knows that he can’t bluff for shit and Dualla’s all about subtlety in her Triad. He’s too used to Starbuck’s uncanny luck and kamikaze betting; he can’t seem to get his head around the new way, and he’s losing his ass, quite literally. Dualla’s got all his money, what Gaeta hadn’t won before the Petty Officer showed up, and the only thing he had left to bet was himself. And he was going to lose, and other than regs, nothing was stopping Dualla from doing anything she wanted to do with him, although knowing her, he was going to be shining boots forever.

Dualla calls the hand, and Helo’s done; he’s lost both the bluff and the game. Gaeta’s laughing at him, in that laughing-but-not-laughing way he has, and the ready room is clearing out- people have CAP, and briefings, and Galactica starts way too early sometimes after a night of hard play.

His voice is rusty from the drink, when he asks Dualla what she wants from him. He’s not expecting the look in her eyes, but when she answers, he’s game. The table’s easy to clear, and Dualla lies across it gracefully, tanks riding up to show sleek brown skin. She’s gorgeous, he’s always thought so, elegant and compact, and sexy with it, and Helo wishes for a moment that the bet had been his to win.

But he has her foot in his hands, and the groan of pleasure she’s making is its own reward, as he works his thumbs down her instep.

rebelliousrose2 @ 2009-04-14T02:54:00

2009-04-14T06:55:42Z

Five Times Sharon Was Jealous and the One Time She Wasn't

Kindreds Five Times Project

Written by: rebelliousrose

Rated: G

Fifth Time

Helo’s smiling goofily at the girl, a blonde whose name Boomer doesn’t remember. She never troubles to learn their names, since Helo never keeps them around long enough for her to bother. Starbuck calls them all “Candy” and either Helo hasn’t figured out why, or he’s too polite to tell her that pots shouldn’t insult kettles. Boomer’s used to it, watching him wander over to watch a fight on the screen in a bar, and having every female in the place suddenly develop an interest in what round and who is winning. It works on Galactica, too, but Helo’s scrupulous about not frakking around on the ship. He makes up for it on shore leave.

He always keeps them happy, too. They never get mad at him for leaving, and he’s been invited to a lot of their weddings. CAG says that he’s there to give the brides an escape hatch, but Boomer thinks that he’s probably more like a warning to the grooms.

It’s fun for her to watch him make a conquest. He tilts his head to the side and stares into their eyes, talking in that voice of his. His signature move is in evidence right now; Helo’s gone for the win, wrapping his big hand around the girl’s cheek and leaning in for a kiss. And she’s definitely enthusiastic, this one. Starbuck giggles beside her. “Do you think she’ll swallow his face, or leave some for later?”

Boomer yelps her laugh, and Helo stops kissing and turns his head. He knows when she’s laughing at him, and he winks slowly and goes back to what he was doing, sliding his fingers onto the nape of the girl’s neck.

She misses the Chief. They were supposed to meet up on this leave and spend three days in a hotel room, but something technical and extremely complicated happened to the Commander’s shuttle and Tyrol was stuck. Sharon offered to stay, but as he pointed out, engine grease and an audience was going to give them away sooner or later. Better for her to go down to Picon with the rest of the pilots and blow off some steam, keep Starbuck out of jail.

Helo stands up as the girl runs off toward the bathroom. He’s wearing a decent amount of her lipstick, but it shows less than it might, since Helo has the pinkest, girliest-colored lips Boomer’s ever seen on a man. All the same, she makes the gesture, and used to their code, Helo swipes at his mouth as her thumb wipes over her own.

He comes over to her, and as Starbuck opens her mouth to say something, Helo points his index finger at her and frowns, and Kara shuts up. Someday Boomer wants to know how he does that. It never works when anyone else does it.

“You two mind if I leave for a while?” Helo’s half smiling, and stays that way, even when Starbuck says, “In the alley?”

“She’s a nice girl, Starbuck.”

They’re always nice girls.

Candy returns from the bathroom and Helo weaves through the tables to meet her. She takes two running steps and jumps into his arms. Helo lifts her effortlessly and carries her toward the door and Boomer is suddenly gripped with a desire to be held that way, to have a relationship that’s not complicated and illegal, to leap into Chief’s arms and be his in front of everyone. Maybe Helo’s way is better- he never seems to long for what he can’t have. He never seems to want anything, either, just accepts what he has and keeps on being Helo.

Boomer pours herself another drink.

rebelliousrose2 @ 2009-04-14T02:42:00

2009-04-14T06:46:38Z

Five Times Helo Kissed Someone He Shouldn't Have, and One Time He Should.

By: rebelliousrose (My parts of it.)
Rated PG-13

Written for Kindreds Five Times Project

First Time

The party was loud, and raucous, and the music was way too loud for Helo's sensitive hearing. In fact, he was pretty sure after this night was over, he was going to have to switch from ECO to deckhand, because what good was an ECO who couldn't tell comm chatter from godawful Geminon Gods-pop? 'Course, the person who had picked the music was Stinger, and who was going to tell the CAG that his music sucked? Well, Starbuck, but she didn't count.

Helo had lost all his cubits yet again, in a classic example of when to not bluff, especially if you didn't have a devious bone in your body. It always killed him that Lt. Gaeta was one of the best bluffers he'd ever played with, countenance open and unruffled... Over in the corner, Starbuck, who had passed intoxicated some time ago and was flying into combat territory with both feet firmly in her mouth, was playing spin the (empty) bottle with Ripper, Jolly, Erin, Feline, Dragon, three salivating nuggets, and some shuttle pilot from a resupply ship.

Helo was watching as usual, waiting for Starbuck to go too far, or someone to need to break up a fight. Kara was still too wild for her own good, and since Boomer was...inspecting repairs to their Raptor with Chief Tyrol down on the deck, Helo was at loose ends. So when Starbuck called him over, he was willing to abandon watching the Triad game and go.

"Take off your pants, Helo." Erin ordered.

He looked at Starbuck to check if this was required. She pointed her cigar at him. "If you're in here, you're playing."

He shrugged, unbuckled his belt and shucked his pants, folding them neatly. It wasn't like the entire room, excepting the redfaced shuttle pilot, hadn't seen him in the head, or in the racks. Underwear was underwear. And everyone's was pretty much the same, two legs and some elastic. Erin moved over to make room for him, which put him next to Ripper on the other side.

Starbuck reached out and gave the bottle a spin, resulting in a crazy carom off the side of Dragon's knee which slung the sticky ambrosia remnants onto Erin. The bottle came to rest pointing at Feline, who smiled her cat smile and leaned across the circle to Starbuck. After a minute of that, Helo relocated his pants to his lap. Underwear was underwear, but his was getting smaller.

Subsequent spins were less exciting, and Feline had passed him the full ambrosia bottle. He'd downed a few good slugs in anticipation, since he suspected strongly that Starbuck was setting him up to have to kiss either one of the FNGs or the shuttle pilot, who had his hand on Erin's knee and the dazed look of a man who couldn't believe his luck. Kissing a man didn't particularly bother him; about the same as a woman, just pricklier, but Ripper just plain pissed him off a lot of the time, and he'd rather not have that to crawl around in his brain.

"You're up, Helo!" Starbuck crowed, and steeling himself for the worst, Helo gave the bottle a good spin. Too good, in fact, since the bottle bounced off Starbuck, the dark-haired nugget, Dragon, and Helo's own ankle before it came to a stop- pointing directly at Helo. He sighed inwardly in relief and prepared to put on a good show of kissing his own hand passionately, when Starbuck laughed.

"Turn around, Helo."

With a sense of impending doom, Helo turned around, and there was his pilot, Boomer, back from her toolroom rezendevous. He closed his eyes. 'Frak' was completely insufficient and he had nothing stronger.

Boomer's lips were still flushed and red, and her skin damp. Helo was going to have to kiss her, in full view of the gods and everyone, knowing that she was all he wanted, and she was fresh from another man's arms. Her eyes were glaring at Starbuck, though, and they were conducting a silent argument over his head, which Boomer predictably lost.

While Helo thought about curling into a fetal position on the floor and pretending to die, Sharon knelt next to him and turned his face to hers. Her eyes were amused, and Helo fell into them like he always did. He heaved a huge sigh and poked his tongue into his cheek, then leaned forward and met her lips with his.

"That the best you got, Helo?" Starbuck catcalled behind him and Helo decided the hell with it, he had this chance and he was taking it. He swept Sharon sideways, locking one powerful arm around her waist and threading the other hand up into her loose hair at the nape. She was stiff for a moment, then laughed against his mouth and then she was kissing him back, and oh gods, that was her tongue and Helo lost himself in her so completely that only Starbuck drumming on his shoulder with her fist signaled him to stop.

Sharon broke away from his kiss, and he released her from his embrace the second she resisted, causing her to sprawl onto Ripper, who leered and shoved her upright.

Her lips trembled slightly, and she looked shocked. He caught her confused eyes. "Tell 'em, Sharon. Best ever, right?"

Boomer stared silently at him for a moment and then threw her head back and laughed that yelping, full throated laugh he liked so much. "You don't need me, Helo. Half of Caprica and Geminon can tell them."

Next to him, Ripper spun the bottle, and Helo took the chance to look Sharon in the eyes. "We good?" She smiled, her smile just for him, and shoved Ripper over, dropping her head affectionately against Helo's shoulder for just a moment. "Frak it, Starbuck, what did you do with my pants?"

Second Time

“I don’t know. I haven’t accessed that data.” Sharon’s voice was clipped, what Helo had come to think of as her “Cylon tone”.

“Here’s what we do. Take the heavy raider, cram it full of ground troops…” Starbuck’s voice became inaudible as she walked away with Anders, away from Helo. Not trusting Helo, because of her. Sharon leaned her forearm against the truck as Anders and Starbuck talked in the background about more assaults against the Cylon. Sharon was torn. One part of her wanted to warn her people, but the stronger half was the one that loved Helo, loved their baby, and remembered Kara Thrace and Galactica. Beside her, Helo sighed quietly. He never seemed to complain, just facing each obstacle as it came and moving on.

“I’m sorry, Helo.” Sharon turned to him, eyes brimming with tears, beautiful even with bloodstains and messy hair, and unable to stop himself, Helo opened his arms. Sharon stepped into them, and for a moment allowed herself the comfort of his strength and emotional generosity, and the hope that he could, would, love her again. Over his shoulder she saw Anders and Starbuck look at them as they walked away, and Sharon clung for one more moment, closing her eyes as Helo’s lips pressed gently against her temple. It wasn’t safe here, not for them to be together, not around these humans. It wasn’t safe for Helo to be a Cylon lover, and she’d already put him in danger by declaring him to be hers, and her baby’s father. Loosening her arms, she stepped back out of his reach, leaning against the truck.

Clearly hurt, Helo rubbed his forehead absently, and Sharon caught his eye and indicated the guards with rifles. This, and they, could wait, until they were someplace safe. Helo loved her, and that was enough for Sharon. They’d get through the rest, somehow. She pushed gently by him to the truck’s fender, and Helo joined her, leaning quietly. Anders kissed Starbuck’s hand, and Helo bent over, his breath a whisper against Sharon’s cheek. “I’m sorry, too.” Sharon curved her palm around his back, not quite a hug, but a touch, comforting herself with his nearness and solidity. For a moment, Sharon met his eyes, falling into the clear, unclouded green, and then a movement recalled her to potential danger and the need to watch Helo’s back, and Starbuck’s. As Kara reached them, lips trembling, and jaw locked, leaving Anders behind, Sharon trailed her hand against Helo’s waist as she moved away from him to the driver’s seat for his things.

“Let’s go home.”

Fifth Time

Helo stands at attention, rigid, breathing slowly, eyes front and center on the wall above the commander’s head. The irony of what he’s looking at isn’t lost on him, that the commander of the Bellerophon’s taste in art runs to naked nymphs frolicking with satyrs, or in this situation, pilots. Commander Frayn eventually stops flipping through Helo’s service file and looks at him straight on and shakes his head.

“You’re a good ECO, Lieutenant. One of the best in the Air Group, and I hate to lose you. Unfortunately, Admiral Luallen is still substantially upset.” Commander Frayn sighs. “I’m transferring you to the Galactica at his…request.”

Helo doesn’t move yet. It could be worse. He could be going to the ship that visits the Armistice Station once a year and then sits in dock for the rest of the time. He could be the first ECO to be demoted to filing. Could you do filing in a flightsuit? Helo reins in his panicky thoughts and turns his wandering attention back to Frayn. The worst shock is over, that he’s going to be transferred off Bellerophon. Galactica has a decent reputation in the Fleet, and one of his good friends from flight school serves on her. He hates to leave Archer, though. Archer’s a great Raptor driver, and they work really, really well together. Plus she’s so pretty, and she might have been weakening in her vow to never be involved with a copilot.

The Commander’s still speaking, and Helo starts to pay attention. “Commander Adama won’t know why you’re being transferred; or his CAG, just that you’re coming. Keep your nose clean, son, and when the Galactica finishes the refit, you’ll be able to reapply to transfer back here if you want to. Bellerophon will welcome you home.”

