Strange Bedfellows
When I saw the stars around me, and could almost touch the silence, I knew that finally I was going to stay sane. Before then, I hadn't really been sure. It wasn't that I consider going crazy an option, but one too many things had happened in one too few days, and even the overwork of an extra patrol was a welcome diversion. Imagine that; Starbuck wanted to work.
Hey, that's not to say I'm lazy. In fact, Lee has called me a classic type A all tied up in a type C façade. He's not all that far off. Sure, I play it easy, but when things need to get done I just want them done. Lately, a hell of a lot needed to get done, and there weren't many of us to do it. The only saving grace was that I was one of the few that was able to get anything done. The rest of the pilots… well, I'm getting ahead of myself.
I guess the biggest mess started about a month ago. I still don't understand what it was all about, but the bottom line is that everyone started getting sick. It didn't seem like much – sniffles and vomiting and the usual crap – but when you're crammed this close together and nobody is exactly in top form, something small can get to be a major deal. It turned out that we didn't have any kind of immunity to this… whatever it was. So what started as a few pilots being a little sick turned into a lot of pilots being horribly sick. We lost more than a few along the way.
It's weird, you know, the way that losing a few now hurts so much more than losing everyone did when the war started. I guess it all just blended into one solid pain, and was so wrapped up in shock that it didn't register until we were too busy to deal with it. Lee says that it's the little things that always dig deeper. Lee says a hell of a lot, lately. He and I, and about ten others, are all that remain of fleet defense.
Lee and I. Frak, now there's a mess if ever there was one. I had determined very firmly that the two of us were friends, would always be friends, and that was how it was. Even when he started… I don't know, sort of hinting that he might want more… even then, I knew that he would always be more brother than anything else. But seeing the world come apart this time has changed that as well. Well, that and a kiss that went in a direction I really wasn't ready for. No, I'm not ready to hop into bed with Lee, but I'm not sure what I am ready for.
I'm not sure of much at all, except the stars around me and the power of the Viper as I make my one-eighty to head back to the fleet. This quadrant is clear, thank the Lords. I don't think we could stand one more problem just now. I don't think I could stand there and tell the Old Man that one more thing had gone wrong. Frankly, he looks bad enough without my making things worse. It's sad.
I'm pretty sure that he and Doctor Salik had something going up until a while ago, and maybe even more than Kylen had let on. I haven't gotten any information out of Lee, but then we've had other things on our minds. In any case, they seemed to care about one another. Hell, maybe they still do. I've been too busy to try to figure any of it out. The short little doctor isn't all that bad, actually. Yeah, she's a pain in the ass about flight physicals, and more than once I've wanted her disemboweled, but she makes the Old Man smile, and I can't argue with that. I'm just grateful for it.
Lately both of them look too tired for much of anything. I was down in Life Station yesterday to see Davis. He was one of the first to go down, and he's been one of the sickest. They've had him on life support for two weeks, and things aren't looking all that good for him. I try to check in anyway, just on the off chance that he hears me or something. Yeah, it's corny, but he's been there for me since my first day on the Galactica. Granted he was more of a pain than a friend, but the war changed a lot of things. So I put up with the stupid procedures, including the gowns and gloves and masks. I stay behind that damned plexiglass wall, and my voice gets piped through to him. I tell him how things are going, and that I'm tired of his slacking. He just lays there and breathes. Maybe he hears me; maybe not. I just know that if it was me down there, I wouldn't want to be forgotten. Maybe he can't hear me; maybe he'll wake up and tell us one way or the other.
I got a glimpse of the good doctor when I was changing, and she looks like death warmed over. Cassie doesn't look much better, or the other doctor – the one she's been dating – Mark Sands. Everyone's so damned tired. Lee and I are pulling double shifts, and most of the other pilots are too, but it's a fine line. We don't want to get tired enough that we wind up sick. That wouldn't do any of us any good. So we force ourselves to eat, sleep every chance we get, and take the vitamin and protein supplements that the doc has ordered. I don't consider it even a bother anymore; it's a duty. The fleet has to have someone in the cockpit.
Landing is automatic as I bring the Viper in. It isn't like the old days, when a hands-on approach was a big deal. In fact, it's as habitual as the auto-landings used to be. At this point, we don't know anything else. So I land the Viper, go through the post-flight, and breathe a sigh of relief when Cally takes that damned helmet off. I'm covered in sweat, feeling generally miserable, and if I were a little less tired I might just feel like hitting someone just to break up the monotony.
