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2.

She didn't seriously consider the Constellation for more than five seconds. No matter how much accomodation credit she had accrued, the luxury hotel wouldn't have had room for her. Even if they'd had an entire wing vacant, that velvet-lined establishment would have been hesitant, Kara'd imagined, to welcome someone who would likely walk in dressed in liberated camouflage gear, smoking a cigar, and who steadfastly refused to hand her duffel to a bellhop or allow doors to be opened for her. Or tip.

Starbuck allowed herself some wry amusement at the thought, and summoned the bartender for a second beer. Picture that, Mom. Picture your hardass daughter, still in combat boots because you always said it was a waste to buy her pretty things, being escorted up to the Parnassus Suite, with a bottle of '63 chilling and a welcome basket waiting in the kitchenette. Picture her calling for burgers and a six-pack on the room-service phone. Picture her later leading some nameless boy-frak back through the big front doors, and the poor fool sneaking out in the morning. The beer burbled in her throat as she envisioned it all.

Yeah.I'd laugh too, Mom.

The beer was cold as the weather, but a damn sight more pleasant - and she'd avoided being out in the latter by ducking into a municipal kiosk (godsdamned tourism bureau had these things everywhere) to find out where civilians stayed when they came to Sparta. She'dhave been nonplussed if she'd had to ask someone to recommend digs, but it wasn't like this was something she'd had to do before; she'd lived on one college campus or military base or other since the day she turned sixteen. What did she know about hotels?

The list of options was surprisingly long, but Kara eventually chose the Fortuna, for various reasons, and when she'd scored a welcome basket anyway because she smiled at the doorman and flashed her Fleet ID, she wasn't disappointed. The room was better than she'd expected, plenty of space, welcoming and servicable without being cheap. And the service had the right mix of humor and helpfulness, and a remarkable lack of obsequouy. The bath, roughly half the size of her office, was the clincher, though. She stayed in it half the afternoon, and was agreeably surprised that she wasn't now standing here at the bar with pruney fingers and toes.

She almost hadn't picked the Fortuna, because of how far it was from home. On the beachfront halfway between Sparta Base and the civillian spaceport, the only traffic she could hear came from groundcars and city transport flights; she couldn't see a freighter - or hear one - from her balcony, let alone a Viper patrol, and the thought of being so far away from flying had set her teeth on edge. That was, it bothered her right up until she remembered she wouldn't be flying for the next two weeks anyway, and then Kara realised that maybe a little distance would be a good thing. On the plus side, the Fortuna was half a block from Sparta's single casino, and had possibly the best hotel bar on Picon, if the publicity blurb was to be believed. So far, she believed it. Their beer was good.

The thirdbrew she took slower, enjoying the idea that maybe she could drink in a more leisurely fashion. She had all night. She didn't have early patrol, or an oh-nine-hundred class or sim session. She didn't even have to get to the mess before breakfast was over or cook for herself: breakfast at the Fortuna was served whenever you rang for it. It was a nice idea. It partially made up for the ache of not flying... partially. The only real problem was drinking slower left her more time to think.

Midway through the fourth beer, she found companionship: a group of guys, evidently construction workers from Mykenoi, who obviously found her interesting. They bought her beer, and weren't pushy. In fact, they were too nice, their education obviously lacking. One called her ma'am. Another tried to teach her to play pool. "Gonna advise me not to drink too much, too?" she asked, grinning, but they didn't get it. Kara shrugged off the desire to enlighten them and stole another look at the man by the bar.

It wasn't a hardship. Not tall, not brawny, but built. Dark hair clipped close, professional-neat, but not the military buzz she saw more often than not in this town. Chiselled features set off by the bar lighting, which also darkened his eyes to indiscriminate shadows at the distance, and a casual, attractive posture which nevertheless made her think that his evident relaxed poise was a hair trigger for something more confrontational.

That was more interesting than anything else.

What was it about rivalry that got her so worked up? Not in the cockpit - she'd never had someone push her hard enough in a Viper to make her feel challenged, at least, not since her own Basic Flight days - but on the deck, or on the court, or in the bed... she was a sucker for a worthy opponent. Not that she found many.