“Refit, sir?” Helo’s pretty sure he missed something in the middle there, probably when he started thinking about Archer’s legs.

“The museum, Agathon. Pay attention. Galactica’s being kitted out as a museum for the kiddies of the Twelve Colonies to see what the Cylon War was like. She’s being retired and decommissioned in five months.”

And Helo suddenly gets it. He’s being sent to a trash ship, a ship where the Fleet’s refuse will wind up, the discipline problems (which explains his friend’s posting), the lazy, the frakups. The unwanted. He’ll fly CAP around the pucker of nowhere, and if he’s lucky, when the ship’s a museum, he won’t wind up carting tours through the former mess hall with a microphone.

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir. It’s been an honor serving with you.” Helo salutes, and to his surprise, Frayn lumbers to his feet and salutes back.

“Remember, son. Keep your nose clean, and we’ll be seeing you soon.” Helo turns to leave, but Frayn’s not quite done. “That includes pretty Admirals’ nieces.”

And the Time He Should

Helo lifts slowly and methodically. The weights always relax him, the repetitive motions and the slow burn of muscles doing what both create and sustain them. He’d always lifted, where other people ran, or worked out frustrations against the heavy bag or a partner in the ring. Violence didn’t soothe him particularly. He enjoyed boxing, the science and skill of it, but it wasn’t his way of working out demons.

It was Apollo’s way, though, and across the room the CAG was going at the heavy bag so hard that the bag was swinging on the chain in slow, weighty sweeps, returning to Apollo even as he chased it with more blows. As hard as he was hitting it, it was going to eventually take him off his feet, and muscular though Apollo was, he was tiny, at least compared to Helo. His wife was taller than the CAG.

Across the way, HotDog was spotting Dragon, but both of them were watching Apollo. He’d been slowly losing it for days now, since Starbuck went into the clouds and never came out, and anyone offering sympathy, or anything like compassion, Apollo attacked like a raw recruit. He’d managed to reduce the cheerful Narcho to tears during the first pilot briefing after her death, and no one had dared to raise the subject since. People watched Lee Adama in the halls, and avoided him in the mess. His silent, desperate grief was devastating to be around, no matter if you’d known Starbuck or not. Helo couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be Dualla. How could you comfort your husband over the loss of his true love, his emotional twin? How could you know, over and over, every day, that you weren’t ever going to be enough? Dee was strong, and Helo loved her for that, but sooner or later she was going to break. The question was, was she going to before Apollo did?

If Helo hadn’t had Sharon and Hera, he would be in a similar state to Apollo’s, he knew, but his family kept him grounded, and his wife was more than willing to share his grief, and even more so to share her memories- Boomer’s memories- of the good times the three of them had had together. Starbuck had been his sister, in the truest sense, and Helo was wrecked too. No one had noticed him in the chaos in CIC. He’d dropped his papers and quite literally gone to his knees with grief, and eventually Felix Gaeta had gotten him to his feet and down to his quarters, offering a handkerchief; so typical of the formal Gaeta to have nothing so common as a tissue or a wad of toilet paper like everyone else.

Sharon had held him as he cried, the deep-gut wrenching sobs that he had cried over her dead body when he’d killed her so she could go and rescue their daughter. This pain was so much worse, because he knew that Kara wasn’t coming back. This wasn’t planned, and she was, and had ever been, all too human. He’d fallen asleep in Sharon’s arms, on the floor, and when he woke, she was still holding him, slender body curved into a painful twist, reminding him again that she wasn’t human, and that unlike Kara, she’d live on long after him.

He didn’t think Lee Adama had cried. Helo wondered if he could. Sam Anders had, accepting Kara’s loss as unselfconsciously as a child, burying his face in his Pyramid-calloused hands and weeping silently until Jean Barolay came from a shuttle and led him away. Anders was grieving openly, and the Admiral, and Tigh was terribly quiet. And Apollo was remote, and angry, and missing. The body and the intellect functioned, but the heart and soul were somewhere else. This assault on the heavy bag was the first time Helo had seen anything behind the cool mask Apollo wore, but Artemis was gone and Apollo was bleeding.

And as he looked, Apollo was literally bleeding, drops splattering from his hands onto the slippery surface of the heavy bag, palms and wrists red and wet. Lee Adama continued his blows, unaware of pain or injury, the cool god of intellect become berserker Ares, and Helo intervened.

“Give me the room.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried, and HotDog and Dragon downed weights and left immediately. The two deck officers followed after them, and Helo found a moment to be grateful for his tenuous status; X-On/X-Off as Felix Gaeta has taken to calling him. No one would have cleared a room for ECO Agathon, but for the XO?

Apollo is bleeding all over the place, and Helo takes three swift steps and locks his arm across Apollo’s chest and drags him free of the heavy bag. For a moment the CAG fights him, blindly, and then his eyes clear and he sees Helo and Apollo goes down so quickly that Helo almost can’t catch him in spite of his hold. Apollo’s on his knees and so is Helo and when Apollo lashes out, Helo grabs his mangled hand as gently as he can, but Lee Adama won’t quit, so Helo takes him down to the floor, pinning him there until Apollo gives one heaving breath and stops, going still and small and quiet.

Helo gets his arm under him and lifts, cradling the other man against his chest and just holding him there. Forced comfort may be the only kind Apollo can accept right now, and Helo is reminded of a cat he had when he was young. The cat nagged to be picked up, then went stiff and fought to get down. Helo had simply placed the cat in his lap and wrapped his arms around it until it relaxed and stopped fighting. Simpler for animals than people, he thinks. Fighting was the only way Apollo saw to survive.

“I love her too, Major.” Helo says simply.

The CAG shudders in his arms and Helo holds on tighter as Apollo’s battered hands come up and twine in his tanks. The laundry’s going to love the blood smears, but spare tanks are easy to come by, and Apollo needs something, anything right now. He shifts his legs under him and pulls Apollo across his lap, leaning his back against the wall and pulling Apollo into his shoulder. He hasn’t seen the other man’s face since Apollo went to the floor, but he can feel the wetness trickling against his neck and soaking into his shirts. He rubs Apollo’s back with his free hand and makes soft sounds like he does for Hera when she cries. The CAG’s still silent, only his heavy breathing and the slow tears belying the stiffness of his body. Helo pulls him closer and rests his cheek on Lee Adama’s hair, stroking his nape and pressing gentle kisses to his temple and forehead.

He’ll stay as long as it takes, just like Sharon did for him, and he watches over Apollo’s shoulder as the heavy bag slowly comes to rest.

rebelliousrose2 @ 2009-04-14T02:37:00

2009-04-14T06:42:02Z

Five Times Helo Had a Hell of a Hangover, and the One Time He Didn't.

Written for the Kindreds Five Times Project

By: rebelliousrose (My three parts)

Rated G

First Time

For a dead planet, Caprica was incredibly loud. The pounding in his skull added to the din, and if he didn’t find a head soon, he was in imminent danger of embarrassing himself. Helo tried to roll over, but found himself trapped under some kind of heavy weight. Opening his burning eyes, he risked a quick glimpse of the room he was in. The dim light seared into his retinas and he moaned and slammed his eyes back shut. This was the worst hangover he’d had in…ever. Apparently ambrosia, radiation meds, and campfire stew were bad companions.

The weight on his back shifted and whimpered, and for a moment Helo thought that Sharon was lying across him, but realized sadly that it was probably Starbuck. He thought he remembered carrying her into the room that the C-bucs had given them before he passed out. He put aside for later the guilt at his own failure to be watchful. Without Sharon, Starbuck was all he had.

His bladder throbbed for attention again, and Helo began slowly and very painfully extracting himself from under Starbuck, hoping she wasn’t going to throw up on him. She’d done it before. Of course, he’d thrown up in her helmet in flight school, too, but they’d been much younger then, and much more likely to be able to hold their liquor. Or he was lying to himself again, like when he told himself that Sharon was coming back.

The best way to get out of the bunk they were crammed in without braining himself on the upper bed was to slither out onto the floor, which Helo did, landing with a building-trembling thump on his side, holding his head. The floor was wretchedly chilly, and he was only wearing his briefs and tanks, but the coolness felt so nice on his face that Helo laid there limply for a moment, until the need to get rid of last night’s liquids overwhelmed him and the soldier ordered himself to his feet.

The hallway floor was equally cold underfoot, and Helo lurched down the hall, vaguely reasoning that a head would be generally where it might have been in his high school- at the end of the endless hallway. He hoped so, because the return trip might be too much for him in his weakened state.

An open door to his left caught his attention, and Helo looked in, and then stopped dead, personal needs forgotten as he looked into Sharon’s face. Only it wasn’t Sharon, he realized after a moment, or Boomer, but one of her look-alike Cylons, another one of the Eights. Pictures of Eights were posted on the walls, next to the blonde one, the woman who had kissed him, the one Sharon had shot when she rescued him. There were pictures of men, too, three of them, but no faces Helo recognized besides Sharon and the blonde woman. Unable to stop himself, Helo stepped inside the room.

Sharon’s face, but not Sharon. He hadn’t thought until now that he could tell her from the others, but it was easy. Something was missing in the eyes, in the expressions, or lack of expressions. Sharon laughed so easily.

“We take pictures of the ones we find, so we can identify them. We’ve got five now. No one knows if there are more.” Helo spun around. The redhead, Jean Barolay, was leaning on the doorframe behind him, looking both dangerous and almost as pained as he was himself. Nice to know that the C-bucs weren’t completely invulnerable, Helo thought.

“We had one for a while, captured one of this kind,” Barolay said, gesturing to the smaller man, “but he killed himself in the cell before we really got anything out of him. Bit off his tongue and drowned in his own blood.”

Helo’s stomach lurched violently at the thought, and he looked around in alarm for a wastebasket or a bucket. “Sorry…” Barolay said behind him as he crashed by her and out of the room. “Last door on the left!”

Helo stared at the running water and the remnants of his dinner in the sink as they swirled around the drain. Ten-point, a sympathy vomiter, had succumbed to the sounds of Helo being ill, and he was in a stall, kneeling and unhappy. At some point today, when his stomach settled, his head stopped hurting, and he’d shaved his tongue, Helo was going to have some very strong words with Samuel T. Anders on the topic of intoxicating strangers.

He stared at the drain. It wasn’t even the alcohol, really. It was the thought of the captured Cylon being Sharon, of Sharon killing herself to escape whatever had been done to the other prisoner. As horrible as the ambrosia was making him feel right now, it could never be as horrible as the thought of Sharon being hurt, and Helo hoped she’d stay far away, and stay safe, she and…his baby. Their baby.

Sighing, Helo rinsed his mouth and went to haul Ten-Point to his feet. Drunks and hangovers were familiar, safe things that he could deal with. Much safer than anything else this morning.

Fourth Time

Helo can feel the headache gnawing at the top of his spine. It's faint, but it's still there, the remnants of the still-brewed rotgut that he celebrated with after Sharon went back to her cell and Cottle chased him out. The hangover was worth the celebration of being a father, something he never thought he'd be, at least not this young. Fathers were older, more grown-up, although since the Cylons attacked, no one was a kid anymore.

He can't wait to see Hera again, and Sharon. Cottle told the Admiral that the baby needed contact with the mother to encourage her to thrive, and Helo intended to be there to see them together, to be there, to be a family, or as much as they could be with Hera still in the incubator. He can't wait to hold her.

He can't wait to hold Sharon.

Fifth Time

Helo can feel the rotgut still chewing at the base of his skull where the deckhands had broken into the Chief's solvent stash the night before. It had been a party the likes of which Galactica had never seen, officers, enlisted, CIC and mess drinking and hugging and crying in an orgy of relief and pride. All those jumps, all those miles, all those losses, and they were finished. They were home.

His helmet is too tight for the swelling in his brain, and Sharon doesn't look that much better. She, and Boomer, never could hold liquor particularly well, and last night's celebrations had left her olive skin with a decidedly pasty tinge. Her helmet's off, and Helo decides to join her; they haven't cleared for departure with a nauseous-sounding Hoshi, and they might as well be as comfortable as they can, crammed in a Raptor with a President, an Admiral, a deranged scientist, a member of the Quorum, and four armored Marines. Pity Matthias isn't here. She'd have liked this duty, advance team to Earth.

Racetrack was superbly pissed to be bumped from the flight as Sharon's ECO, but since she was still throwing up at the pre-flight, Helo had taken her slot and shifted her to one of the transports so she could puke in peace, but still make the first landing on Earth. She'd earned it. Everyone on Galactica had earned it, but some had declined the honor. Doc Cottle had announced, swigging his ground-algae coffee substitute, that he'd give it a miss. The betting pools had it that he had some secret stashes that he wanted to clean out with no one around. Helo thought the doctor probably just wanted some damned quiet.

Hoshi's voice crackled launch order through the speaker and Sharon picked her head up from the seat and flashed a half-smile at her husband. Helo reached across and squeezed her shoulder. "Let's go to Earth. Gently."

Falling, PornBattle 2009, Helo/Caprica Six, Rated PG-13

2009-04-11T02:04:44Z

Helo/Caprica Six
Rated: PG 13
Word count: 394

The prompt was Helo/Caprica, When the one you love hurts you the most.

