Disclaimer: I do not own Battlestar Galactica.
Commander William Adama knocked back another shot of whatever it was that he was drinking, not trying to hold back the satisfied sigh that escaped his throat at the burn. The bartender, a thin, almost shifty-looking fellow, pulled a bottle from behind the counter and topped off the glass with a knowing glance.
Adama nodded his thanks, then looked back at the battered television that occupied the far end of dusty bar, his eyes intent as they followed the graceful rise and fall of the light vipers. Light vipers were ships that had been stripped of guns and artillery, as well as some secondary shielding, leaving them faster and more maneuverable than normal vipers. They existed solely to be used in viper diving, a sport for the young and stupid—too young to be afraid of smashing headlong into an impenetrable object, too stupid to put their skills to use in the Colonial Fleet rather than seeking thrills.
Adama loved to watch the sport.
He nursed this shot—his third—more slowly than the first, savoring the taste and lost in his appreciation for the skill of the pilots; he barely noticed when a young woman came to join him at the bar.
"Ambrosia," she ordered curtly.
He took no further note of her until nearly ten minutes later. The viper pilot on screen was attempting a Prometheus Twirl—flying to within inches of one of the fixed obstacles before falling away in a spin and coming to land on an obstacle placed opposite the first. The hardest part of the move was that the pilot was not allowed to use the backward thrusters to slow his descent, only the forward thrusters—so the only way to slow was to occasionally flip to fly upwards. It was not the most difficult maneuver, but it was up there.
"Come on," the woman next to him muttered under her breath as the pilot reached the peak of his ascent, and out of the corner of his eye Adama saw her lean forward in her chair. The viper plummeted quickly and in just those first few moments he knew that the pilot couldn't pull off the maneuver. "He's not going to make it," the woman said, echoing his thoughts.
Sure enough, the pilot couldn't slow himself enough and only narrowly escaped splattering against the landing platform by jerking wildly and scraping by the side, whirling uncontrolled out into space.
"He frakked up the flip," the woman said. Adama didn't know whether she was talking to him or herself. "Held the thrusters too long and got up too much momentum for the fall."
For the first time he turned to look at her. She was young, about the age of his older son, Lee, with a hideous haircut she had probably done herself and a gleam in her eye that he hadn't seen in his own reflection in a long, long time. Her jacket was old and worn and splattered with paint. She was not his idea of attractive, but she had been, once.
"You have a good eye," he acknowledged. The surprise on her face told him that she had not, in fact, been talking to him, but he didn't let that phase him. He was on vacation in a place where no one would think to look for him at a dive where no one of good repute would bother to go. If she thought him to be a foolish old man, well…he had been called worse, by better people.
She watched him, considering, for a long moment before she flashed a quick smile. "I do, don't I," she agreed. Then, she called, "Bartender! Another ambrosia for me, and a shot of whatever he's been drinking for my friend here."
Adama raised an eyebrow and quirked a smile and accepted the refill without hesitation.
"Do you come here often?" he asked.
It was perhaps the oldest line in the book, but she took it with good humor. "Nah," she said. "I'm on vacation. Figured I'd find the seediest place I could and enjoy some viper diving before I go looking for some real action."
"Triad?" he asked. "Or pool?"
"Yes," she smirked. Her eyes raked over him, taking in his civilian slacks and shirt with a mixture of curiosity and appreciation that left him feeling very exposed.
It occurred to him that he had yet to contribute anything particularly interesting to their conversation, and so, feeling about twenty years younger and less mature as he tried to show off for the good looking girl, he turned back to the television.
"He's not going to pull off a Minotaur," he opined, watching another viper position itself. "Look at the way his forward thruster is trembling—there's a loose bolt there that'll make it impossible to do the twists."
She nodded her agreement. "Should have done his own pre-flight check."
Adama hesitated. "I'm Bill," he said, sticking his hand forward.
She didn't hesitate. "Kara," she said, shaking his hand. Hers was warm and dry, her grip firm and comfortable--stronger than most men's.
The early evening passed swiftly with someone to talk to. Adama found himself strangely at ease discussing the merits of the viper divers, the quality of the alcohol being served to them, and the relative chances of the Caprican Buccaneers securing the Colonial Cup over the Sagittarian Gulls. Kara spoke with a kind of careless ease and had a laugh like the braying of a donkey—loud and free and with the same lack of apology that she exhibited in every other aspect of her behavior.