When the guy by the bar finally stopped watching and made a move, Kara wondered if she'd misread his interest. He didn't flirt, or make suggestive remarks, or try and brush past her space when he moved around the table to make a shot. He didn't even spend much time eying the fit of her jeans or the cut of her shirt (a donation from a former roommate, who used to despair of her taste), or even ask what her name was, let alone her call code. He just played the game, and played it damned well. And if their eyes - his were a feakishly vivid blue that had made her blink as he came close - met more frequently over the tip of the cue than was strictly necessary, well...

The game drew her in. The liquor drowned the disappointment she felt that he wasn't more obviously interested, let her relax; it was almost like hanging out at the O-club on base, where the available men knew better than to hit on her. She enjoyed his company, whoever this guy was. She enjoyed the way he didn't cut her slack. Kara also enjoyed the way his jeans fit, but seeing she knew better than to stare, that was her business, right?

--

Halfway through his fifth beer at the smoky bar-nightclub he'd found by walking in the opposite direction to Sparta Base, Lee found exactly the right girl. She had a challenging smile, he noticed, watching her over the rim of his glass. Four or five men were in attendance as she wisecracked over a pool table, but none of them were given any particular encouragement. While Lee watched, she managed to sucker not one but two of the men into playing against her; not a bad player himself, he could tell when she wasn't playing with all her abilities. She kind of gave herself away by the easy grace of her shots. The other three men begged off, and she laughed, bought the group a round. "Next time, don't assume a girl can't play".

His attention hadn't gone unnoticed, either. He'd been looking openly enough, comparing her mentally to his usual type and wondering why she held so much more appeal. He'd been amused by her hustle, impressed by how easily she deflected the more amorous of her opponents. And interested - definitely interested - by her obviously physical nature. She lifted her glass, tossed him a wink over the edge of it, and it was a definite challenge. It took him precisely three seconds to reassure himself that she didn't look in the least like a military type; decision made, Lee swallowed the rest of his beer and wandered over.

"Play you for the table?" he inquired.

"If that's all you're after," she agreed. Her fan club hooted a little, but she ignored them. "How about we goose up the action a little?"

"What'cha got in mind?" The table wasn't a bad one, even though the felts were a little worn.

"Lets start with a deck" she suggested, "and see where we go from there?"

He nodded, but narrowed his eyes at her; 'deck' was standard fleet slang for the ten credit note. Still, the Colonial Fleet didn't hold a monopoly on the word; this was a military base town, everyone could be using it. He flicked his eyes over her again to reassure himself: slim-fitting jade coloured halter-top, blue jeans, leather halfboots. No sign of dog-tags, and her posture was relaxed, slouched, almost, if slouching could describe the informal grace in her posture. "Fine. You break."

She played it close the first time, narrowly beating him - but then, he wasn't playing full out either; they didn't talk, but the implicit challenge only rose higher. He doubled the bet for their second game, and beat her. She doubled again in the third, and won. She bought a bottle of ambrosia and they shared it during the fourth and fifth, and her cheer quad vanished somewhere during the bottle he bought after that. The count stood at four games apiece, and both of them were too intent on the game - and each other - to care how much the bet was for.

She was ahead by one shot when the barkeeper summarily kicked everyone out during the ninth game. "Frak," she said, looking at the rain-slick sidewalks. "It can't be that late..."

"Early," he assured her. "Anywhere else in this place that stays open?"

"Nope," she shrugged, tossed him a rueful grin. "Lame military towns, sticks up their asses."

That was reassuring; he didn't know anything about her, but hearing her call the military establishment 'lame' suited his inclinations. "Lee Adama" he said, offered her a hand. She looked at him, fine cloud of blonde hair curling against her neck in the damp halo of the bar's doorway lighting, and pressed her fingers into his, smiling.

"Kara Thrace."

The heat between their palms shouldn't have been so magnetic; it wasn't that cold. He didn't let go, and felt his own smile waver about the same time hers did. He wasn't usually so uncertain when it came to casual sex, but then again, this wasn't the usual method; the casual frak scene had several unspoken rules, and some were being a little bent tonight. She hadn't been precisely on the prowl, and he hadn't verbally flirted, made his interest plain - hadn't exchanged more than a dozen words all night not related to their competition or their bet - and all he had to judge her response by was the way their eyes seemed to catch over the table. Finally the silence was too heavy. "I'm glad I met you, Kara. You got game."

"You do, too," she agreed. "But is the game over now?" The challenge was in her voice, but her eyes were very wide and dark, and her lips were parted. Lee drew in a breath, tugged her a little closer, and shook his head.

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