She's even more fragile than Sharon, and that's saying something, because Sharon's always been whipcord and bone. Even her fluff of silver hair looks brittle, and Helo circles her wrist with his thumb and pinky finger and has room to spare.

She shouldn't be here- he shouldn't be here. It's not safe for her down in Dogsville, but here she is. He thinks she might have been looking for him, but he doesn't know why she would. Sharon's so horribly gone from him, from everything right now, that Dogsville actually holds more comfort than his own home and his own wife. He's been talking to Portia King. She understands.

Caprica's eyes are bruised, shadowed, and broken, and achingly familiar. He sees them in the mirror when he shaves and goes through the motions of living. She tries to speak, and can't, fluttering her hands in a totally unSix-like way, birds against a high wind. Helo catches them in his, and Caprica bows her head against his chest as if she's praying for forgiveness.

Her spine is so sharp he can count the bones, and he does. At the small of her back, there's the telltale warmth he's come to understand is Cylon. He rubs a gentle circle there with his fingertips, and Caprica wilts against him; a broken flower. She's stronger than he is, and they hold each other up.

Her mouth is familiar, and he remembers the Six who kissed him on Caprica. "Are you alive?" she asked. If this Six asks now, he doesn't know what he'll answer.

Nothing is fast about this, or urgent. It's a dream, of warmth and tenderness and once he's over her and in her they freeze, looking into each other's eyes for answers neither of them has. He's not who she wants. She's not who he loves.

It's comforting. He moves slowly, surging against her with only his hips. The rest of him is around her, and she's easy with holding his weight. The Sixes have always been the strongest. He wishes he had more heart to give her, but his is broken, on a bed wet with tears.

Caprica's spine heats against his palm and he comes without joy, without relief and lets himself fall into her arms and fall some more.

Commentfic I wrote for mamaboolj, and it seems to have amused people.

2009-03-06T03:02:14Z

Hera's screaming and flailing, and Sharon and Helo are both late- he's already been paged to CIC twice, and finally he grabbed the phone and snarled at poor Felix Gaeta, who was just passing the word. He slammed it into the cradle so hard that he loosened the cradle on the wall mount and now it's something else he has to deal with later.

Sharon's looking two inches off crying, and finally she does, letting go of Hera and slumping to the floor with her face resting on her knees. Her thin shoulders are heaving and for a moment Helo wonders if they can give Hera back to the Cylons, because right now he doesn't want her. He's also pretty sure that makes him not a bad father, but an average one. If he were William Adama, he'dve keelhauled both Lee and Kara about ten times, and that's from the keel of Galactica.

Hera's stopped shrieking now that neither of them are paying attention to her, and Helo scoops Sharon into his lap and presses his cheek against her tear-wet one. Hera's going to have to wait, because Sharon's the most important thing right now.

Fanfiction, written for inlovewithnight's One-Night Stand Challenge

2009-02-15T05:03:49Z

Fanfiction
By rebelliousrose
Written for grammarwoman</lj> in inlovewithnight</lj> ’s One-Night Stand Fanfic challenge
Rated PG-13

Author’s Note- I have never had a prompt, or set of prompts, fight me so hard. Those bunnies are tough little bastards. I BID on this one, and I don’t know why it was such a struggle, except I have become more and more reluctant to deal with RPF because of various crazed fans who take the idea way too far and then get mad when the actors don’t comply with it in real life. So I guess you can say I “Jossed” it a little. All of the at con incidents are completely real, including the two actors in the hall with the substances. Don’t ask me who they are. But it was GHB. grammarwoman, I did my best for you. I hope it came out okay. And there was sausage involved to try and tempt the plot bunnies.

“This is craazy!” She’s laughing as he pulls her down the hotel hallway. They are definitely being followed, and while it’s not totally unexpected, it’s proving to be pretty annoying. It happens, but this time no one’s here to deflect it for either of them; his assigned handler’s eating dinner, and hers is at some panel thing on God-knows-what but seems to involve making fun of people in animal makeup and fuzzy mascot suits. Right now he’s seriously very glad that one of his old work buddies has been to every convention known to man and shared the survival tips generously.

The group behind them has that wild-eyed look, totally overinvolved and not quite able to discern that the people they are hunting might not be quite who they’d wish them to be. Or more to the point, two professionals who just want to get something to eat and hit the bar, since they’ve been being pleasant to people all day and some time to decompress would be nice.

They are rounding one of the corners and he looks back. Their pursuers are about fifteen to twenty doors behind, perfect, and he grabs her wrist and yanks her into a run. Two seconds later they are at the stairwell doors and tearing down two flights and out onto another floor. She’s still giggling, an endearing sound, since her husky voice tends to lend itself better to sultry purring and ironic statements. He shushes her, putting his finger to his lips and then suddenly noticing her notice his mouth. It’s been like this for both of them for a while. The noticing. Does great things for the characterization, and the tension in scenes.

He fumbles for his key card; he’s got about ten of them, since overzealous fans like to slip them to him, or flat-out hand them over with room numbers marked for invitations to room parties, or private parties. He doesn’t go to many of those, since the night that Douglas got into an in-depth discussion about the mythology of Battlestar with some geek and a guy in furry goat legs and abandoned him to a bunch of women in the corner, who kept begging him to flex. Not his scene.

He’s hustling her down the hall, still by the wrist, and he steps over a pair of well-known actors who really should know better than to be crushing up their evening’s recreation outside in the hall on the floor. He’s about to say something, since he’s worked with one of them on the new show, but a short, ponytailed guy in the BSG tanks interrupts him, shooing the two actors into the nearest room and scolding.

His room’s down two more and he gratefully slips the key in the slot, and shoves at the door. The light’s green, the latch clicked, but the door’s not opening. He rams his shoulder into it, and it opens with a shredding sound as a pile of papers tear underfoot. They’ve found his room, damn it, and he resigns himself to a painful day at his signing table tomorrow when he’s asked detailed questions about something he’s been too busy to read, digest, and comment on.

She trips daintily over the pile and yanks the papers out of the way so he can close the door. “What is all this?” she asks, tamping the papers into a stack. “It’s like the Chinese menus in New York; you can’t open the door if you’ve been gone for a few days.”

“Fanfiction.” He knows his tone is grim. He can’t help it. It’s like coming home to a sink of dishes when you’ve been working all day.

“Oh, we used to get that all the time on Tru, and for Joss’s shows.” She’s obviously amused and starts flipping though the pages. He hopes it’s at least the good fic, something that a dedicated fan wrote, because they tend to get stuff pretty right as far as the characters go.

“I’m going to change, and we’ll go, okay?” Her eyes flash up to him and there’s another one of those noticing moments. He ducks it by heading into the bathroom with his clothes. He’s got convention dressing down to an art at this point, two pairs of pants, five shirts and comfortable shoes. A few accessories and his sisters’ rings. He may not wear them all the time, but he always has them near. He misses his family a lot.

She’s laughing in the bedroom and her husky voice raises enough to be heard through the crack in the door. “Do you read this stuff?”

“Sometimes. Some of them are pretty good. Some of them are….well, let’s just say that fans can be lacking a few social graces.”

“What’s the worst thing a fan’s ever done to you?”

He doesn’t have to think. “I had this one enormous guy scare the hell out of me at lunch one time, came running over and I thought he was going for me. And the first time I was here? I used the bathroom after a panel and these three guys followed me into the bathroom and were standing right at the urinal, waiting for me to finish so they could shake my hand. Or compare, and I don’t want to think about what they’d post on the Net if I came up short in their eyes.”

“I got hugged by this super-nervous sweaty freak…oh, no, that was Joss. Sorry.” She giggles. “Fanguys mostly get speechless around me, or try and pick me up.”

“I get a lot of women asking if I am gay for their male friends.”

“I get a lot of really hot lesbians.”

“Trade you!” he calls back, wiping sweat off his face and chest with a damp washcloth. The signing halls are always so hot and crowded he feels grimy at the end of the day. He’d love a proper shower, but they are both starving and he’s longing for a drink. Or seven.

“Who is Felix and why are you having sex with him?”

He thunks his head against the door. “Character on Battlestar. It’s me? Not Helo, or Karl?”

“It’s you. Here, listen. Felix’s mouth is so soft against Tahmoh’s overheated skin, lapping at the salty tang of his clavicles as Tahmoh twines his long, male fingers into his soft curls. He strips out of his tanks and presses against the Native American’s hard, sculpted, sweaty body. Suddenly a knock at the door heralds Jamie’s arrival. His Australian accent is clipped as he says “Hello, boys, starting without me?” He rips off his shirt and uses it to tie Felix to the chair.” She’s got the giggles badly and he’s incredibly glad she can’t see his face, because his skin tone can’t hide a blush, and he’s sure he’s red as an apple.

“Oh, man. That’s awful. It’s always poor AJ that gets tied up. And Jamie’s not Australian.”

“Let me see if I can find a better one. I’m going to assume that anything with you having sex with Joss and mentioning “bromances” or “man-crushes” is out?” He hears papers sifting to the floor and because he doesn’t want to dignify that with an answer, starts brushing his teeth. She teases him like his sisters do, sometimes, and he likes it, but there’s always that extra element that’s not sisterly at all. “How about a nice one where Paul ties Topher to the desk in the Dollhouse and has his way with him while Victor…seems to be wearing a ball gag?”

He’s proud that he doesn’t aspirate his toothpaste and that his voice sounds relatively normal when he says, “No, I prefer the ones with Enver in heels. It’s a good look for him.”

More rustling, and then “How about something described as a “character piece” with Starbuck? That quiet guy, the Raptor one, is working the heavy bag across the gym. He’s always quiet, and calm, and patient with people. Everyone likes him; even his callsign shows it. He’s had three, actually, he started out called “Sunshine” because of his disposition, but it didn’t fit him and some wag dubbed him “Helios”. Someone else shortened it to Helo, and that’s how he’s stayed. Kara hates him.

Not for any reason, really; he’s the kind of man she likes in a lot of ways. Muscled, physical in his tastes, always up for a laugh or a hand of cards, and he gets around. Most of the female class members have some sort of Helo story, ending with dropped voices and pointed looks at anyone else who doesn’t have a story about the ECO cadet with the lethal green eyes.

They don’t really mix with the same crowd. Helo studies, Kara skates through on natural talent, attitude and nerve. Helo doesn’t seem to have nerves, since she’s been trying to get on them since she got to the fitness center today to find him there by himself. Usually he’s got a gym buddy, or more than one, since he’s offered to help a cadet here and there with the fitness requirements. He spends a lot of time in the gym. It shows.”

“Not too bad,” he calls out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth and rinsing his toothbrush. “Kind of cliché, and that kind of story gets written a lot. Or at least I get handed the same one a lot. Is there sex?”

“Probably. It says it’s rated R. Let me skip down. Ooh, you are being such a jerk! The heavy bag slams into her with stunning force and Kara goes flying. She lies against the wall for a minute, trying to breathe, trying to process that pleasant, gentle Helo has just belted her across the gym with the heavy bag and is now coming around to either pick her up or kill her, and from the look on his face, he’s still trying to decide which. His hands fist in her tanks and he hauls her up and bangs her against the wall, three or four times. “Why can’t I screw up too, Kara? Why do I have to be perfect for you all the time? Why can’t I be just as much of a frakup as you?” Helo punctuates each sentence by slamming Kara against the wall with a resounding thwack. He’s finally had enough of her bullshit, because now she’s hitting where it hurts. A lot.”

“That’s new. Helo was a pretty good guy. Not the woman-beater type.” He glares at his hair in the mirror. It’s pretty hopeless. Nothing a hat, plastic surgery and some sunglasses won’t cure. He needs to drink less tonight or his liver will be flying home in a separate seat.

“I found the sex! You want to hear it?” Her tones are coaxing, and he gives in. It’ll give him a few minutes to try and salvage his hair since he has to go to some fan party later with the Vancouverites and Eddie. Once Hogan discovered that fans have free drinks, he hasn’t missed a party since. Douglas is a pretty hard-core drinker, and he himself is no slouch, but they are both talented amateurs compared to Hogan. He’s a professional.

“Helo’s got Starbuck down on the floor mats. Her hands are over her head, both wrists in one of his and she’s trying to bite him, but her heart’s not in it. “You wanted my attention, Kara. You’ve got it. What do you want from me?”

Fast as a snake, her teeth fasten in the meat of his bicep and cursing, he pries her loose with his free hand and lets the full weight of his body press her down. “Cut it out, Starbuck. You started this, not me.”

She looks like she’s going to spit on him and Helo’s had enough. He flips her onto her face and squashes her flat. She’s struggling, but she’s Starbuck, and that’s to be expected. “I hate you, Helo.”

He rests his face in the soft hair next to her ear. “No you don’t. You’re just pissed because I’m bigger and you can’t intimidate me or get your way.”

Kara goes limp under him. “I hate me more than I hate you. That’s something, I guess.”

He’s not feeling sympathetic, not with her teeth marks coming up on his arm where Gaia’s going to ask about them. He grabs the back of her hair in his fist. “Cheated on Headcase and feeling guilty again?”