At some point Kara had moved over to sit on the stool next to him—or had he moved closer to her?
At some point one of them leaned in closer to the other, a clumsy mashing of lips, the fiery taste of alcohol on her breath, his tongue slipping over her teeth, his hand on her cheek and strands of her hair brushing against his hand, and he honestly couldn't say which of them was to blame.
At some point one of them pulled back and she was staring at him with mild confusion in her eyes and he felt his aging heart race in his chest.
"I thought you were going to look for some more excitement," he murmured, his hand toying lightly with her smooth honey-colored hair.
Her face split in a grin and she laughed, throwing back her head, her graceful throat moving in a way that made his mouth water. Then she pushed herself off of her stool, tossing a wad of cash onto the bar, and grabbed the lapels of his jacket, tugging him to his feet as well. She was shorter than he realized, shorter than her attitude would suggest, and he had to bend—not uncomfortably—to kiss her again.
"My hotel is ten blocks away," she said with a challenging smirk, and even as her words brought home to him that they were really going to do this he pulled out some cash of his own and dropped it on the counter.
"Mine's closer," he rumbled, pulling her against him and leaning his face into her hair, breathing deeply. She smelled of engine grease and alcohol and some faint, not remotely flowery, shampoo. To him, and this was something that neither of his ex-wives had ever understood, that was the smell of life.
She let him keep his arm around her shoulders as they walked away from the bar, wrapping her own arm casually around his waist, their bodies fitting together as if they had been made that way.
His hotel was nice, but not as nice as someone of his rank could have commanded if he wanted. Still, the room was large enough, with a king-sized bed and a minibar that was sufficiently stocked to satisfy them both.
It had been a long, long time since Adama had had a casual evening with someone he barely knew. It came back to him quickly, though—the press of the wall against his back when she pushed him hard against it and began to kiss him with more passion than finesse—the play of her strong muscles under his hands as he pushed her jacket off of her shoulders—the soft sounds she made as his hands went under her shirt to play along her taut stomach and around her breasts—the flutter of the pulse in her neck against his lips—the exquisite agony of her strong hands on his own chest and moving lower.
They moved together, the two of them, in a dance as old as time. If he wondered at the perfect kinship he felt with this girl less than half his age, and if she wondered at the comfort she felt in his arms…well, both were desperate enough to take the pleasure as it came. Some part of him might even have admitted that nothing, nothing, had ever felt quite so good, so right, as being one with Kara.
He fell asleep with his arms wrapped around her, her back snuggled tight against his chest, and did not expect her to be there in the morning.
She was still there in the morning. He awoke to the sound of the shower running, the sound of someone singing badly. Every muscle in his body ached, but in a delicious way.
When she came out of the bathroom she had a towel wrapped around her body and was drying her hair with a hand towel. When she caught site of him she flashed a cheerful grin, showing about a million teeth. She had a hickey on her neck.
"I didn't expect you to stick around," he said, pulling the sheet further up his body as he sat up in bed. He gestured at the bed in front of him and she came to sit, leaning back and letting him take the towel from her hand. He used it to gently massage her head, teasing out errant drops of water. Every so often he let one of his hands drop down to caress her bare shoulder, the shell of her ear.
"I didn't have anything better to do," she said with the ballsy tone that was so Kara that he couldn't help but grin himself.
"I'm—" He stopped himself. This was probably a very bad idea. On the other hand, this was a mandatory leave. He was going to stay on this planet, it was simply a matter of whether or not he did it alone. "I'm here for a week," he said at last, taking the chance. "No real plans."
She tensed under his hands; it was her turn to be surprised. "I don't usually extend one night stands," she said cautiously. She didn't pull away.
He suppressed the wave of disappointment, started to withdraw. "I understand."
She caught his hand before he could pull back very far. When she turned to face him her lips were twitching in a smirk that sent a pleasant tingle through his body.
"What the hell," she announced. "I've got a week of vacation myself, and it's cheaper for us both to share a hotel room."
It was a flimsy excuse, but he would take it.
Her smirk widening, she tightened her grip on his hand. Brought it to the corner of the towel that was wrapped around her body.
They didn't leave the hotel room that day. The room service was excellent.
The next day they fetched Kara's few belongings from her hotel, then set out to explore Libris. Neither, they had learned, had ever been to that particular planet before, so they lost themselves in exploring. The sea there was less blue but more vibrant than on Caprica. The buildings were shorter than on Picon, with more levels underground.
