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8.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Why was it that whenever he heard those words out of his own mouth, he was about to have his father inflicted on him, yet again?

Yeah, the CAG wanted to see him, to send him up to see Commander Dumarr. After a trip back to the bunkrooms to shower and put his uniform on - one didn't go up to see the Boss in tracks and trainers, not even at breakfast - and then a fast walk through the wakening ship to the command level.

He didn't particularly like that part of the ship, of any ship. It seemed the minute you hit CIC territory, the corridors widened and arched more, the temperature of the artificial atmosphere dropped about ten degrees and the people started having masks for faces, himself included. The cheerful close quarters of combat-ready living were sacrificed for the trappings of rank, and those were things he couldn't really abide. It wasn't hypocrisy that he had intentionally put himself on the fast track to acquire rank, responsibility and a reputation for being the best: he wanted those things. Wanted them as badly as his father ever had.

Wanted them for the express purpose of tossing them all out an airlock once he'd proved he was just as good - or better - than his old man. Wanted them, because once he'd served a year as captain, he'd be in the same circle of command that his father had been, right up until the Armistice had interrupted his career.

Lee was going to see his old man the day he turned in his resignation. He was waiting for that hour, planning on it, the moment in time when he saw the elder Adama realise that his son was a man, got his viper wings and his rank pips and did it better, faster and smoother than he himself had managed, even in a war. And then he was going to see Lee walk away from it, because one of them, at least, realised there was more important things, and no amount of influence or string-pulling was going to stop him.

It was the only willing contact he'd have with Commander William Adama for the next ten years, at least.

Unfortunately, there'd be unwilling contact, much, much sooner than that. In two weeks in fact. 'You wanted to see me, sir?' would probably be useful in that situation, too.

Commander Dumarr had been nonplussed to realise that Lee didn't want to go to Galactica's retirement, though; he'd been surprised and then disapproving to have to make it an order. But Lee's excuses - he'd already used all his leave time, some in advance even, that he'd had too much work to do to make the three-day Viper round trip to Caprican space - had fallen on obstinately deaf ears: he was going. The ceremonial farewell was traditional to a retiring Battlestar, and when it was also the farewell to one of the few still-serving combat veterans of the Cylon War, there was no chance at all that the son of said veteran, being under orders despite his reservist status, would be able to skip it.

The military liked its symmetry and poetic endings way too much; a peacetime indulgence, Lee supposed as he stalked back through the cold, cathedral-arched corridors, his footsteps ringing on theshiny metal deck,and went in search of more familiar territory. Well, Lee liked contrasts, himself. Black and white. Polarities. Clear-cut differences. He especially liked them when they made a point.

The bunkroom was quiet - empty save for Hoppy, his left foot protruding from the curtain as always as he snored in his rack - and Lee sat down for a minute on his own bunk instead of changing back into his sweats. He was furious, with Dumarr, with the military, with his father. With himself, too, that he couldn't accept the order as graciously as ever, couldn't be the good soldier that he'd trained himself to be, that he'd come off looking like a brat in front of his C.O. That, because the very idea of a ceremony to honor his father and the ship the man loved more than any animate being made his jaw clench and his stomach churn, he'd lost control of his emotions yet again.

Not much made that happen; usually when he felt his patience waning, his teeth gritting as he went about his duties, he took leave, assigned himself an extra CAP, or got drunk: something to ease the strain. But it didn't happen often, not unless his father was involved. Muffling a curse so Hoppy wouldn't be disturbed, Lee leaned down and tugged his uniform shoes undone, yanked them off and then leaned back into his bunk, as he did so catching sight of his calendar... and Kara's card.

He stared, felt a trickle of heat leaven the cold fury. That had been another time he'd lost control, too - and it hadn't been a bad thing; but good. Very good. When he'd woken up, an hour and a half ago, he'd woken imagining slow, dizzying sex with the woman whose name was on that card, and it had been a good way to start the day. Now he thought - brief, brilliant flash of imagination - of Kara Thrace, naked in his rumpled bunk, grinning up at him the way she'd grinned over the pool table. Saying in that low, smoky-toned voice: "you wanted to see me, sir?"

He'd definitely prefer to hear her say that.

Lee Adama made a deal with himself: if he had to do this stupid thing, go to Galactica, to his old man's retirement, he was going to claim a reward before he left, something to buffer his mood, someone else to think about during the three days that were sure to be a round-trip to Hades. Before he left, he was going to call Kara Thrace. And he was going to find some way to relive that unforgettable night in Sparta City, and this time, he wasn't going to let her out of the bed until all the details of his coming ordeal were obscured by better memories.