She hisses like a cat and goes berserk under him, and this time he can’t help it and doesn’t want to. Her squirming’s gotten his attention, and she can’t help but feel it. According to the female cadets, Helo’s attention, and attentions, are pretty sought after.”

There’s a pause, and he winces, squinching up his face and hoping.

“So, this true? The attention thing?”

“Fans like to give their favorites the benefit of the doubt.” He shrugs. “I don’t know how Trucco sits down, if half of what they say about his characters is true. Guess you’ve made it professionally when someone starts a website comparing characters’ attributes.”

“Are you blushing?” Her voice is teasing, and much closer.

She’s right outside the door. He can see the ruffle on her skirt and the tip of one pointy shoe. The bathroom’s suddenly way too small, so he goes for honesty. “Yeah.”

“You should see the speculation about my boobs, if they’re real.”

He stops himself in time. #2 on things to never ask a woman, after the big no-no. He makes a mental note to check with Dana, in Wardrobe. They always know. “I’m almost done. You want to check that restaurant guide?”

“No, I’m enjoying this. It’s…”

“Something that will happen to you if they find your room,” he snaps, bumping the door closed with his elbow and shaking out his fresh t-shirt.

“Helo’s mouth is soft and he knows how to use it. Half a class can’t be wrong, and Kara’s glad they are right. His hands are cradling her jaw and he’s kissing her with the same concentration he gives to someone who is talking, that intensity, and it’s the most delicious male mouth she’s ever tasted.

He’s spicy, and sweet, and tastes faintly of cherries. She wants to swallow him whole, and from the way he’s kissing her back, it’s mutual. He’s gotten her tanks off somehow, and her sports bra is in his way until he rears back impatiently and yanks both straps off it. The bra’s at her waist within seconds and he’s got her in his mouth, but now he’s taking his time, savoring and suckling and now she’s absolutely sure what those endless lollipops are good for.

Kara’s always been a tit-for-tat kind of person, though, and she flips him onto his back and he lets her. The hollows over his hipbones draw her; he’s that kind of rangy lean that has no extra fat at all, or as one of the boys always says, “all the body fat only has one place to go, honey.” At a three-inch distance, there’s no doubt where Helo’s has gone and she’s done with the preliminaries, attacking his zipper and buttons and nearly losing an eye when he springs free.

It takes her two seconds to decide, and she’s up and ripping off her shorts. Neither of them are wearing briefs, probably for identical quick-draw motivations. His eyes are hot, and Kara comes down on him all in one motion, aims, and takes him in faster than she should. It’s a good ache, but he frowns and pins her with his big hands on her hips. “You okay?”

Only Sunshine here would be concerned at a moment like this, and Kara bites him again, a sharp nip over the right nipple, tasting his heartbeat. “Fine,” he growls, and he’s bucking up so hard under her that he’s lifting her off the mat with each thrust.

It’s amazing, but it’s too fast, and Kara gasps, “Wait.”

One more heave up, and she’s on her back watching the muscles in his arms cradle her ears. “Make up your mind, Starbuck.” Now he’s teasing her. Taunting, really, soft touches and just enough depth to make her really want, but she can’t get the leverage to take back control and Helo’s not going to let her. She’s getting what she wants, but his way. Not hers.

He slides against her, using his whole body to touch her. He’s holding himself up not with his hands, which are touching the sensitive skin under her ears, but on his flat forearms, and he’s surrounded her completely, filled her utterly. How strong must he be to do this, Kara wonders, dazed, but then he’s moving, a long, teasing glide, and it’s his show. He shifts himself and hooks an arm under one of her legs and then he’s away and it’s the same kick as a freshly launched Viper into space.

“Raptor,” he says against her ear, not even breathing hard. “I don’t do Vipers. I hit my head on the canopy.”

“Shut up, Helo,” Kara growls, and drags his mouth to hers. She still hates him.”

He’s breathing pretty hard himself in the bathroom, and it takes a moment of stern attention to hockey scores, cold showers, and his sisters walking in on him, or god forbid, Eddie or Mary and he’s good. Mostly.

“Not bad,” she says from beyond the door, and as he opens it he notices that her skin’s a little flushed. “Ready?”

And there’s another one of those little moments when it balances on a pin; a nudge one way or another and a decision’s been made, but he gets it back. Porn’s one thing, but because of fanfiction? He’d never live it down inside his own head.

He places his hand on the small of her back as they leave the room. It’s gentlemanly, and courteous, and he’s now completely sure no papers are hidden under her dress. You never knew; he might want those for later.

Clothed In Ashes And Air, for the Kindreds Summer Ficathon

2008-08-12T06:45:28Z

Written for Kindreds Summer Ficathon.

Clothed in Ashes and Air
Roslin, Tigh, Gaeta, Chief, Helo, D'Anna/Three, Hot Dog, Lee Adama.

One

What do you wear to the first day of the rest of your life? Laura Roslin is looking into her closet- Bill’s closet, really, but since her quarters and his have become the same so many times, her things have mingled with his. Married people’s things do that. Couples’ things. Separate things, becoming intertwined, part of a whole. Hers, his, ours. Her clothes on Galactica are different from the clothes on Colonial One, somehow- they’ve hung in Adama’s closet, next to his uniforms, and they smell like him, and like her. And like Galactica.

Should she be Madam President? Should she be the teacher? Secretary of Education? Dying leader? Should she be Bill’s Laura, for as long as she can? Nothing in the wardrobe is suitable for all those women, and Laura reaches for the practical, sturdy garments that Tom Zarek found years ago for her to wear to the surface of Kobol. The temperature, the temperature of Earth, is cool, and she’s lost so much flesh to the cancer that she gets cold too easily.

Something is missing, and she knows what it is- William Adama embraced his son thankfully in the CIC, to the dancing and singing of a people gone maenad with relief, and Laura’s arms are empty. Her son is gone, and the price was too high. He should be here, and Laura’s throat closes and her eyes are wet with angry tears. Her boy, the one that loved her, and looked at her with wise eyes and trust, is lost to her and lost forever. If he were a Cylon, he would have downloaded, returned. Billy hasn’t come back. Billy isn’t coming back. He’ll never set foot on Earth.

In the closet is a suitcase and Laura Roslin reaches into it and takes out the bit of Billy that she keeps, the bit she refuses to let go. The first time she ever saw him, his tie looked like an afterthought, hanging limply on his unfinished frame. Sometimes she takes it out and tangles it through her fingers. It’s worn now, and there’s a stain in the middle of it; some sort of food that found its way to the silk. Back when they had food, before the endless algae. Laura won’t wear it, but she’ll take it with her, next to her heart, and she’ll stand next to the reason she keeps struggling and surviving, and her two Bills will be with her for the rest of her life.

It doesn’t matter what she wears, she realizes. The outside always changes and the inside is always with you no matter where you are.

Two

The Six called Caprica keeps asking if he loves her, and Saul Tigh, whoever he is, has no idea. The two people he’s loved in his life are Bill Adama and Ellen, and what he feels for the Six is so different from how he felt before- before the Cylons blew up the world, before the woman he loved drank from a poisoned cup he poured her, before he told the one person who knew him best in the world he didn’t know him at all.

Sometimes the Six wears Ellen’s face. She does it when she touches him, and she touches him often. He didn’t let her out of the cell. He was too busy showing his unharmed face to the D’Anna model in the hangar bay while Apollo convinced everyone to get along. Athena had relieved the Marines of duty and released the Six, allowing and accompanying her first free steps on Galactica. He still wasn’t sure if the Six had been freed before or after Apollo’s deal. Better not to know, since he was still the XO.

He’s given thought to giving the Six Ellen’s clothes- no one else is getting any use out of them, and they stopped smelling like her and more like sweat and booze a while ago, but the textures and the colors still speak to him. Gods love her, Ellen had managed to come back from the dead with a full wardrobe and add to it constantly. Probably gifts from men, but he didn’t care anymore. He hadn’t cared much at the time, either. Ellen wanted to be pretty for him, and she found ways to be.

Ellen Tigh was grasping, ambitious, conniving, amoral, and faithless. And she was the most loving woman he had ever known.

Three

Other people had lost more than he had. Colonel Tigh had lost an eye, ripped from his skull by the clawed hand of the skinjob frakking his wife. He’d lost his depth perception forever, although when it came right down to it, Colonel Tigh had only ever perceived surfaces anyway. He still had his friends, his shipmates who had become his family. He had Dualla, and Helo, and the Admiral. He had a job that he could do, and do well. He hadn’t lost any part of what made him himself- any more than he had already lost. Integrity, idealism, honor- those had all gone a while ago, burned out in the blaze of Gaius Baltar’s narcissism and weakness. His uniform still fit, as long as he regained the weight he’d lost, which since Dualla and Hoshi kept forcing algae bars on him, was likely to happen soon.

It was stupid to miss something that hadn’t been a big part of his life, not even a hobby, just an occasional pleasure, but the memories that accompanied the thoughts of dancing were some of the happiest he had since the war began. Swinging Boomer Valerii around on the first Colonial Day after the attack, her arms around his neck and her borrowed red dress swishing against his legs. Dualla, eyes shining in lieutenant’s uniform, catching his hands and whirling, whirling with buttons gleaming like the stars on a fearless New Caprica night.

Doing the right thing had cost him, but he was still luckier than most. He could still find the memories, and as long as he had those, he could still dance.

Four

There are no gods. Or if there are, they have some sick senses of humor or they’re some seriously unforgiving sonsofbitches. He’s been laughing to himself for a long time now, since no one else seems to get the joke at all. All this effort, all the struggle, all the people- his people, and the Cylons. All of this, and for what? To stand on an irradiated planet full of ruins and mourn. And for that they’d left Caprica? Tauron? Picon? They could have stayed on the irradiated ruins they had, without all the trials and all the losses.

Cally. Prosna. Socinus. Tarn. Laird’s family. Boomer. Boxey. Ellen Tigh. All people somebody had loved, dead because of the Cylons. Because of him. Eighty-five people he was responsible for, dead in the first attack on Galactica; Laura Roslin had her whiteboard and he had his in his head. And the Gods, those callous bastards, watching the same mistakes over and over and not changing anything. Who made them gods, anyway?

People. People who desperately needed to believe in something, anything, except their own culpability, their own guilt. People who believed that they would be redeemed, gathered to the bosom of an all-knowing, all-loving, all-forgiving deity who would make it all better.

And that’s why he’s laughing. Because the Gods are false, and the guilt is real, and no matter how many times he’s forgiven, the blood still stains his hands. No matter how many ships he fixes, how many lives he saves, it’s the ones lost that matter more. Maybe if he’d believed, given the idols their pound of flesh and worship, maybe it would have been different somehow. But he doubts it. The universe loves irony, and no amount of pain will change that.

Five

He can barely hold it back, this anger. It’s seething and boiling and so near the surface he suspects that his jaw is quivering with rage. He’s never felt anything like this; his skin wants to burn off with the force of it, and all he can do is look at the people who brought them to this. People he trusted, people he loved, people he followed.

People he, his wife, and his child will die with, on a barren world that was supposed to be the salvation of everything. The end of the road, the Olympus that the priests promised. It would be better if they’d just lied, but they’d all believed. Adama, Roslin, Kara Thrace. They’d told the truth. And the truth had turned out to be the biggest lie of all.

He should have died so many times already; on Pegasus at the hands of an insane zealot, on Caprica, over New Caprica’s skies. Fate had intervened so many times to save him, and for what? For this? To watch his daughter take her first steps on a land that still crackled with the same bitterness that had poisoned Caprica? To breathe air that was contaminated with old misery?

Hasn’t he had enough of this poison? More than anyone else in the Fleet who is still living. Hera’s a miracle as it is, and he doubts there will be another. Finally he’s found something that no matter what he does, he can’t make right, no matter how hard he tries. No Pegasus with guns blazing into the middle of the Apocalypse, no Sharon miraculously back to slip her shoulder under his and carry him on, no Adama to go to war.

The war is over, and they missed it, and they lost. He wants to plant his fist into the Admiral’s face, to put his hands around Laura Roslin’s neck and choke the rest of the life out of her. He betrayed so many things he believed in. Felix Gaeta lost his leg, and his hope. Athena lost her baby and her life. Kara lost her mind, not once, but multiple times, and he committed murder and lost a part of himself he’d never get back.

And for what? To stand shivering beneath a gray sun, on a dead soil, next to poisoned waters. Promised Elysium, and given Hades. Lied to by the Gods, their leaders, their own Scriptures. Athena said once that the Cylons knew the Colonies’ religion better than the Colonials. If the Cylons knew about this…..

No matter how angry he is, that’s a thought he can’t bring himself to think. Because if he does, then he has nothing left at all.

Six

Cylons weren’t supposed to be alone. The Cylon were never alone. They had others with them; their own selves and models and other selves and different models and none truly knew where they ended and the others began. And now Three was the last Three in the universe and even the company of humans she feared and hated and held in contempt was better than being alone. The Five had brought them to this, and this was bleak victory. The Cylon had brought themselves to this. And Three was alone.