Their wandering took them eventually to a public arcade. It was designed mostly for teenagers but there were a fair number of adults as well. At first Adama felt awkward entering—he had never been to an arcade even with his children—until Kara, using some impressive sixth sense, led them directly to the flight simulators. They were of fairly old design, nowhere near the accuracy and precision of the models used at flight school, but they were not so different from the machines Adama had first used to learn to fly.
Kara stared at the simulators and her eyes sparkled. "What do you think, old man?" she challenged playfully. "You up for it?"
His eyes narrowed. "I'll have you know that I was quite good on one of these, once upon a time," he informed her haughtily.
With one of her trademark smirks and a bow, she gestured for him to take the nearest simulator. Adama was conscious of the group of teenagers that gathered around them, no doubt looking forward to seeing the old man crash and burn. He intended to show them just the opposite.
As the game loaded they chose the most ridiculous call signs for each other that they could think of.
"Dipshit, this is Frakker," Kara said. "Do you read me, Dipshit?"
"Frakker, Dipshit. Reading you loud and clear."
"Ready to get your ass blown out of the air?" He could hear the laughter in her voice.
"I just hope you're ready to eat my dust," he replied.
Then the game began. Adama's world darkened until only pinpricks of light were visible. His muscles tensed as he gripped familiar controls. The simulator couldn't capture the true feeling of being in space, but gods this was good. Not for the first time he regretted ever having been promoted past captain.
He searched for Kara, moving slowly to get a feel for flying. It had been so long since he had done even such a simulation as this.
A shot from behind rocked him. It was a glancing blow to his wing, designed not to damage but to startle.
"You all right there, Dipshit?" she asked. He could see her now, a Mark II viper with its nose pointed practically in his face.
In reply he launched himself toward her, firing as he went. His muscles protested as he forced the viper into twists and spins and turns, watching as Kara's viper danced in an echo of his movements. Watching her his speculation about her profession was laid to rest—she moved with the ease of a viper jockey. Fleet. He recognized some of her maneuvers from his own time as a pilot, although Kara being Kara they were more dramatic and daring than he remembered.
They toyed with each other for what seemed like hours, not really trying to kill each other as they were meant to in a dogfight but instead getting a feel for how they flew together. It was hard to tell on this machine, but Adama thought that she was probably the best pilot he had ever seen. Better even than he had been in his heyday. Her viper moved as if it were an extension of her own being, without conscious thought. The maneuvers she pulled were playful, insane, stupid, and he had no doubt that she would pull them off in a real viper as daringly as she did here.
He couldn't remember the last time he had such fun. He wished he had done this with Zak and Lee when they were children, even once. Perhaps it would have given them more ground in common.
When they finally stepped out of the simulators, drenched in sweat and grinning like buffoons, a small crowd had gathered around, respect in their eyes.
They returned to their hotel room. Adama was exhausted from the very real simulation, but not too exhausted.
He was awoken shortly after falling asleep by the sound of the hotel door opening and shutting softly as Kara snuck out. For a moment he was concerned that she was going out alone so late; then he remembered that she was Kara and he ought to pity the fool who tried to pull something on her. He was asleep again long before she returned.
It was not the shower that woke him the next morning, but the feel of Kara pressing her lean body flush against his and breathing in his ear.
He groaned.
"How wonderful am I?" she asked, each word sending a breath of warm air to tickle his ear.
"Very?" he tried, opening his eyes slowly to see her cheerful face.
"Look what I got," she crowed, thrusting something into his line of vision.
He blinked to clear his eyes, then took the tickets from her. He examined the small words, feeling his eyes grow wide.
"Where did you get these?" he demanded.
Her eyes were full of mischief. "I went out and found a triad game last night," she said triumphantly. "Got enough pocket money to last the week, and those."
"Those" happened to be two VIP tickets to a viper diving match that very day.
Adama had not been to a viper dive in, gods, it must have been twenty years. Each aspect felt new. Lining up for popcorn. Being jostled by fans wearing jerseys with the names of their favorite pilots. Sitting at the front of the viewing platform and watching through the translucent protective shield as the pilots flew before them. Kara's loud catcalls as she picked her favorite pilots, which didn't keep her from shouting insults and advice to all the pilots, favorite and least favorite alike. And soon enough he found himself on his feet, yelling along side her, pressing his hand against the shield as though to push through it and join the pilots in space.
As they walked home that evening after the game, their arms linked, heads tilted back to watch the stars, Adama began to laugh. It felt like he hadn't laughed in years.
