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It's strange you know, but ever since that Count Iblis upped and disappeared on us, things have been different. It used to be that we'd go to bed and screw one another's brains out till we practically passed out. The next thing I'd know was that the alarm he'd set would be going off, warning that it was time for me to leave before Boxey woke up, or before anyone else was around to see a half-dressed Lieutenant sleepily exiting his Captain's quarters with a grin plastered across his face that announced louder than words what he'd just been doing. I understand why it has to be this way - so long as I'm his junior officer, it looks bad. Doesn't stop me hoping that things'll change sometime, though. Not that I think I'm gonna be promoted in a hurry, mind; the Commander's quite fond of me and all, but I'm not exactly reliable command material. It didn't really surprise me when I found that he'd endorsed that comment from Tigh on my record when I hacked in that time to fine-tune the computer's search for suitable victims - volunteers, that's the word - for that trip down to Arcta.

Anyway, I'm getting off the point. Thing is, it's different now. I'm no longer unconscious the night through. No, these days I find I lie awake in the stillness of the night and watch him. Like I am now, the lights on low so they won't disturb him but light enough so I can see him properly, I'm propped up on one elbow, just watching. He doesn't know; he's fast asleep, his breathing slow and rhythmic, his hand underneath his cheek in that unconscious nestling thing he does when he's sleeping, the cover pushed impatiently halfway down his body. Lords, sometimes it hurts to look at him. It's as though I'm already missing him, but he hasn't gone yet. He's here, warm and real, but it's like it only underlines the fact it won't last. I don't want to sleep any more: I can't afford to miss a micron of the time we have left together.

Even I wouldn't wager much on our chances. I wouldn't give much for the survival of anyone in the fleet, but for a Viper pilot - well, you work out the odds. Not good, are they? And I know even my luck's gonna run out sometime. I don't let anyone else know that, of course - I don't want to tempt fate, after all. It doesn't worry me too much. I mean, it does and it doesn't. I don't want to die, but somehow after the Destruction, death doesn't seem such a big deal. It's inevitable, so it's a waste of time worrying about it. But what I am frightened of, what I really can't frackin' deal with, is the thought that my luck's gonna run out and he'll be taken and I'll be left.

It's so tight inside me now that I can hardly breathe as I watch him. It hurts, the longing and the fear. It's all I can do not to touch him, not to run my hand against the growing shadow on his jawbone to remind myself of his reality. It's as though something inside me already knows what will happen to me when he goes, how I'll carry on and no one will suspect anything's wrong, while deep inside it's all coming unravelled.

He wouldn't want me to follow him, not purposely. He'd be disappointed in me if I did, I know that. He'd want me to carry on and try to make something of whatever time I had left. He'd want me to look after Boxey for him. I'd do anything for Apollo. Anything but that. I couldn't stay here long without him.

I reach out and touch him, feeling his warmth, my throat tightening as he makes a slight sound in his sleep and instinctively moves closer against me. Bending, I kiss his shoulder gently, my tongue tasting the salt of his skin, my eyes closing as I do so. I don't know where it's come from, this fear. We're warriors, for frack's sake; we know the risks, the odds. But recently, late at night when there's nothing to get in the way, I haven't been able to stop thinking about his death.

There, I've said it. He's going to die and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I know things were weird when Iblis was around; I can't help but wonder if somehow he could see the future and he's left a loophole open that I'm tapping into. Because I can see it as though it's happening right now: Apollo lying crumpled and so still in the dust of some planet, and there's nothing I can do. Nothing I can do for him 'cept take his body home, back to the Galactica. And I know how it feels, the splintering inside me as my world is ripped apart.

"Starbuck?"

It's murmured, half-asleep still, but it's enough for my eyes to open again and for me to realise I've somehow got my arms round him and am holding him way too tightly. Last thing I want to do is face his questions about what the frack I think I'm doing hugging him half to death, so I loosen my clasp on him and begin to move down his warm body, my lips trailing across his chest in what I hope is a distracting manner until they close softly around one of his nipples. That way I don't have to look him in the face. I'm scared of what he might see if I did.