And that's when I see them. Blue eyes. Those frakking blue eyes that have followed me since the war began. It's weird when I think of it. Lee's eyes have always been the same color, but I never really noticed them at the academy. Maybe because I was too lost in brown ones to pay attention. I'll never know. But now it's blue, and they're as tired as my own.
"Anything?" he asks.
I shake my head. Talking seems like too much of an effort. His nod tells me that he feels the same way.
"Get a shower," he tells me. "Then you can crash in my room if you want. It might be quieter than general quarters."
I nod again, and give a weak smile. It's the most I can manage in grateful acceptance. There aren't many of us left in quarters, but during the simulated daylight hours it's damned noisy with folks traipsing in and out. Lee's office is tucked back into a corner, and he had a cot put in there so that he could bail when he needed to. When we're on opposite shifts, he usually shares. I consider it one of the perks of having the CAG as my best friend. The rest of the crew considers it something else, but that's their problem. Usually. Thankfully I don't have to deal with any of them on my way to his room.
The water feels good as I clean myself off. I'm even grateful for the astringent smell of chemically based soap, which keeps down bacteria and serves as both shampoo and body wash. It's a far cry from the rose-scented bath oil that the Old Man gave me for my birthday, but that's been gone for a long time. It went the way of real coffee and vegetables with crunch. Now we have coffee substitute, overcooked veggies, and all-purpose soap. Life goes on, and you have to stay clean.
I dry off my short hair, leaving it sticking up all over, and towel off so that my underwear won't stick. That's about the extent of my energy at the moment. Sure enough, quarters is loud and the lights are on, so I slip back to Lee's office and punch in the code. I hear a couple of half-hearted wolf whistles, but I've learned to ignore it. Let the children think what they want; I need some sleep. Once in his room, I use his comb to get my hair into some kind of order, and tug at the tightly made covers of his bed. Damn, he's the only man I know who can still bounce cubits on his bedspread. The rest of us stopped that nonsense when we left the academy. Most days, I don't even bother to make my own; I'm just going to sleep in it again, so what's the point?
I think I'm asleep before my head hits the pillow, and when I surface it's to the odd feeling of warmth along my back and warm weight across my waist. Now, it's been a long time, but I know the feel of having a man in bed with me, and this is it. Period. I know who I'm going to see before I roll over and lean up on one elbow. The clock says it's morning, so I've been out for twelve hours. There's no telling how long Lee has been here.
My first instinct, of course, is to kill him. He's the one who said it was going to be my speed and he's the one who said that was okay. Offering me his bed, and then joining me there, seems to violate everything I believe about him. Fortunately before I start punching, I do assess the situation and there are three things which save his sorry life. First, there are several layers of bedclothes between us. He isn't beneath the covers, but on top of them. That leads me to the second factor, his state of dress, which is pretty substantial. He has his flight suit unzipped and the top half off, but that's about it. One foot still has a boot as well; not his usual pajamas, I'm sure. Finally, there's his face. What had been blue shadows were now black, bruised hollows. He's way past tired, and frankly past exhaustion. He didn't plan this. Hell, he probably never realized I was in the bed, even after sending me here.
He looks awful, and I wonder for a moment if he's gotten sick with the rest of them. Lords, I hope not; this is one man I can't manage without, and I don't mean that emotionally – although that's a factor as well. Without him, that would bring our number of operating pilots down to eight – this from the normal twenty-two it takes to fill the rotations and give us any time off at all. We can make it on sixteen with reduced quadrant coverage, and somehow Lee has wiggled it down to ten by assigning double-shifts and reducing everything to bare essentials. At nine, things have been insane, and that's probably why he looks this way. With eight, we're sitting ducks. There is no way in hell that eight birds can protect the Galactica, much less the civilian fleet.
I place a hand on his forehead, and am relieved when he is warm but by no means hot. He's not sick; just tired. I wonder absently if he's eaten anything at all, and decide that he likely hasn't. I know I've missed more than one meal since the illness has crashed down on us. I'm cautious as I wiggle my way out of bed, trying not to wake him, but it's not easy. Just as I think I've actually managed it, his arm tightens on my waist and he pulls me closer to him with an absent grunt. Great; Lee's decided to pick now to become a cuddler. I decide to move down instead of across, hoping that I can get under his arm that way, but I run into blankets so tightly tucked that I literally can't get my feet out, not with his weight and mine holding down the mattress. The problem is actually just as bad on the wall side of the bunk, but I hadn't noticed it until now. I take a moment to think, looking at my options. The first is waking him up, but looking at his tired expression which is haggard even in sleep, and knowing that he's pulled the last three shifts – two in the air and one in control – I just don't have the heart for it. The second option is up and over, so to speak. If I can wiggle my way up and out of the covers, I should be able to get out at the head of the bed. That will mean a head-first drop, but I've fallen worse and survived it. Despite my usually creative mind, I simply can't come up with a third. The fall has it.