"Gods, Kara," he said, pulling her into a loose embrace, loving it when she didn't protest. "You make me feel young again."
The next day, they talked and they played triad. Talked about inconsequential things, at first. And then they talked about consequential things, things they couldn't tell anyone else but that they could tell each other, two not-quite strangers. And so Bill learned that Kara's mother was a real piece of work, a woman he would gladly strangle with his bare hands, and Kara learned that Bill was aware of just how crummy a father he'd been, and how much he missed the youth that he seemed to have found again with her.
They mentioned no names, no ranks, no places. If either of them felt concern about their strange relationship, neither voiced it.
They played triad as they talked. Strip triad, of course, which was all well and good in principle except that somehow it resulted in Adama finding himself naked over and over again with Kara still fully dressed, until he informed her that it really should be the other way around, and so for a while every time Kara won she was the naked one because that inevitably drove him mad and ended up in a recess from triad as they made a visit to the bed, and that way they both could win.
He had never met anyone who could bluff as well as Kara. Or anyone with her incredible luck at cards.
That night they went out and found a bar with a lively triad game. Kara spent the evening cleaning out everyone at the table; Adama was no exception, but since he got to be the one she went home with in the end he had no problem with that at all. She was so vibrant and alive at that table, so clearly in her element, that it was impossible not to love her just a little.
The next day Kara got a call from home. She went into the bathroom to take the call and when she came out her cheeks were dry but her eyes were bright. She grabbed her jacket and took off. He hesitated, wondering whether he was meant to follow, and ultimately he did. He followed her in a brisk walk around town and finally to a public gym. Kara did not bother to tape her hands before she began to pummel one of the punching bags, her eyes blazing as she punched and punched and began to bleed.
Later, after he took her back to the hotel room and let her ride him to exhaustion, he held her in his arms and rocked her to sleep.
"I would have sparred with you," he whispered in her ear.
"I didn't want to hurt you," she whispered back.
She would not break. He did not believe she knew how.
In the morning Adama suggested that they go back to the arcade. If she'd thought he was pitying her, he knew, she would have refused—but perhaps she could read the genuine longing in his eyes, the way he itched to get back into a cockpit, even if it was a fake one.
He flew better today than he had his first time in the machine. It all came flooding back to him, the sense of oneness with the viper, the skill that had made him a war hero way back when. He thought by Kara's exclamations ("Impressive, Dipshit!") that she had noticed his improvement as well.
That evening—their last—they went back to the bar for old time's sake. This time they got drunk.
"I don't have a daddy complex," Kara informed him seriously, fingering her beer glass and watching him through dilated eyes. "Just in case you were wondering. I usually go for guys my own age. You're a special case." She poked him in the chest with one finger to emphasize her point.
"That's good," he replied gravely in that gravelly voice of his. "I don't usually go for women so much younger than me. You're a special case, too."
"Kindred spirits," Kara mumbled later, when they were in their hotel room and clumsily attempting to undress each other.
It was too difficult at the time to simultaneously think and wrestle with Kara's clothes, but Adama filed the term away for later and, in the years ahead, thought of it often. Kindred spirits.
It was hard to say goodbye.
Adama's raptor was leaving at 1300 for the Galactica and Kara's shuttle would depart at 1500 for wherever it was she came from.
They treated themselves to a long breakfast in bed. Then they packed in awkward silence, each piece of clothing tucked away feeling like another nail in the coffin. When the time came for Adama to catch a taxi to the airfield he held her hand and looked down at a face that had come to embody life and vitality for him and wondered what to say.
"Marry me," he said, half in jest, half serious, because he could not say anything else.
Her gaze shuttered at his words, losing the crystalline openness he had become accustomed to, and he understood that she just wasn't ready--that Kara, for all her awesome strength, was in some ways still a child, still finding her way in the world. She leaned in and kissed him, hard, a kiss that was at once possessive and a farewell. "You've got a raptor to catch," she said roughly, her hands fisting in his jacket, her jaw firmly clenched.
He took the rejection and he took his pride and he gathered them to him as he caressed her face one last time, memorizing her eyes, her nose, her lips, the softness of her cheek. Then he turned and walked away.
Two years later, when his world ended and he was told that Zak had died and that his son had been engaged to his incredibly talented flight instructor, he was surprised but not surprised to recognize Kara Thrace. Adama men, after all, had exceptional taste in women.