I can hear his heart as my tongue moves against him, reassuring me as it begins to beat faster till it's pounding in time with my own. His flesh is raising under my moist attentions and his breathing's coming heavily, his hands tangling in my hair as my teeth scrape very gently against his taut nipple. His hands tighten and he groans as my mouth moves downwards, exploring, while I pull the cover away from him.

Dear lords, it still does it to me, even now. The sight of his cock, swollen with excitement, leaves me breathless. Not to mention achingly hard. It's all I can do to keep my lips and tongue moving against thesmooth skin over his ribs while I try to regain some sort of control. Eventually I manage it, and my mouth moves lower while my hand rests for an instant on his leg, enjoying the play of muscle under the skin as he tenses at my touch. I stroke up the tender flesh of his inner thigh and he gives a sigh of pleasure as his legs open further for me. My finger's tracing a light path over his balls, and as he starts to move, wordlessly encouraging my explorations, my head lowers to his cock and my tongue strokes over the tip, already damp and glistening with his excitement. He cries out and his hips buck upwards, but my head's already raised. I glance up at him and the expression in his eyes as he watches me makes my breath catch. I lower my head again and my lips close softly around the head of his cock, tasting, before moving down on him, taking his hard length into my mouth and he's crying out, his hands letting go of me to knot instead in the sheets under him as he fights his desire to wrap his hands in my hair and thrust me down on him. I appreciate the thought; I've already told him what I think of such an antisocial habit and he's tried, I mean, really tried, since then not to do it. But it's fun seeing if I can break his resolve. He always feels so guilty about it afterwards that he practically offers to bankroll my next scheme for me.

I begin to set up a rhythm, my head moving up and down on him, my tongue flicking his full shaft as I do so, while all the time I'm lightly stroking his balls. He's writhing, gasping, his hips thrusting upwards, trying to bury his cock even deeper in my mouth, and as I hear the noises he's making, I realise how close he is. I reluctantly release him, and move up the bed so that I can reach for the lube, but get distracted on the way. He's flushed and breathing hard, his lips parted as he looks as me, and my mouth reaches for his as though that's where it belongs. His tongue's in my mouth as our bodies press together, full cocks rubbing as we're moving urgently against one another, suddenly desperate. Then I realise what's happening, and pull up from him again, holding him still as I look down at him. His green eyes are dark with desire and need, and it's all I can do not to start kissing him again, to let him know how desperately I need him and want him, but I've got to be inside him. It's only when my cock's driving deep inside him that I can know for sure that he's still here, and hasn't left me yet.

I keep control long enough to prepare him first. I'm quick, almost cursory, but it does the job. Seems like he's as desperate to feel me inside him as I am to be there. Then I'm pushing slowly into him and his head's tilting backwards as he gasps and my chest's heaving for air as I watch my cock gradually sliding inside him. Then I'm there, all the way in, and he's so tight and hot around me that I can't help myself and I just start thrusting, pushing harder and deeper, his name mixed in with my moans as I'm pushing home deep inside him. And he's reaching down to his own cock, which is just as well cos I'm not capable of anything except staring into his eyes as my cock thrusts inside, again and again, and he's not gentle but his hand's working faster and faster on himself and then his hand falls away as mine closes around his rigid flesh. Lords, but he's hard. He's so hot under my hand, so full and ready, that it doesn't take much before he's crying out and his cum's pulsing from him, spilling across his chest. His cry, the way he tightens around me, and the knowledge that it's because of me, are too much for me. I lose my rhythm and my hips pump uncontrollably as I come deep inside him.

It's some time after that before I can get myself together enough to move out of him and off him, but he hasn't objected to my weight, just holding me close as his breathing begins to return to normal.

"Well as far as wake-up calls go, that certainly beats the alarm," he murmurs sleepily as he holds me against him, our bodies slick with sweat and cum.

I'm suddenly too tired to make any real response. His breath's soft and warm against my skin, his arms are safe around me, and I don't even know what I was thinking before. I can't remember what it was that had me so worried. All I know is that I have him and he has me, and that's all that matters.

 
 

End