---

Eight in the evening, dark for more than an hour, and still Sparta was sweltering. On a planet known for its erratic weather, this coastal city never went more than three days without rain, but presently the Nereus Coastwas bakingin the hottest, driest summer in thirty years. The beaches had been crowded that day; the lucky nuggets who had theory classes (in the climate-controlled Flight suite) had worn their cool, crisp undress khakis and gloated over those who'd had to struggle into sweatbox 'planes inflight suits. But now it was eight o'clock, the humid compound was quiet, and Kara Thrace was still at work on class prep and assessment schedules in her tiny, stifling office.

It wasn't that Starbuck was disorganized; the three-and-a-half years in which she'd been an instructor would have been maddening if she hadn't been mentally disciplined enough to do what she needed to do before it was necessary to panic over it. It wasn't even that she was overburdened with work: she had the three day schedule for her three squad of nuggets planned out well in advance. But it was the night before she was scheduled to fly out to Bellerophon and the shady quadrangle had emptied of sweating cadets, the rest of the offices in her building showed dark windows as the rest of her colleagues had abandoned work for their air-conditioned quarters. But Kara was still at her desk. Doing things she didn't need to be doing. Procrastinating.

Oh, not about the trip out to the Bell, she had no qualms about that. In fact, despite the Raptor she was flying for the trip, she was looking forwards to it: two hours to reach the Rampling Station, in deep orbit off the mining planet of Arges and pick up three other pilots (nobody she knew) on their way to Rocky's send-off, a short blip to the jump point and then one FTL hop to her old ship, in deep station well off Leonis. No - no worries about the flight at all; she'd even managed to wangle an ECO for the trip who wouldn't try and tell her how to fly that glorified station-wagon: Crash had been one of her cadets a few years back, after all. And it would be good to get out into space again; the short patrol flights, no more than an hour or two given atmospheric burn, that she got to fly as part of Sparta's wing just didn't fill the need, let alone training flights where she couldn't take her mind off the nuggets for an instant, not even to enjoy the view. Plus, space was cold, which right now would be a nice change.

No, she wasn't nervous about the flight. Kara realised she was stalling about leaving her office because she'd done something stupid, yet again, and under the papers on her desk was a small green notepad with some very useful numbers on it. Yes, that morning she'd hooked into the military database and found the call-code for Captain Lee Adama. Leavingthe office meantshe wouldn't call him, and she very much wanted to call him.And given her appalling inability to resist temptation, she was surprised she hadn't dialled those numbers hours ago.Of course, she had her moments, Kara acknowledged ruefully. Startlingly, when faced with the temptation to stay and sleep beside Lee Adama, she hadn't given in to it.

Kara might be was a screw-up by nature, but in hindsight, that had been a screw-up of interplanetary magnitude. It had cost her precious sleep many times since then, wondering all the potential what-if's; it hadhighlighted herlack of self-confidence (where relationships that weren't just about sex were concerned) and made her wonder if Lee's interest had been real or not. After all, if she'd hurt his pride with her precipitous departure, who could blame him for stringing her along a little in punishment?

It didn't seem like something he'd do, not that she could really tell, based on their brief and quite physical acquaintance, but then it could be just what she deserved. So determined not to get herself into a painful situation, she'd grasped at the straws of convention rather than take a shot at something better: obviously she was a coward, too.

Starbuck, she reminded herself, would pick up that 'phone, dial in the Orion's code then Lee Adama's then add the suffix that meant personal traffic. But Starbuck acted on instinct; Starbuck wasn't a coward, would gleefully fly through a meteor storm for the thrill of it. Kara Thrace, on the other hand... Kara Thrace couldn't even stay on good terms with her easygoing father, let alone (and let a long way away) her mother. Kara Thrace had loved only two things before she found flying, and the Fleet: one had been pyramid. The other had been a pyramid player. Neither had been a fairy-tale. No; Kara Thrace wanted very much to call that number, even though, conventionally speaking, it was up to Lee to call her. But Kara Thrace didn't believe in happy endings anymore.

She sighed, closed the folder on lesson prep that wouldn't be needed until a month after she'd returned to Sparta, got up and reached for her jacket. She didn't want to put it on; it had hung over the back of her chair all day, starched collar wilting with the weight of her pilot's insignia and the heat and was warm with body heat. Time to go home, stand in the shower - tepid water, two degrees above outright cold - and maybe dig up some of that herbal tea her old roommate had enjoyed. A stiff drink would be better, make her sleep faster, but she was flying a Raptor in the morning, a long flight, and if she screwed up, booze better not be the reason. Not that she'd screw up; despite the CPO's opinion, flying a Raptor was no more difficult than flying a Viper. It was landing the heavy, clumsy minibus-of-a-space-vehicle that was the fun -

The 'phone rang.

The sudden noise in the stillness of the office made her jerk upright next to the desk. "Frak." It was probably just Deak, seeing the light on in her office window, still, and about to read her the riot act about long flights and plenty of sleep. Kara picked up. "Thrace."

"Hey, Kara."

It was Lee.

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