Seven

Earth was supposed to be the solution to everything- Gods embrace us and the Thirteenth Tribe kills a fatted calf for feasting. They definitely got that part right. The calf is surely dead. The land of nectar and grain is frakked, and Hot Dog can’t help but think that he’d been really wanting there to be a feast. The calf, roasting over wood coals, meat charring on the outside and caramelizing on the heat, juices dripping in a baptism in fire and the manna on his tongue. Honeyed wine flowing, cakes and sweet, fresh butter and milk. Vegetables with colors besides green and textures that taste.

The last food he can remember truly enjoying came from Kat’s hands, “Here, baby, eat this,” and crumbs being swept across the table. He was so grateful for those crumbs. They’ve been existing on crumbs for longer than he can remember whole loaves. He takes an algae bar out of his flightsuit and plants it in the earth of Earth. Now Kat’s here and it’s still crumbs. But she’s made it here, a little, and he’ll raise a glass to her even if she can’t see it.

Eight

Lee Adama’s a good boy. Well-scrubbed, reliable, dutiful, the person you’d want by your side or on his back no matter what. So why is he alone for the end of everything? His father has Roslin, side by side in their despair, their plans, their lies, their belief in Earth and each other. Even if it’s all for nothing, they stand together. Helo looks like he’s about to climb out of his skin with rage, and he’s welded to his Cylon’s side as if he leaves her alone, she’ll vanish into a swirl of chill winds and ash. Tory Foster’s approached Sam Anders and been rejected, but at least she had someone to approach. Tigh and the Six stand together, tall and spare and deeply silent. The Six has her hand on her belly. Someone’s with her all the time now.

Dualla and Kara are standing by themselves, like Lee is, Kara dazed and curious, Dualla impassive. He wonders what she’s seeing, this woman who was his wife, who shared his bed, his meals, his duty, his life, and his love for his father. Dualla is how he thinks of her now. Gentle Dee with the big, trusting eyes is gone, and Persephone stands in her place, He’s brought her to the underworld and the pomegranate seeds are eternity. Kara ignores him, looking about her in confusion, big mouth trembling. She’s fought so hard to bring them to this. Even the Leoben model can’t look at her. She’s alone too, but Lee can’t do it, can’t cross the space between them and believe in her anymore.

He can’t believe in himself anymore. He’s no one, and he’s drying up and shredding away on the wind.

Warrior, written for the Kindreds John Donne-A-Thon

2008-03-29T14:58:29Z

Warrior

By: rebelliousrose for the Kindreds John Donne-A-Thon

Rated: G

Helo/Sharon
Word count- 703

Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. They are the property of Ron D. Moore, NBC and the actors who play them. I just love them, so please don’t sue.

Prompt-“Those are my best days, when I shake with fear”– John Donne

Helo sleeps well, most of the time, if Sharon is there with him. It’s when she’s not that he jerks awake, hands reaching urgently to the spot where he thinks she should be, must be. Ever since they fell in love, he’s lived with constant fear and sometimes exhilaration. If it weren’t for the occasional respite, he’d probably go mad. Or maybe he’s already mad, and in the rest of the overwhelming insanity that is every day on the run, every day cheated from the times he should have died, would have died, his own madness goes unnoticed.

He read somewhere once that if you can still wonder if you are crazy, you probably aren’t. Helo’s pretty sure he’s not quite sane. Sharon’s curled against him in a tight little ball, not at all the way she usually sleeps, which is sprawled on him in any way possible. He’s woken a few times in the past months to find her face down in his shoulder, over him like a blanket, hair in his mouth, hand in his face- and there’s nowhere else he’d ever be.

Tonight, she sleeps like she’s expecting a blow. She probably is. He is. He told her earlier that they were probably coming for him, or her, and they haven’t come yet. It’s crueller to let them sleep like this, or in his case pretend to sleep, waiting for the fist to come pounding on the door. It’ll be Apollo, maybe. That changed, hard, enraged, ugly Apollo, the one who wears black and directs assault teams on baseships. The one who wants to annihilate a race of people.

Helo’s never been afraid of anything, really, not spiders or bugs, or unpopularity, or death, or pain. The idea of being blind unnerves him a little, but he doesn’t fear it. That Apollo, the new one- he finds him frightening. It’s like Apollo’s been bent by something beyond his control and twisted into a new shape, unrecognizable. The same man who winces at the mention of his brother, or of the Olympic Carrier, now wants to kill, and kill, and kill.

Sharon would have allowed her people to die, because of a vow she took. For the same reason, Helo had to allow them to live. It wasn’t about himself, or Sharon, or even Hera, although without them he might have become as angry as Apollo. Maybe. Revenge wasn’t a real part of his nature, not as much as forgiveness. You couldn’t be friends with Kara Thrace without having a pretty heavy ability to forgive. Forgetting didn’t hurt, either.

He hadn’t killed the prisoners because of some misguided idea of fairness. Or even right or wrong, although he was utterly and completely against the idea of genocide. He’d done it because Adama had once said, “We refuse to accept the responsibility for anything we’ve done. You cannot play Gods and then wash your hands of the things you have created.” And because watching the Admiral with Sharon all those long months orbiting New Caprica had showed Helo that he wasn’t the only one who could understand that there were different Cylons, that they weren’t all homicidal machines. A Cylon had taken responsibility for the humans multiple times.

And he’d let the air out of the holding cell and he’d taken responsibility for an entire race’s survival. Two races, really, if Gaeta was right and the virus could never have wiped out all the Cylons. He looks at his wife, balled against his side, and sifts his fingers through her hair. The only thing he’s afraid of, has ever been afraid of, is losing her. If that’s the price the Gods ask of him to save them all, he might be able to pay it.

He’ll watch over her as she sleeps, for as long as it takes. Because this sin, at least, won’t be visited on the children.

Helo ShagAthon 2008

2008-02-15T19:45:35Z

Hidden Bruises

By rebelliousrose

Written for poisontaster in the Second Helo ShagAthon.

Prompt; Helo/Gaeta, domination and dirty talk. Hidden bruises.

Rated R. (Or maybe X, but I’ll go with R because no porn words were used.)
Massive love and kisses and thanks to my super-patient beta, mamaboolj

Side note- Last time we did the Helo ShagAthon, no one had problems slashing Helo. Now no one can seem to do it without Sharon. Kudos to the BSG writers and actors for creating this enduring couple. PS- I don't own these characters, but I do love them, so please don't sue.

Felix Gaeta is crying in his arms, and the best thing Helo can think to do is leave him to it. Gaeta’s black curls are matted and he stinks of the sweat that has soaked through his shirt and jacket and strangely, of tylium as well. Helo has no idea what’s going on, except that finally, inevitably, another friend has broken, is broken.

Gaeta didn’t come to him, didn’t seek Helo out. He wouldn’t. He’s too contained, too much in his own head, and he and Helo aren’t that kind of close. Dualla, maybe, since they’ve giggled together for years, but not Helo. But he’s here, and he’s on his knees, weeping messily into the shoulder of the XO’s duty uniform.

He hadn’t expected to run into the former Officer of the Watch, either. One of the damage control boards had popped an indicator of repeated pressure loss in the old launch bay, the one that was a gift shop, and since he’d been stuck in CIC since that morning, rewiring, repairing, supervising, and generally coaxing things to work again in the gallant old ship, he decided to take a walk. Now that he’s thinking about it, Gaeta was supposed to be up there, doing something to the comms, and he’d been absent. Gaeta was never absent, just like he never spelled anything wrong.

Helo shifts so his back is against the wall, and slides down with a thump, stretching out his legs and cradling Gaeta’s shaking body. He’s crying so hard that his whole body is convulsing, and in spite of the force of his sobs, he’s quiet, as if he’s afraid someone will hear him. He probably is. Helo’s seen how Gaeta’s treated by the people who came up from New Cap. Tigh’s meanness is the least of it; people won’t talk to him, or look at him, and Helo suspects by the way Gaeta is wincing when he moves that other things are happening as well. He tries to defend the other man as best he can, but he’s in a weird no-man’s land himself right now- half an XO and half a toaster-lover. The people who stayed, the Galacticans, he calls them in his head, seem to be just fine about him, and some of the New Cap people, who know him, or Sharon, or what Sharon did for them, are fine too, but the others; just say that Helo’s not altogether sorry that Duck blew himself up.

Gaeta’s quieter now, and his shaking is lessening. Helo shifts him slightly to go for his bandana, and the movement makes the smaller man clutch at him hard enough to strain the shoulder seams of his uniform. Whatever happened to Gaeta to unhinge him like this is obviously really bad, and Helo gives up on the idea of mopping Gaeta’s face. His uniform is shot anyway, since tears and snot have soaked through the neck and shoulder, so he settles himself more comfortably and uses the hand that’s free to stroke Gaeta’s head.

The petting seems to calm the other man, and Helo continues, feeling black curls twining around his fingers with each stroke. He rubs Gaeta’s hair between his thumb and forefinger. Curly hair has become almost a foreign texture to him, since Sharon’s is thick and straight. He debates saying something to the ex-Lieutenant, but decides against it. Helo’s always been one to wait people out, let them unburden themselves in their own time. Made him a good ECO, that ability to patiently sort through information and put things together.

Gaeta hiccups suddenly, a small, resentful sound, and Helo laughs, unable to help it. Nothing’s funny here, but that little noise is all too human, and Gaeta’s probably going to be mortified when all this emotion is done with.

His hands are loosening on Helo’s jacket, and his breathing is slowing down. Helo rests his cheek tenderly on top of the younger man’s head and rubs his back. This is what comforting his small cousins had been like, on Caprica, before the Cylons blew the frak out of the universe. Gaeta’s still burrowing into Helo’s body like he wants to crawl inside his skin, but he’s stopped the hysterical weeping, and Helo ventures speech.

“Okay, Felix?” Gaeta’s first name feels wrong on Helo’s tongue, sort of like when someone calls him Karl, but at the same time necessary. This is a question he’s asking the private Gaeta, not the public one.

Gaeta quite literally goes rigid against him, almost like he’s forgotten Helo’s even there, that Helo’s anything more than a shoulder and a pair of arms to hide in. Slowly, his head shakes no against Helo’s neck, and then a rusty version of his gentle voice confirms it. “No.”

Helo kisses the top of Gaeta’s head, unsurprised by how that feels like the right thing to do. He strokes slow, soothing circles on the back of Gaeta’s civilian jacket, which he now notices is filthy on one side, like Gaeta fell- or was thrown to the floor. He hasn’t seen the other man’s face yet, since when he came on him Gaeta had been on his knees, huddled against the wall, shaking like his bones were rattling. He’s still shaking a little, residual shudders, and Helo sits up more. The cold wall and the floor are killing his leg, but he doesn’t want to seem like he’s pushing Gaeta away.

Across the…gift shop…is a grouping of couches, probably there to allow weary teachers a rest while their classes go crazy buying official Fleet souvenirs. They’re standard ugly furniture-from-a-box, but at least they aren’t icy metal. In one move, Helo dumps Gaeta off his lap, lumbers to his feet, picks the other man up, surprised at the weight of him, and carries him over to the couch, resettling Gaeta in his lap and pulling him back against his shoulder. With a sigh, Helo relaxes back into the couch, resting his leg along the seat.

Gaeta’s gone all stiff again, and he’s probably horrified that Helo just picked him up and carried him, not at all something that happens to the formal ex-Officer of the Watch, ever, but he’s still willing to allow himself to be held and comforted. In fact, he seems to be damned desperate for it, and Helo’s content to be here for as long as it takes him to pull himself together, to become cool, collected Felix Gaeta again.

Helo can feel the other man’s eyelashes against his throat as Gaeta blinks, and it tickles. A lot. Helo reaches in between them and removes Gaeta from his neck. He’s a wreck. Red eyes, salt streaks down his cheeks, and a bruise on his lower jaw. Helo catches his face, and Gaeta flinches. He turns his face into the light. “What happened to you?”

Gaeta drops his face into the curve of Helo’s hand. His lips are abraded, too, and the area around them is red, like some of the skin has been ripped away. His lashes lie matted against his cheeks, still wet, and as he shakes his head they brush against Helo’s palm like butterfly wings. His lips rest in Helo’s palm, and without thinking, Helo runs his thumb across Gaeta’s bruised mouth. There’s a little bit of something there- tape residue?

“Tell me, Felix. Who hurt you?”

The laugh he receives in return is bitter. “No one. Everyone. What was it like when you decided to die for Gaius Baltar?”

Whatever Helo’s expecting, it’s not this, and he thinks for a minute, because the question seems important. “I decided to die for someone I loved, for everyone I loved. Except I didn’t decide to die. I just decided that someone else needed to live.”

“Love.” Gaeta’s voice trembles. He shakes his head, and then suddenly his mouth is on Helo’s, kissing him hard. Helo opens his mouth to say something, what he’s not sure, because he’s got Felix Gaeta’s tongue in his mouth and Felix Gaeta’s hands all over his chest, and even though he’s confused as hell, he’s sure that Gaeta needs something right now, and if this is what he needs, Helo’s willing to provide it.