So I shimmy my way up – or I try to. Frankly, it doesn't go very well. I make it about six inches, and then the arm which had slightly released my waist catches my hips firmly and tugs me back towards him. Tight. If I weren't so desperate – and if I'm honest, embarrassed – then this might be funny. As it is, I just want to get out of there. This whole mess goes on for another fifteen minutes. I wiggle, and he moves closer. I edge back, he moves forward. I tug away, and he pulls me back into his body. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was doing this on purpose, but I know how he sleeps. Once he's out, he's out. A bomb wouldn't likely wake him, so even if I break down and start shaking shoulders and calling his name, chances are I'm not going to get anywhere.
I close my eyes and try to remember the schedule. Lee was on right after me – a six-hour patrol around the fleet. After that Bear was going to take a run, and then Ivings. Lee was next scheduled… in about eighteen hours. As I remember, I was scheduled the shift before his, which gives me about twelve. The bottom line is that I really don't have anyplace that I have to be, and the warmth he's generating combined with my own fruitless exertions have reminded me how tired I am. I've only been out about six hours myself, and I could use some more sleep. I would feel better with an alarm set, but if I'm late for pre-flight I know that Tyrol will call me. Or rather, he'll call quarters. Truthfully, any pilot in there knows exactly where I am. Lee and I have been close by necessity since this damned epidemic started; any feelings we had for one another haven't been hidden. There didn't seem to be a point. They still razz me about it, but it's a good-humored sort of kidding now.
Sad that it takes death and illness for people to accept someone, but that's just what has happened. Crisis brings out the best and worst in others, and we've seen a little of both. Mostly, we've seen the best. The squad has been flying around the clock, doing all they can do. Lee's been pulling far more than his share of shifts, and they respect that as they respect little else. Granted, he did the same thing at the beginning of the war, but everyone was too tied up in the tragedy to notice. Now they see how he's working for them, and for this squad. He defends them to the point of exhausting himself, taking extra shifts so they can sleep. I worry about him, but it's tough to change his mind once he's made it up.
Warmth is surrounding and pervading me as I try to sort out what I have to get done in my mind. Everything gets muddled, and before I know it I'm drifting off. I surface a couple more times, each one surprised that I'm snuggled into Lee's arms like I belong there, but I try not to read too much into it. I wish I could believe myself.
The last time I wake up it's to blue eyes and an intent expression. I have to wonder how long he's been awake and watching me, but I don't have the courage to ask. Maybe I don't want to know the answer. My first thought is to come up with a joke to ease this, or maybe a smart-ass remark that would get me a smile, but for some reason I can't do it. Maybe it's his expression, so serious. Maybe it's the way he's not moving, just holding me gently. In any case, I lose the opportunity to say something, do something to make light of it and the moment becomes serious. Too serious. Friends don't look at one another this way, and suddenly it occurs to me that Lee has seen it all along. Just because I don't like change, that doesn't mean it won't happen. Just because I want to see him as a friend, it doesn't mean that I don't see him as more.
He has one palm cradling his head as he props there on an elbow, and the way he's looking down at me makes me shiver. Lords, he's so close. I want to tell him to back off, and I don't. As much as this scares me, I can't admit that it's all his fault. I could have gotten out of the frakking bed if I'd really wanted to, but I'd found every excuse possible to stay in his arms. Why? That was the billion-cubit question.
Blue eyes were locked to mine and they came closer. I didn't even think of moving as he gently kissed me, chastely, carefully. He made me feel almost fragile, like I might shatter if I moved too quickly. He made me want to be, just so he'd need to protect me. How stupid is that? I've always hated damsels in distress, and now I'm hoping for a shining knight. The funny thing is that Lee doesn't disappoint. When I don't move away from the kiss, it deepens. Before long I'm in over my head, and I know it, but like getting out of bed I can think of a thousand excuses to stay right here. None of them will wash, but maybe no one will notice. Maybe I can just feel, just for a while.
