Pressed Palms by Rosie

Summary: Cally feels guilty. She hurt the last person she ever wanted to. But now things are starting to change between them, and the one thing she's always wanted is what scares her the most. A Cally/Tyrol fic.

Disclaimer: I don't own Battlestar Galactica (duh), and these characters are not mine. But I do own these words. Please don't copy in whole or in part w/o my permission.

Soaked

She felt like a pumpkin. A fat, fluorescent, pumpkin. Cally was absolutely horrified the first time she slipped into the orange jumpsuit and had a good twirl in the mirror. It was like wearing a garbage bag. But soon after she started working on the flight deck, Cally began to appreciate the thick, orange material. It protected her from oil sprays and rough metal and held her tools for her. At first she felt painfully self-conscious walking around in it, but after seeing all the other techs wearing the same thing, she became a bit more comfortable.

Now it felt like home. Cally always experienced a sense of comfort when slipping into her suit each morning. She could hide in it. The baggy sleeves made her feel small and protected. The Chief had stapled her suit back together when a seam busted and now it chafed a little, but as long as she sat right, it didn't bother her too much.

Cally sat on the stairs rolled up beside a Viper fiddling with a few odds and ends. The staples were starting to itch her left thigh a little and she squirmed and wriggled until she was in a more comfortable position.

"What's the matter, Cally? Rash?"

She lifted her gaze from her lap and glared at him.

"No, staples," she said with an acidic tone. "Your handiwork I believe, Chief."

He grinned, lips closed and eyes crinkled. "Well would you rather have a gaping hole in the ass of your pants?" He waved his wrench at her and tried to look serious.

"No. But you could have used duct tape."

"Hmm..." The Chief placed his hands on his hips. "That might be a good idea, Specialist," he said flatly. "Now get back to work."

The Chief turned his back to her and headed over to a flustered pilot trying to get his attention. Cally smiled and returned her focus to the work in her lap. Maybe she could poke a hole in the Chief's jumpsuit for a bit of revenge.

No. That would be going a bit far.

She might have done it a year ago when repair materials weren't in such short supply. Socinus would have had a good laugh about that. Cally always half expected that Socinus had a thing for her. But of course, that didn't really matter now.

Somehow it felt like the flight deck was getting bigger. Or maybe it was just because the crew was getting smaller. First Prosna, then Socinus. Jammer was still there, but he was hardly any comfort. He used to be such a nice guy, always had a kind word to say. After the Cylon attack though, he started to lose it. Paranoid, irrational, and a general asshole. He'd accuse you of being a Cylon infiltrator at the drop of a nut.

Frakked up.

Of course, Cally couldn't really blame him. She had shot someone. Even if it was a Cylon, Cally had done the one thing she could have never envisioned herself doing. She must have been pretty frakked up too.

Guilty. Murderer. Executioner.

They swam around in her head. But she had done the right thing. The Cylon traitor couldn't have been allowed to live. It was odd to think that another copy of Sharon now lived aboard the ship. How many executioners got to see their victims return from the dead?

And it was pregnant. Oh Gods, pregnant. How was that even possible? The Chief told her in confidence that he had nearly smashed in Helo's face when discussing the "baby". He loathed himself for it. Cally had gently patted his back and tried to comfort him, said she probably would have done the same thing. And she knew it was true.

Murderer.

"Frak!" She heard the Chief yell from across the deck. He stood dripping with oil, wrestling with a leaky fuel line spraying all over everyone in the immediate vicinity.

She would have laughed, and so would Socinus, but with supplies running so low, all this meant was wasted fuel and a mess to clean up.

With the fuel line back in place, the havoc calmed. A couple of dirty pilots colorfully expressed their anger. The Chief wiped the slick oil out of his eyes and waddled away to get himself cleaned up. Behind him lay a trail of dripping oil. He walked past Cally and purposefully avoided eye contact with her.

She wasn't going to let him get away that easily.

"Hey, Chief!" She called out. "What does it feel like? I've always wondered what its like to have oil in my underwear!"

"Shut up, Specialist," he frigidly retorted.

Cally was definitely glad she only had staples in her pants.

If there ever was a better place to hide than in her jumpsuit, it was under the covers of her rack. Cally lay on her back and gazed at the springs of the mattress above her. "Don't close your eyes," she told herself. Dreamland was not a happy place. Cally preferred to stay awake and mull over the days events. It really was hilarious, the Chief sadly waddling away with oil in his pants. That couldn't have been a pleasant experience. A tiny smile sneaked its way onto her lips. She tried to suppress it, but soon found herself laughing with the full force of her lungs. Good thing she was the only one in the room. Would've thought she went crazy. Jammer may have even called her a Cylon...

Cally abruptly stopped. A familiar pain swept through her stomach. She shouldn't be laughing.

Guilty.

The sting of remorse high in her chest, Cally rolled onto her side and wrapped her arms around herself. Loosing the battle against sleep, she slowly drifted off, dreaming of gunshots, the smell of oil, and him.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews guys. Look forward to writing more!