He relaxes deliberately under Gaeta, softening his mouth and sliding his hand up to curve around Gaeta’s neck, holding him closer and deepening the kiss, gentling it. Gaeta’s mouth trembles under Helo’s for a moment, and then he goes almost boneless, leaning into Helo and wrapping his other arm around Helo’s neck. Kissing him is a strange feeling. There’s no familiarity, like with Sharon, no instinctive awareness of how things should fit together, or a habit of how things have been before. The other man’s mouth is sweeter than he expected; trust Felix Gaeta to have excellent dental hygiene in the middle of an apocalypse. Helo’s being very careful of the smaller man’s bruised mouth as he kisses him back. Gaeta’s being less careful, though, and Helo’s afraid he’ll do himself some real damage. “Easy, Felix,” he murmurs against his lips.

He runs his hands over Gaeta’s back. Kissing a man is more or less like kissing a woman, except the smell is different, and some of the textures. He’s willing to do this, but since he got back to Galactica from Caprica’s grime, he’s gotten a lot more fastidious, and Gaeta’s a mess. There’s a restroom sign across the gift shop, and Helo debates for a moment, then stands up, taking Gaeta with him, keeping their mouths joined. He locks one powerful arm around Gaeta’s waist, lifting his feet off the floor, and starts walking toward the head, dangling Gaeta against his body. Gaeta tears his mouth away and starts to speak, but Helo stops him. “You smell, Felix.”

Gaeta turns bright red, dusky skin glowing like a beacon. “I’m sorry. I never would have…”

“Head’s right over here. You want to walk?”

Helo’s still moving, and as Gaeta shakes his head in the negative, Helo sweeps up the rest of him, folding Gaeta’s legs over his arm. He’s had a lot of practice with this, wrangling a drunk Starbuck, but she never curled into him as trustingly as Gaeta is, never tried to help by lifting herself with one arm while the other played with the cropped hair at his nape and her mouth pressed small, tentative kisses under his ear.

He bangs Felix’s foot into the doorframe and swears apologetically. The light doesn’t work, so Helo performs an awkward shuffle to prop the door open, juggling the younger man as best he can. He kicks a forgotten janitor’s bucket against the door and drops Gaeta off next to the shower, reaching around him to turn on the water and start it heating. He hopes it will heat- eternal civilian showers haven’t left a whole lot of surplus.

“I’ll be right back,” he reassures Gaeta, who is reaching for him as he steps away. “I’ll be back, Felix. It’s all right.” Ineffectual words, since he’s afraid that what happened to Gaeta is something worse than just a beating- he’s taken those himself for being who and what he is, what he chose, and he knows there are far worse things than physical pain. That kind of pain heals. Other kinds ache long after the cause is gone.

He hopes the crash as he forces the lock on the gift shop hasn’t frightened Gaeta worse than he already is. It’s pretty handy that the gift shop stocked Fleet-issue tanks and sweats with all the other crap, because he has something to put Gaeta back into after he cleans him up. The sizes seem to be geared more toward school kids, but eventually Helo realizes that the adult sizes are at the bottom of the pile, and grabs some tanks and pants, and then a set of tanks for himself. He’s pretty wet, too, down the chest.

Gaeta hasn’t moved. He’s still standing where Helo left him, staring into the mirror where his reflection looms in the dim light. His face is remote, like he’s gone somewhere inside himself. Helo’s seen that before, with both Starbuck and Sharon, and he knows how hard it is to get someone back if you let them spiral down that way.

He reaches around behind Gaeta and pulls him against his body, unbuttoning the other man’s olive drab shirt, and tugging it off like he would a child’s, one arm at a time. Gaeta’s t-shirt is soaked through on the back and underarms, and the smell is the rank sweat of fear. Helo’s seen Gaeta in the officers’ showers hundreds of times, but he seems more naked right now, fully clothed. Something catches his eye, and he picks up one of Gaeta’s wrists, then both of them. The abrasions are familiar, the raw red lines of someone who fought the flex cuffs as hard as he could. He’d had them on Caprica, when the Cylons captured him, ankles and wrists.

The shower’s finally heating up, and steam is beginning to pour out the open door. Helo digs into his uniform and comes up with a couple of glow sticks, also courtesy of the Galactica gift shop, and snaps them into illumination, kicking the door shut. Gaeta flinches as Helo chucks a pink light stick into the shower and two white ones into the sink. Helo adjusts the temperature in the shower and pulls off Gaeta’s t-shirt for him, since he’s showing no inclination to do it for himself.

“Frak, Felix!” Helo’s louder than he intended to be and he has to catch Gaeta as the other man cowers inadvertently. There’s a huge bruise on his stomach and another one on his ribs, and both his arms are marked with black and blue finger grips. His back has fading marks as well, faint and yellow in the clear white glow. “You have to tell me what happened to you.”

Gaeta bows his head. “Someone decided I needed to die for someone they loved.”

Helo cups his cheek and brings Gaeta’s eyes up to his. “What are you telling me, Felix?”

Gaeta laces his fingers through Helo’s. “I don’t want to talk about it, Helo. Not ever.” He closes his eyes, long lashes shadows on his stark cheekbones and laughs bitterly. “We call the Cylons inhuman.”

“Felix, you…”

“All I could think was that we’re all alone. That I’m all alone. We’re all we have, so what do we do when all we can do isn’t enough?”

Helo’s still not entirely sure what’s happened to Felix, but he does the best he can. “You aren’t alone. I’m here.”

“That’s going to make it harder later, Helo, not easier.”

Talking doesn’t seem to be helping, so Helo goes back to taking off Gaeta’s clothes, finding more deep bruising along Gaeta’s hip and on his outer thigh. He pushes the other man into the shower and adjusts the height of the showerhead for him as Gaeta tiredly leans his head against the wall. Helo removes his own clothes quickly; it’s cold in the converted hangar. Hot water is cascading down around them as Helo crams into the shower behind him and takes Gaeta into his arms again. Gaeta’s head rests against his collarbone just below where Sharon’s would, and Helo’s struck again by how strange this doesn’t feel. It’s not about sex, or desire, it’s about offering comfort and support in a world that’s been ripped in two, shaken around, and reassembled with pieces sticking out every which way. His shoulders are blocking the spray enough that Gaeta doesn’t have to add drowning to the miseries befalling him, and Helo makes a long arm out of the shower and scoops a bar of soap off the back of the sink. Soap’s pretty much a luxury aboard Galactica, after a year on the run, and Helo makes a note to mention to a few people that the contents of the gift shop might be worth exploring. It smells nice, an astringent, girly smell, and Helo sniffs appreciatively as he lathers his hands and sinks them into Gaeta’s hair. The other man’s curls are slicked back against his skull as Helo scrubs, poking out of the suds in random spikes, and Helo steps out of the way of the spray, letting it hit Gaeta in the face and rinse his hair.

Gaeta splutters a little bit and then turns into the stream, letting the water cascade down his body. Helo uses the time to soap up a little, and he’s about to wash his chest when Gaeta’s hand takes the soap from him. “Let me?” Gaeta’s voice is tentative, his swollen eyes questioning.

Helo nods and turns around so Gaeta can get to his back. The other man’s hands feel pretty blissful on his body, half massage, half lathering, and Helo lets out a deep sigh. Gaeta nudges his shoulder with one soapy hand, and Helo turns around so he can get the front. He’s looking down at the top of Gaeta’s head as Felix seriously washes his chest for him, and the look on Gaeta’s face is endearing. He’s so serious about everything he does, from cards to reports to washing someone. It’s as though someone will take his flight wings away if he misses an inch of dirt, and Helo gives in to impulse and sets his lips against the younger man’s temple.

Gaeta’s hands go still and he turns his face up to Helo, searching his eyes for something. He goes up on his toes and very gently presses his mouth against Helo’s, not so much a kiss as a question, and Helo answers by wrapping one arm around Gaeta’s waist and threading the other into his hair, opening his mouth to let the other man in. He didn’t realize before what a pleasure kissing Felix Gaeta was, and he lets himself enjoy it, lets Gaeta catch his lower lip between his teeth and worry it gently, lets Gaeta’s hands run over his skull in smooth, caressing sweeps.

The water’s steaming around them both, and the soap’s gone somewhere, but Helo’s enjoying the kissing too much to hunt for it, no matter how sorry he’ll be for the waste later. He’s still not entirely sure what this is, just that Gaeta seems to need this kind of tenderness specifically, and it’s not anything that Helo can’t or won’t give, or hasn’t offered to others before.

His hand hits the bad spot along Gaeta’s ribs, and the other man flinches and sucks in some water, and Helo steadies him while he coughs. Reaching up, he angles the showerhead toward the wall enough that the full spray isn’t hitting either of them any more, but the heat and warmth are still present. Gaeta’s rid of the water, and he pulls Helo’s head back down with enthusiasm, one of his hands sliding low on Helo’s back and caressing the lean muscle there. Helo responds to the invitation by pressing close, rubbing against Gaeta as the kisses grow faster and more intense, with a purpose now, lazy pleasure abandoned for something more urgent.

Gaeta’s hand is on him firmly, and Helo loses his balance and slams into the shower wall. The other man’s hand is sure and deft, and Helo suddenly becomes aware that a man’s touch and a woman’s touch are very different things- a man knows where and how hard, and a woman will always have to guess, and ask. Gaeta’s head is down, and his mouth is playing over Helo’s chest, finding sensitive spots and teasing them with his tongue. Half of his brain wants this so very badly, and the other half that hasn’t been turned into goo by the hand wrapped around him realizes that this isn’t about him, or shouldn’t be about him.

He stretches out his arms and manages to hold Gaeta far enough away that he can think. Felix’s eyes fly to his and Helo realizes that he thinks he’s overstepped, done something wrong, and Helo fixes it the best way he can, covering Gaeta with his own body and pressing him into the wall as his own hands roam over Gaeta’s slick, soft skin. He’s never really been interested in men, but he’s under the impression he must have drunkenly experimented in flight school one night, because something about the muscular feel of Gaeta seems like it might be familiar. He lets his hands roam over Gaeta’s hipbones and thighs, finding the other man’s mouth with his and possessing it hungrily.

He wants this now, for both Felix and himself, and he drops to his knees, raking his teeth over the flesh of Gaeta’s stomach and closing his hand around the other man, stroking him with a twist of his wrist, the same twist that he himself likes. Gaeta’s hands clutch at Helo’s head, but his short hair gives nothing to hold, and Gaeta’s hands flutter like birds seeking a purchase on icy branches as he arches into Helo.

It’s so sudden when it happens that Helo’s surprised. Gaeta’s shoulders slam into the wall and his whole body bows taut with the force of his release, legs shaking and hands fisting into his own flesh. For a long moment he’s propped against the wall of the shower, chest heaving, and then he slides down the wall into Helo’s waiting arms. Helo cradles him against his chest, feeling Gaeta’s heart beating hard against his own, and somehow contorts them both into a sitting position, trying to fit his long legs into the shower and eventually giving up and letting his feet sprawl out onto the cold floor outside.

Gaeta’s cuddled confidingly against Helo and Helo’s content to just sit and hold him. Gaeta needs to be held, needs to feel valued, and safe, and loved. The same things everyone needs, and wants, and has so much trouble finding. Helo’s lucky. He’s found all those things, and that gives him the ability to share them when he needs to. He’ll hold Gaeta now, and someday Gaeta will hold someone else. When it comes right down to it, the only thing they all have is each other. Nothing else matters.

Helo closes his eyes and leans back against the wall, Gaeta’s head nestled into the curve of Helo’s shoulder. There’s nothing more important than this right now. Nothing at all.

Limn, written for the Kindreds Objectify Sharon Ficathon

2007-11-08T06:36:56Z

Limn

By: rebelliousrose

Rated PG-13
Words- 990

Written for Kindreds “Objectify Sharon” Ficathon

Author’s note- Limn: to illuminate.

Big thanks to my betas, mamaboolj and sabaceanbabe

Sharon wasn’t used to the idea of people knocking before they came into her cell. Before the discovery of New Caprica, the only person who ever knocked was Helo, on the windows to catch her attention when he came to visit. Even after the Admiral’s apology when the Pegasus men assaulted her, he never knocked, just walked in with a marine guard. Starbuck never knocked on anything, anywhere, since barging in was part of her persona. So when the tentative knock sounded on the cell wall, Sharon jumped.

She’d been sitting in the new chair, at the new table, going over the photographs of the Cylon fleet that had been shot in the Blackbird before Lee Adama crashed it. No one seemed to comprehend that she honestly had no knowledge or experience with a resurrection ship, and had no way of finding out without alerting the other Cylon to her location. Not that “in Galactica’s special Cylon storage” was going to help any of the rest of her people mount a rescue, anyway. Or that they would try to rescue her. She was a liability. The Cylon lived by the group, and she was a renegade- a reject. Her programming was flawed, and if she returned, she’d be boxed. She was boxed now, just in a different way.

Outside the window, Lieutenant Gaeta waited politely for her to respond to his knock. He held more files, and in his other hand, he awkardly held a Tylium lantern. She rose to her feet, and crossed to the door. He smiled tentatively and mouthed “May I come in?” through the window. Sharon nodded, and only then did he indicate to the waiting guard to unlock the cell’s big door.

