"Quite a set-up you've got here, Chief. I had no idea."
Chief Tyrol gulped as the Admiral scanned his small, non-reg workspace. "I, uh…the reg books don't really address this, Sir, and I—"
"It's fine, Chief. I'm sure it helps morale." Bill let his gaze wander from one item to the next: some gleamed with a bright metallic finish, others seemed to be made out of a synthetic fiberglass material. There was even—
"Is that…glass?" He picked up the penis-shaped object gingerly, the idea of unexpected shards making him wince.
Tyrol was quick to defend his processes. "Yes Sir, but it's tempered. Totally unbreakable in the course of normal, ah, use. I mean, yeah, if you started slamming it against a bulkhead, maybe, but otherwise, it's solid as a rock." His flush ebbed and flowed as he seemed to balance himself between embarrassment and pride.
"Good. Last thing I need are pilots unable to sit in a cockpit until their stitches heal." He tried to ignore the uneasy twitch in his ass at that unwelcome thought. "What about those? They look interesting."
Chief flushed even harder as the Admiral pointed at a series of butt plugs.
"Surgical grade stainless steel, Sir. I checked with Doc Cottle before the final fabrication." Beads of sweat began to form on his brow. "Sir, I know you said it was fine, but I have to ask, am I in trouble?"
Bill chuckled at Tyrol's unease. "Steady, son. I'm just here looking for a…house-warming gift."
"House, Sir?" He gave Bill a puzzled frown.
"Tent, I guess, if you want to be precise, Chief." He unsuccessfully tried to will the heat out of his cheeks. "A tent-warming gift."
"Right. Um…" He mulled over the selections he'd crafted. "This one is a popular model." He pointed at the one in the middle of the set.
"Fine. This one, then." He held the plug in the palm of his hand, feeling the weight, the coolness of the metal. "And that one." He indicated the next size up.
Tyrol started to say something, then apparently changed his mind and simply nodded. Bill turned and went back to his quarters, hoping he could find something stashed away that could serve as a gift box.
.
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.****************
The lantern cast a golden glow over the small box on the trunk in front of them. Bill was enjoying the warmth of the New Caprican weed and Joe's rotgut suffusing his veins, and the warmth of the former President against his side made it even better.
"Most men would have brought flowers ,you know." Laura punctuated her observation with a soft giggle.
He gave her his best version of a wolfish grin. "I'm not most men."
She rolled her eyes but snuggled in closer. "You're right about that." She flipped open the box for the third time since he handed it to her. "They're really quite pretty." She picked up the smaller of the two by the oval ring at the end. "Look at how it catches the light." She turned it this way and that, admiring the shiny finish.
Bill's snicker turned into a full-blown guffaw that ended up with both of them in each other's arms, sprawled across her cot, laughing and trying to catch their breath.
"Only you, Laura Roslin." He broke off to give her a deep, hungry kiss, then continued. "Only you would get caught up in the aesthetics."
She gave him an arch look. "Well, since you aren't doing anything about the function, all I can speak to is form."
"Come'ere, you," he growled, shoving her skirt up her long, elegant legs. "I'll show you about function."
More giggles echoed through the tent, then a breathless gasp, followed by moans, groans, and the gritted utterances of the names of more than a few gods.
By the time the sounds progressed to muffled screams and fervent cries of "Oh, yes…there…oh, my gods!" the foot traffic along the path closest to the former President's tent had doubled.
When the groans became deeper in timbre and decidedly masculine, a few passers-by scattered, mumbling there were some things they didn't want to know. By the time there were guttural growls of "yeah," "more" and "frak, Laura, I can't—" those few had been replaced by even more, some boldly leaning against nearby tent poles, partner in their arms, others furtively lurking in the shadows.
The final orgasmic screams splitting the New Caprican night were not confined to only the ex-President's tent. Mumbles of "what the frak were they idoing/i in there?" buzzed around the little tent city as skirts were tugged back down and zippers zipped.
.
.
After he was elected head of the workers' union, Gaius Baltar asked a number of people what made Galen Tyrol so popular all of the sudden. All he got were variations on the theme of "He's really good at what he does," oddly accompanied by blushes and averted eyes.
He was still trying to figure the mystery out when the Cylons arrived.