A/N: Indiscriminate timeline but before all the Hera business.
"Do I feel different?" she says, peeling away layer after layer of clothing like skin to fall loudly onto the floor.
His hands slip underneath the grey wifebeater she has on, feels the warmth that seems to glow through her spine, through her.
She tugs at her hair tie until her hair falls over her shoulders, looking at him with those eyes and he wonders if he's hurt her in all of this; he still remembers the Academy, too many close calls and too many days he spent covering for her while she was off making out with someone else, and oh god, the jealousy, he remembers that too, that used to coil hot and thick in his chest.
"Sharon," he says, hoarsely, and yes, Sharon, they are all Sharon, all of them, all of the Eights, the entire frakking production line -
"Do I feel different?" she repeats, spitting out each word as her wifebeater goes up and over her head until she's just standing there, in front of him, topless. He tentatively feels the weight of her breasts in his hands, his palms gently brushing over them (and her hiss of breath, that too sounds so incredibly familiar but this isn't Sharon, this is another Sharon, a different but not different Sharon).
She crushes her mouth against his then, tasting like rain and salt, and he buries his hands in her hair as she gasps, pushing her hands underneath his shirt, reaching for anything and everything.
"Does it taste the same?" she whispers as his mouth presses a series of hot kisses down the line of her neck and he marvels at how salty she tastes when he imagined her bitterness would litter her spirit, her pores, would ooze out of her like how fish smells never go away. He dips his mouth down and laves one of her breasts with his tongue as she pulls at his hair, roughly, and he's reminded of Raptor training sessions, of Caprica, of the Academy.
She pulls him up, knocking her forehead roughly against his, her nose pushing against his at an odd angle, and she says, "I'm Boomer, Helo. But I've always been Sharon."
I was here first, she wants to say, even if she isn't sure if that's true. It feels true.
Instead, she just cups him through his pants, watching as his head falls back and his hands search for purchase on a nearby wall; it isn't right, she thinks, that she has been replaced by someone who looks and sounds and feels exactly like her, not when she had to work for it - she lived her entire life as a lie, and now -
She roughly pulls Helo's pants down to his ankles, grasping him with one hand.
He almost whimpers.
"Is this different?" she whispers before her mouth descends on him, licking at first, but then sucking, her tongue sliding along him as he balls his hands helplessly into fists at his side.
She stands then, and his fingers dig into the flesh of her hip, pushing against the bone underneath.
"What do you want from me, Sharon?"
And then his hands are shoving down her pants, her underwear, are searching and pushing and pressing against her without entering, and she fidgets, rolling her hips for pressure that he's refusing to cede.
"Boomer," she repeats, firmly, setting her hand on top of his, the butt of her hand on his knuckles, pushing his fingers up into her. She sighs and he just curls his fingers, watching as her mouth falls open in a silent gasp. "I heard - " she pants, "you wanted to do this the whole time we were at the - "
He roughly pumps his fingers in and out, almost resentful all of a sudden, and she just seems to be with him every step, like the way they used to fly, like they used to work, and she turns her head and digs her teeth hard into his shoulder; he brushes his thumb against her clit and she shudders softly, and says, "I want you."
"Sharon..."
"Boomer," she corrects, gripping him and guiding him into her as he braces against a wall for leverage. He surrounds her, his palms flat against the wall as she hooks a leg around him to help him set a rhythm.
She drops her head back against a wall, her laugh dark. "How long did you wait to do this," she pants as he pivots his hips, twisting and throwing his weight against her, "at the Academy, huh, Helo?"
His fingers tighten around her hips and he goes harder, faster, rougher.
He bites her and she laughs.
"Going to have to do better than that," she grunts, as his left hand reaches up to squeeze her breast.
"Frak," he mutters, as the heel of her foot digs in against his thigh even harder.
"Thought that's what we were doing," she says, and he can hear it, the laugh of the Boomer - frak, Sharon - he used to know, the one he would have died for. She looks up at him, and says, "What makes me different, huh? What makes her different? I didn't know."
And he latches his mouth to her collarbone, sucking hard, wanting to leave a bruise and he can feel the laugh in her throat; she digs her nails into his back hard.
"Helohelohelo," she murmurs.
She smirks and, rolling her hips, he can feel her squeeze around him.
He comes then, yelling a name (he honestly isn't sure which one), but he keeps pumping, rubbing at her with his rough fingers.
Athena wasn't so difficult, Athena could come with just the right quirk of his fingers -
Boomer makes him work for it.
She laughs, a harsh sound in the empty room, and he just says, "Come on." He presses on her clit with his thumb and rubs roughly, watching as her mouth falls open silently, as her hands tremor against the metal wall.
He licks his fingers as she starts to get dressed again.
Both half-dressed, she turns towards him, though her shoulder still blocks her face from him, and says, "I didn't want to leave you on Caprica, Helo." Like that's an answer to anything.
The door squeals loudly, her boots loud as she steps out into the corridor, before she slams it shut.
They're a long way from the Academy.