Sharon took the lamp as he entered the cell. Placing his files on the table, he took the lamp from her and showed her how to turn it on. With typical Gaeta efficiency, it was battery powered, since the cell had no outlets. With his face illuminated by the softer light, he looked very young, much like the man Sharon remembered dancing with on Colonial Day, in her red dress.

“Is the table helping?” Gaeta asked her, holding out the chair so she could sit. Such courtesies were automatic to him, and a luxury to her.

“Yes. Tell the Admiral thank you.” A hurt look flashed across his face, and Sharon noticed. “Was the table from you?”

A flush showed on his high cheekbones. “I thought you’d have an easier time working, with something to work on. And now you can see, too.”

“I still can’t tell you about the ship, Lieutenant. I really don’t know.”

“I know, Sharon.” He was comfortable with her name, Felix Gaeta was. He always had been, even as she prepared to cut into her own flesh and link Galactica with her neural pathways. She was Sharon to him, even as the former Sharon had been. Not an alien, but almost a person. Someone he was willing to treat like he treated other humans. For him, she’d answer questions, if she could.

“He’s doing fine.” Gaeta answered questions, too, the ones she couldn’t and wouldn’t ask, about Helo, and the Chief, and Galactica. Helo was taking Gaeta’s place in CIC as Tactical Officer. Lieutenant Gaeta was mustering out and going down to the surface to assist President Baltar. Helo was a Captain now, and Chief and Cally were going to have a baby. And Sharon sat in a cell.

She couldn’t help the anger. It was part of her, along with the wrenching emptiness where Hera had been, and the silence that had been her link to the other Cylon. She still could hardly talk to Helo. Most of the time he didn’t even try, just stood outside the cell and watched. His loyalty infuriated her. He was like a big dog, kicked and starved and abused, but unable to believe that people were bad. She hated him.

“Sharon?” Gaeta had said something and she had missed it, caught up in her own emotional abyss. She brought her eyes around to him and he flinched, something he had never done before. God only knew what he could see in her face. “I’ll leave the files here, and you can look at them.”

She nodded silently, letting the rage flare to life in her eyes. No matter who he was, or how kind he was, he was still human. She hated him too. Hated them all. Hated herself more.

“I sorted the personnel records for the New Capricans. Found a lot of old service jackets, too.” The Lieutenant turned to leave. Sharon sat, immobile, glaring at his back. “I appreciate your help. I know it must be difficult.”

The files slammed to the floor in an explosion of crop-edged paper. A flash of color caught Sharon’s attention as the papers drifted to the floor. Helo looked up at her, smiling. His face was clear and untroubled, without the line between his brows that appeared when he watched her. He wore Captain’s pins and piping, and his gentle, steady eyes stared into hers with that tender expression that said he was thinking about only her. She knew that look, both from her memories and Sharon’s. Something broke her then, something huge and inexorable, undeniable. Her angry heart cracked open under a wave of grief and love.

Sharon went to her knees, caught up in Helo’s face the same way she had been on Caprica when they had first kissed as themselves, not as Helo and Sharon. Wonderingly, she raised her eyes to Gaeta. He was watching her, and with a crisp nod, he followed the marine out of the cell. Sharon returned her eyes to Helo’s paper gaze, allowing herself to be lost again, and found.

ShagAthon Fic #2

2007-05-18T06:32:21Z

Title: Mechanically Inclined

Author: rebelliousrose

Rating: G

Word count: 2200

Spoilers: Up to S3

Chief/Sharon/Helo

Disclaimer: belongs to NBC Universal, no profit being made, please don't sue.

Author’s note: Written for carpenyx in the Helo ShagAthon, because everyone should get two stories and neither of them on time. ;}

Mechanically Inclined

Somebody had to do something, although why it always seemed to have to be someone in a Chief’s uniform was beyond him. Need someone to go into a punctured water tank venting out into space? Get a knuckledragger. Looking for someone to crash into a planet? Hate to miss that. But this was the most frakking dangerous thing yet. Machines, he could fix, but people? Cylons count as machines, right? Give him a leg up, at least. He could understand a machine. Maybe even understand this machine. After all, he’d been in love with it. A different version of the software, at least. Version 1.8, maybe. Or something like that, something not really real.

The cell wasn’t guarded at night anymore, and only occasionally during the day. Sharon just lay there, unmoving, staring at the ceiling, rising to mechanically eat and take care of the most personal needs. Always thin, she was gaunt now, her once-glossy hair lank and greasy. Did Cylons use motor oil for moisturizer?

Sneaking in to see her wasn’t the best idea, probably, but what the frak; he hadn’t been arrested, poisoned, imprisoned, the subject of a tribunal, or punched in the face in a while now, and he figured he was pretty much due. Life on the Galactica had involved a decent amount of pain before the attacks, and not a lot had changed since, unless you counted the smell getting worse.

The bay was dark, the cell faintly illuminated. The Cylon never had full darkness. She wasn’t allowed to be unobserved, or hadn’t been until New Caprica. So many people had gone down to the surface that there really wasn’t anyone left to guard her, or to even cause her to need a guard. The only people she was dangerous to anymore were herself- and Helo.

Poor sad bastard, that Helo. He was why the Chief was here, a wreck in need of repairs. Maybe Starbuck could have helped, but she was off on New Cap, running around in the sunshine and playing with her newest toy, musclebound Anders. And Helo, her best friend, really, Starbuck’s only friend, since she was such a pain in the ass to everyone, was sleepwalking through everything in such a fog of pain it was a wonder he wasn’t crazier than President Baltar. Maybe he was, and nobody had noticed yet, but at least Helo wasn’t talking to himself in the head and dragging himself down the hall with his own clothing.

He sneaked closer to the cell, if trotting along in a neon orange jumpsuit with a toolbox could be called sneaking. Sharon lay there immobile, and he picked up the phone. Maybe she would respond. She had before, after they built the Blackbird, and he could use the help. Any response from her would give the LT hope, but she ignored the poor guy, freezing him worse than Adama had ever iced anyone. He stared at her.

“Pick up the phone, Sharon. I know you can hear me.”

Nothing. He shook his head. So far, he wasn’t in court martial or brig territory, but that was about to change. He slapped his hand against the glass, hard enough to shake it, and the Cylon flinched. “Come on, Sharon. You’re being a jerk, and you know it.” She rolled over and presented her back to him, and he made his decision. “Have it your way. I’m coming in.”

He made short work of the lock. It wasn’t for nothing that he read technical manuals on everything on Galactica for fun. The old girl had few systems that he didn’t understand at least some of. Pity women couldn’t come with manuals like ships. Save everyone a lot of trouble.

He approached the bunk. Some people were afraid of Cylons, but he had no fear of this one. The Eights had hurt him enough, he figured. Hurt Helo enough, too. And Adama. For all he knew, Doctor…President Baltar was hallucinating Eights and taking advice from the visions. Which might actually be an improvement in policy, now that he thought about it.

Sharon was curled around herself, around the flat belly that had been round, and held the child whose ashes the Chief had helped Helo space. He’d held Helo too, gripping his shoulder when it looked like the LT was going out the Raptor door with his daughter.

The Chief sat down, his back against the bunk. “I know you can hear me, Sharon.” Her name sounded odd on his tongue, the name the same but the person totally different. If you called a machine a person. “If I’m getting court-martialled for breaking in here, the least you could do is pretend to listen. Or look at me.”

She remained impassive. With a sigh he pressed on. “Or look at the LT. Or talk to him, or gods, just give him something. He’s frakked up over Hera too. If you were going to abandon him, you should have done it on Caprica, where he was at least expecting it. Are all the Eights selfish, or is it just you and Sharon?” Something was weird with that last sentence, and he took a moment to parse it out and decide he didn’t mind. “Sharon was like a little kid with a broken toy before she shot Adama. It was like she didn’t understand that people could be hurt with words, or no words at all. All she could see was what she wanted, and she couldn’t see any farther than that. Selfish.”

He stared at the wall, remembering when he and the LT had sat in the brig on Pegasus, waiting to die, and what Helo had told him. “He can’t let you go. He can’t watch you fade, or let you push him away. He has to keep trying, because to him, you’re all that he has left. He gave up most of his life for you, Sharon. People hate him. They want him to die, just because Hera existed. Because you exist. They call him a traitor, a dupe, a Cylon-lover. And he doesn’t care. He’ll take anything they throw at him to be in the world you’re in, and it’s killing him. He can’t do it by himself. He shouldn’t have to.”

When she didn’t move, or answer, the Chief’s patience snapped. Lunging to his feet, he grabbed for her shoulders and shook her hard, her body flopping like a doll. “He won’t eat!” Chief roared. “Have you looked at him? At all? Or are you so angry and so selfish that you don’t care?” He yanked her to her feet and locked his fingers around her jaw, forcing her face toward him.

“He would have died for you. He almost did. Are you going to finish what those frakkers started? Wallow in here and pretend that you’re the only one who lost someone you loved? Every single person in this Fleet lost someone. Some of us lost everyone! And we can’t get them back. We can’t replace them from files or backups. They’re gone, forever. And I understand that Hera’s gone and you love her. I get that. But you have to remember that so does Helo. And without you, he’s all alone.”

Tears trickled from Sharon’s eyes. “How can you say you understand?” Her voice was rusty from disuse. She turned her face to the wall and hung limp in his grip.

“Because I do.” The Cylon shook her head in denial. “No, I really do. Cally’s pregnant. I’m going to be a father. There’s a new person depending on me to love them and take care of them and Sharon, it frakkin’ scares me to death, because now I have someone to lose. And so do you.”

He dropped her on the cot in a sprawl of skinny arms and legs. Her eyes were on him, wary and watchful. Her thin cheeks bore the imprint of his fingers. “My Sharon was a lot of things, but she was never a coward. So stop hiding. Stop whining. Grow up. Or rot and die in here, and one of these days, I’ll be dumping the LT out of a Raptor door into space too.”

Picking up his toolbox, the Chief turned to go. He’d given it his best shot, all he had, really, and though Helo wouldn’t thank him for it, he’d had to try. Some things were bigger than words, he guessed. Personally, he’dve turned her over his knee months ago, but the LT would sooner strangle a puppy than raise his hand to a woman. He never had figured out how Helo managed to shoot her on Caprica…

“Wait.” He jumped as her hand covered the door. Cylons moved fast when they wanted to. “Wait,” she repeated, tone gaining in strength and authority with each word. Her eyes were dry, and her face iron hard. “Are you lying to me?”

“You have got to be frakking kidding me. You think I’d give up rack time, break into the most secure area on Galactica, and risk court-martial for talking to you unsupervised for what? Payback? My Sharon died. What’s left to be mad at?”

“I want to see him. Now.” She shifted her grip to his wrist.

Chief pulled against her hand. “I’ll get him for you. He’s sleeping. Give me a minute or two to lock the door back up and I’ll go.”

“Take me to Helo.” Her eyes burned with that dark Cylon intensity that usually meant some sort of disaster for him in short order, and he sighed. Frak, he was done for anyway. The cameras and mikes had picked up every moment of his unauthorized visit, and if he was going to get the brig, he might as well see it through. Damn Cylons couldn’t just kill you straight up. They had to torture you first.

Chief shouldered open the hatch to the pilots’ quarters. The walk there had been a little more exciting than he liked, especially considering he had an impatient Cylon prisoner by the elbow. Luckily, they hadn’t passed anyone but Dualla, and everyone on Galactica knew Dee could and would keep a secret. The big door swung open, and Chief stuck his head in, squinting through the dim half lights to Helo’s rack. The LT was lying there, one arm under his head, the other loosely hooked in his waistband.

He was so thin now, he looked like the Helo that Chief had known right out of flight school, gawky and unfinished looking, rawboned and rough edged, all planes and angles. Even after he and Sharon had come from Caprica with Starbuck, Helo still hadn’t been gaunt like this, and he’d eaten with good will since. Until Hera died, and then the man who’d been the first to inhale his rations and scrounge other people for more was picking at his food and giving away his rolls…

Helo noticed the Chief, and his eyes became alert in the gloom. His muscles tensed, as if he was going to swing his legs off the rack and rise, but then he relaxed again. Chief waved tentatively, and then felt his shoulder bounce off the side of the hatch as Sharon shoved him aside and stepped over the doorframe. She stopped just inside the door, and just looked at Helo, and he at her.

The LT’s green eyes were the only thing that moved as the Cylon stepped slowly toward his rack, as they stared into each other’s faces. Sharon stopped beside the bunk, and then slowly sank to her knees, still looking straight at the LT. The Chief wondered for an insane moment if Helo had died from shock, since he didn’t seem to even have breathed since Sharon stepped into the room, but then Helo closed his eyes. The flesh of his face went tight, and his jaw worked. His chest heaved once, and Sharon rested her head on the mattress, her forehead touching his side.