I let him kiss me, and somewhere along the way I started kissing him back. It wasn't hot and heavy; we kept the blankets between us, and his one roaming hand never left my face. My arms stayed tucked beneath covers, carefully off of him. I feel him tracing my hairline, my cheek, around my ear, and then back again. He positions my chin slightly, deepens the kiss again, and then sighs as he backs off. He watches me for a moment, and my mind races for something to say that will be right – that will fix this – that will cement this. I don't get anywhere before his head descends again, lips easing over mind, tongue playing around my lips. It surprises me a little, and I take in a quick breath. He doesn't miss the opportunity to slip in, to show me things I hadn't thought of in longer than I can remember; things I've never thought of. Lords, he can kiss. It's more than thorough, it's more than meticulous. It's… perfect. It's like he knows what I'm feeling, and what I need, a long time before I do. Again, his hand doesn't roam, but it doesn't have to. I'm not going anywhere.
By the time he finishes, I'm out of breath and he's the same. I can feel some distinct changes in his body, despite three blankets and our clothing, but that may be imagination – or wishful thinking. When I finally get my eyes back open to meet his, they're closed. The disappointment surprises me. I guess I've gotten used to those blue eyes. I look forward to them. Still, he's no less devastating without them. "What just happened?" I whisper softly. I'm not sure if I plan for him to hear it or not.
"Something… nice," he answers.
"Unexpected," I add.
"Not really," he admits. Then, with a sigh, "Kara, I'm not sorry."
Truthfully, neither am I. "And this puts us…?"
"No idea," he admits as he rests his forehead on mine. "But I liked it."
I smile at that. When he fires up the dimples, it's easy to forget that the world is falling apart around us, that I never wanted this, and that change is almost always a bad thing. "What time is it?" I ask. I can't see the clock for his chest in front of me.
He looks at his watch before answering. "You've got three hours until shift," he tells me. It doesn't surprise me that he knew my reason for asking beyond the obvious question. Lately time has been determined based on how long we've been off and how long until we're on; there's never more than eight hours between the two. The only reason the two of us got this extended rest time – eighteen hours straight for the both of us – was that we'd pulled triples and were barely conscious by the time it was over. Briefly, I consider blaming this on the shifts – on being too tired to think logically – but I'm too honest for that. Lee deserves more than that. I allowed this because I don't know what I feel, and my heart can slide either direction. His is already fixed, so it makes sense that mine should be the one to change. I'm not sure yet how I like that, but it's the truth. Some things change without us knowing, and it's damned hard to go back. Sometimes things change for the better, and those times you just have to be grateful.
"I need to get up," I say reluctantly. "I have to shower, eat, check the plane, and go over…"
"I know," he cuts in. "You don't need an excuse to leave."
Had I been so obvious? I guess I was. Carefully I wiggle one arm up from between us and gently trace the line between smooth skin and razor stubble. It's been more than a day since he's taken time to shave; the feeling is intriguing. "I guess I need some time," I admit. "I'm not… This isn't what I'd planned. I'm not complaining, but it's going to take some time for me to get it straight in my head."
He covers my hand with his own, grasps it, and kisses it gently. Did I say something about knights? Okay, so every woman loves to be treasured, and I fall into that category as well. I don't feel feminine very often, and that's okay. It takes more than lace and bows to fly a Viper, and I would never trade that. It takes more than frill to survive a war, and that's something I need to do. Most women can't manage in a world of men the way that I have, and part of the reason is that in many ways I've become one of the guys. It's important that the squad see me that way, but it's just as important that not everyone does. I can trust Lee to see me as a woman. Hell, he started doing it before I did.
"So, can I get up?" I ask, and I try for a smile. It's not a casual one, but I think I manage a decent facsimile. He must think so, too, because he rolls back off the covers to give me enough room to inch my way out. Unlike him, I made it to bed without the uniform, and it doesn't occur to me until I'm up that I'm standing there in tanks and underwear with him watching. It's nothing he hasn't seen a thousand times, but it's the first time I know he's watching. There's nothing I can say to change that either, so I choose to ignore it. I have a patrol in a couple of hours, and that's where my mind has to be. I have a pre-flight check in less than that, and I can't have my mind in the bedroom while I'm trying to get it done. If I want this – whatever it is – to be anything, I need to stay alive long enough for it to happen. That means screwing my head on straight and regaining my focus. I can do that. I've always been able to do that.
It isn't until I'm in the shower that I realize my flight suit is still in Lee's room, along with my boots. With a sigh, I wonder just how embarrassing it will be to hit up uniform issue for new ones rather than walking back into that room. I'm not sure, but with a look at the closed door I know that I'm going to find out.
Thankfully, the sergeant in charge of uniforms didn't ask many questions and he didn't laugh… much.