Helo’s free hand lifted, hesitated, then rested on her head, and Sharon looked up through tear-filled eyes. Her lips trembled, but Helo put a finger to them and shook his head, cupping her cheek. Sharon covered his hand with hers and they did that eye-locking thing again. The Chief decided to bow out while he still could, since being court-martialled for watching two people staring at each other and breathing wasn’t really his thing. Helo could return the Cylon to her cell, since it was still unlocked. He guessed things were okay now, with the LT and the toaster, although if it were him, he’dve been talking, saying things like how sorry he was and how he loved her and how…well, whatever. They seemed to be doing fine by themselves, and he’d done his part. He smiled a little to himself. Maybe a little people fixing was something he could do after all. Or was it toaster repair?

Shagathon fic #1

2007-03-05T02:32:57Z

Title: You Had Me At Helo
Author: rebelliousrose
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 5200
Spoilers: Up to season 3.
Disclaimer: belongs to NBC Universal, no profit being made, please don't sue.
Author's note: Written for the very patient carpenyx, and this is really the second part of her prompt, the smutty part. I'm still wrestling with the first part and the lack of days off to finish it. I may add more to this if people are amused enough to care. I should also mention that I have shouted out like a zillion people's amazing fics in this vignette, because they are good and wonderful.

You Had Me At Helo

Helo moans, deep in his throat, trying to be quiet. Other pilots and ECOs are sleeping, and peace is rare enough on Galactica that he’ll do his level best to not disturb them, even though right now he’s vibrating like a tuning fork, every nerve ending on fire, and the possibility of discovery adding to the….mmmm. His teeth are sunk into his lower lip and his hands are clenched into fists, and in an effort to distract himself, he thinks back, back to when he could still say that he’d been totally faithful to Sharon. Mentally faithful was never in doubt, and when it came right down to it, he’d trade his oncoming orgasm for even a kind look from her, but she was still refusing to talk to him, or to even look at him, and when comfort and gentle touch was offered, he’d been unable to turn it down. Of all the things that have happened to Helo, being alone in the middle of crowds has been the worst. Kara might understand, since she’s the most damaged person he knows, but how do you start that conversation, even with someone who loves you?

He wishes he could stop thinking and just enjoy the sensation, feeling the caress of lips and tongue, slowly sliding up and down on him, not hurrying. Enjoying his taste and scent, and the texture of his hard flesh against softness. It’s been so long, and this is really good, but he’s still thinking, and it’s causing him to be unresponsive. He wants to be back in a rainy Caprican forest, where the only thing in his mind is how good Sharon Valerii’s lithe body feels moving hotly against him.

As soon as he thinks about Sharon, it’s gone. The moment, his arousal, his erect…..

“Hey!” Helo’s voice is indignant, velvety timbre pitched to yelp. “I can live with the cheating on Sharon part, because that’s at least something that might have happened, if I were being written by, say, Michael Angeli, but that last part? Not happening. Ever. It’s like that story “Calling the Shots”? You know, the one where the writer put Apollo and I up to getting Racetrack pregnant, and then she had me not lasting as long as Apollo. Remember, I always do the right thing, and that includes not leaving a woman hanging, so to speak.”

“Who said it’s a woman?”

Helo sighs. “Is this another one of those Gaeta ones? Because when his actor said he wanted to frak a daggit, he was joking. Honest.”

“I haven’t decided who just yet. My prompt was for carpenyx, and I have this other thing that’s turning into a character piece more than a Shagathon. I’m supposed to hook you up with the Chief.”

Helo shudders. “Chief’s a good guy, but he’s kind of, well, hairy. Isn’t there someone… smoother?”

“Lee and you have been done to death, Helo. The thought of trying to get you naked with Tigh or Adama creeps me out, clearly Gaeta’s not working for you, and HotDog has the clap. That leaves Baltar or Billy, or a Cylon male. Or Doc Cottle.”

“Gods, not HotDog. Or Cottle. Frak. If I have to be with a someone who isn’t Sharon, can’t it be someone we don’t really know?”

“Like that big Asian guy with no lines and no name? Because if the fans think I’m MarySueing you, it’ll get ugly.”

Helo shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind a Mary Sue, I guess, but you do have that prompt. Chief’s okay. Can it be with alcohol, though? So I can handwave it as I was drunk?”

Helo groans, deep in his throat. Chief’s hard, calloused hands are on him, and Chief’s mouth tastes of the latest batch of “solvent” from his still. Too much of the solvent, really, since inhibitions seem to be what dissolved away. Somehow, the conversation turned from Fleet gossip and the engine parts Chief desperately needs, to sex, and then somehow Chief’s tongue was in Helo’s mouth and Helo was in the Chief’s hand, his flightsuit unzipped all the way, Chief’s bulk holding him against the wall as his fist slides up and down along Helo’s flesh. Helo is getting a beard burn, and his more tender skin is being slightly abraded by Chief’s callouses. He pushes Chief away for a moment and grabs Cally’s hand lotion bottle that she keeps in the toolroom. It smells girly, but he’s damn near desperate for relief. Chief has him more wound up than he ever thought another man could, for a man who likes women as much as Helo does. He dollops the lotion into his own palm, then covers Chief’s with his, spreading the slick stuff over both their hands. Chief strokes Helo once, hard, and the lotion warms, and so does Helo. He sinks his teeth into the Chief’s neck, tasting salt under his teeth, and fights the buckles of Chief’s belt. Chief is pumping him firmly and the lotion is easing any discomfort as Helo feels himself grow taut and heavy, ready to...

“Hey, buddy. This is nice and all, but when does Sharon come in? Don’t get me wrong, this is going pretty good, considering, and the lotion thing is pretty frakking hot, but aren’t we supposed to have a threesome or something like that?”

“Actually, Chief, the prompt was for friendship but something a little smutty, and I can’t seem to fit smut into all the pre-existing issues. So I went for character vignette smut. I thought it might work okay.”

“And why is he getting off but not me? Is this one of those deck versus pilot things? Because wings don’t equal orgasms, not in this toolroom.”

“Well,” Helo says reasonably in the Chief’s direction, “It is MY fanfic challenge. You get plenty at frakbuddies.”

“I still think that we should have a Sharon, or two.”

“Last time this happened, you punched Helo in the face and then tried to kill him with a wrench. I can’t be trying to make poor Helo be turned on hot by someone who kicked him around the hangar deck like a backstranded turtle.”

“Gods. I went to Brother Cavil and we talked about that. I’m dealing better now. Roslin’s cutting back on the airlocking, I stopped beating up people I like.”

“Helo, what do you want to do?”

“Gods. I always want Sharon, Athena-Sharon, that is. Boomer-Sharon is sort of, um, Sharon Lite, you know?”

Helo is kissing Boomer, at long last, and it’s amazing. Lost strip poker bet or not, this is what he’s wanted for as long as he can remember, from the first time the pretty little Aerolon rook peered up at him through her bangs and bit her lower lip. Helo’s never managed a day since without that lip, and the things he’d like to do to and with it running through his head at least once.

And now he’s kissing Boomer, and they are both very drunk. Drunk enough that the audience of hooting fellow drunks, composed primarily of pilots and the odd mechanic or two who crashed the party, aren’t slowing him down at all. And Boomer is kissing him back, deep, full kisses like she wants to swallow his soul. Helo knows he’s a goner, just as he knows if she steps away from him, everyone in the mess is going to know that his pilot gives him more than orders. And he can’t stop, because Boomer’s tongue is on his, and her hands are on his waist, slipping slowly into the band of his pants and down, and in a minute he’s going to mortify himself in front of the whole squadron and just cry, because this isn’t real, it’s a fantasy, and she belongs to the Chief, who is no doubt not taking this well, even though he and Boomer are fighting as usual.

Sometimes it really sucks to be the guy who does the right thing. Helo breaks the kiss, breaks Boomer’s hold and moves her away from him gently and tries to ignore the way that her lips cling and hold his until the length of his arms is what breaks them apart, not any intention of stopping. Helo excuses himself to go to the head, ignoring Starbuck’s pointed look at his crotch. He can’t hide it anyway, and the rest of the pilots will just chalk it up to his reputation with the women. Or as the reason for the reputation, he hopes.

Helo leans tiredly against the wall of the head; he has it to himself, and suddenly a cold shower seems like the solution to a lot of things. He strips off his tanks, and unbuckles his belt. When he bends to untie his boot laces, his ass comes into sudden contact with something warm, and soft, and it smells a lot like Boomer. Helo thinks about drowning himself in the shower, because he’s just weak enough to blame the booze and take what he’s yearned after for so long.

And then her tongue slides the length of his spine and Helo abandons his boots and comes around, one hand fisting into her hair as his mouth slants across hers, and the other hand pressing her into him as tightly as he can. They are grinding into each other, and Boomer shoves him back, toward the sinks. He’s always amazed at how strong she is, but he doesn’t waste any time thinking about it, since Boomer’s attacking his pants with one hand while she shoves him onto the cold metal with the other. His ass is now freezing, and Helo tries to shift, but Boomer is urgent, and she’s got him in both hands, and Helo’s trying not to humiliate himself permanently, because Pyramid scores have deserted him entirely and….gods.

His head falls back. He’s in her mouth and it feels just as good as he always thought it would, his fingers tangling in her thick hair, hers stroking the crease of his thighs with firm pressure. He looks down at her and thinks that being tall is just about perfect for bathroom sex, because he can see her sliding him in and out and her tongue tormenting the underside and then he can’t think at all, as the waves of pleasure convulse him up and over.

Helo’s gasping and he knows it. His mouth is wide open and he’s sucking air like he’s been running. Boomer keeps moving gently, caressing now, as opposed to stimulating. Comforting, almost. He’s sensitive, but she’s easy enough that it feels good. He loosens his hands and raises her head. The moist sound her mouth makes leaving him makes Helo shudder again, and he kisses her, making sure it’s a deep kiss and that he’s tasting himself in her. Some women don’t care for doing what Boomer’s just done to him and he always makes a point of kissing them as soon as his vision clears, to make it clear that it’s a thank you.

Boomer’s kissing him back, though, still hot and urgent, and her own hands are pulling her tanks up and off. Helo runs his hands down her sleek back, over her damp skin. Somehow he has one cheek in the sink and the other on the counter, and it’s not the most comfortable thing in the world, so he picks Boomer up, and she wraps her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck as he walks them into one of the showers, shifting her enough that hot water is now steaming from the showerhead onto already slick flesh and unfortunately soggy pants.

Helo tries to unwrap her legs, but Boomer is still kissing him and moving hard against his body. Helo pulls back and unwinds her, big hands engulfing her slim body in long slow sweeps as he goes to his knees in front of her. Her wet belt would be a challenge even if Boomer weren’t tracing her nails along the shaved back of his neck, and Helo rests his head against her hip for a moment, shivering with each sensual scrape. He can’t wait, though. He’s greedy for this, because at any moment they could come to their senses and sober up, or someone, probably Starbuck with a camera, could come through the door and then he’ll be back to thinking about Boomer’s lower lip, but worse, because now he knows how it felt wrapped around him.

Her pants are a sodden mass, and Helo strips them off, making sure to follow the paths with his hands and tongue. Boomer puts one hand on his shoulder to balance as she steps clear, and Helo takes her foot in his hand and hooks it around his back. She reaches up and wraps her hands around the showerhead, and she’s open to him, the way he was to her. Helo leans in, rubbing his cheek against her concave belly.

“Is this an ‘Officers-Only’ shower hour?” The Chief’s voice is an icy rumble and Helo feels Boomer stiffen above him, and a sudden lack of stiffness below.

“That’s so cliché.” Boomer whines. “Having someone walk in. Everybody does that.”

“Um, could we maybe not have me losing the…moment twice in one story? I mean, I’ve got a legend to uphold…oh frak, there it is again.” Helo says plaintively.

“Hey, buddy, I’ve been counting. The score is you two, the rest of us nothing but air so far. You’ve got nothing to complain about, ‘Captain The Fics Are All About Me’ Agathon.” Chief scratches his head. “Are the plot bunnies ever going to get to the actual prompt? ‘Cause you left me hanging in that other story. You know, the serious one?”

“Yeah, and what about me, the Sharon-lite?”

“No one’s seen me yet in this story,” Athena says, resting her hand on Helo’s shoulder. Boomer pouts in Athena’s direction. “I’d like some time as well.”

Helo covers her hand with his and rubs his thumb across her fingers. “There’s always later, babe.”

“What do you want me to do? The only time the four of you are all together in one place is either when Boomer visits Galactica and has the staredown with Tigh, or when Sharon’s in a cell and someone’s going to need to come down with a serious case of necrophilia! I’m TRYING!”

Athena looks thoughtful. “I forgot about that. Could you go AU?”

“No, I really can’t. I’ve tried, but I am a canon traditionalist. I can’t seem to AU, even in my own Mary Sue fantasies.”

Helo hangs his head. “I’m sorry to be such a problem. It’s just so many people hate me, and it’s nice to get my own ficathon.”

“You aren’t the problem, Helo. It’s the damned timeline. Of course, the way the writers retcon everything...”

Athena whispers to Boomer in the background, and Boomer nods. Smiles break across both of their faces. Chief flinches, and Helo perks up. “I think you might have forgotten something…”

rebelliousrose2 @ 2007-02-09T01:55:00

2007-02-09T06:56:13Z

Testing, testing 1, 2, 3....