The first time Boomer loses her temper and yells at the Chief over a minor control drag, Karl catches Tyrol's eye and half-grins in apology. He doesn't bother to stand and listen to the argument, but he hears later that it was loud, explosive and that Boomer has one hell of a temper about her Raptor. The second time, he watches the argument from a safe distant, trying to remember if the Raptor had felt wrong somehow, if Boomer's concerns were worth this kind of scene. The third time, she's yelling before she's finished taking off her helmet, and Karl only knew to expect it from the way she'd muttered through her landing. He stands by the Raptor, listening, wondering if this is going to be a problem, but mostly, just shucking out of his flight suit. "—and maybe if you learned how to land –" the Chief yells, only to be cut off by Boomer's "My landings aren't the frakking problem!" Maybe it's at that point that he realizes that this thing between the Chief and Boomer is going to be a problem, and he doesn't want to get stuck in the middle. Starbuck strolls past, walking in the way she has when she too frakking smug, and mutters, "Ready to play peacemaker, Helo?" Not peacemaker, not yet, but someone has to remind Boomer that no one in their right mind fraks with the Chief. Not that Tyrol would ever do anything malicious and unprofessional, but one of his people might. Karl's been around long enough to see how loyal – and cranky – some of the knuckle-draggers are. Someone's got to remind Boomer, and it might as well be him. He's not subtle about it, though. Later, he corners her in the head and asks, "What do you think you're doing with the Chief?" She rolls her eyes, her mouth still set in a thin line. "Trying to get him to do his job –" "Listen, if you get into a showdown with the Chief, you'll lose." They're hard words, but he says them with a grin. "Knuckle-draggers are devious." Her expression softens slightly. "So am I. But you've got a point." He'd like to think that it's over – that Boomer will get over her fixation on the small quirks that all the Raptors have. He should know better. * An ECO's job, Karl thinks as he watches the argument get more heated, is not about keeping his pilot and the Deck Chief friendly. Or frak, even civil. Karl doesn't even know why it started, except that Boomer's adamant that the Chief "Knows frak about the intricacies of machines. He's a ham-fisted hack, Helo." But the reasons don't matter – the point is that it's going to spill over into everything. It's already happening, the mechanics going silent when a pilot comes too close, or the pilots smirking and making snide knuckle-dragger jibes. Karl can even imagine an all out pilot-mechanic secret war, one people go along with because Galactica's going to be decommissioned anyway. Before that, Karl sees himself stuck in the middle, and it's not like he can request reassignment to another pilot. He doesn't even want to. He likes Boomer, mostly, and he likes working with her. They make a good team, the same way the Chief works well with his own people. Maybe they'll all be transferred soon enough, but Karl wouldn't mind some peace for the next few months. So Karl figures he'll have to do what needs to be done. He decides to try to make peace, this time with the Chief. And in time-honoured tradition, he does with alcohol. "—don't know how you can work with her," Tyrol says, half-way through the first glass of the ambrosia Karl had scrounged up. "She's a good pilot," he replies, taking another mouthful. It's smooth when he swallows, the burn gentle and warming. It's a far cry from the acrid hooch Starbuck sometimes goads him into drinking. "I've dealt with worse." "If she complains one more time about some non-existent drag, or that something's sticking, or a loose joint, I'm going to clock her." Tyrol clenches his fist, like he's imagining doing it right now. Karl forces himself to grin and tops up the Chief's glass. "That'd start an all out brawl." He stops himself from saying that the Chief's people would lose. But maybe Tyrol realizes that himself, because he rubs at his eyes with his free hand and says, "Frak." Yeah. That pretty much covers it. Karl's out of things to say, so he just keeps drinking and pouring more for the Chief. He's going to regret this in the morning, and already the Chief's hidey-hole – littered with spare parts, old blankets, and bits of what Karl can only guess are half-done projects – is starting to look more appealing than stumbling back to his rack. He slumps back more against the wall, tries to get comfortable, and says, "Nice little set-up." He gestures around the room. Tyrol shrugs. "Ship's only half-full. Lots of space." Decommissioning is looming. "Galactica's a throwback," he's been told on leaves. Other pilots smirk at his bad luck at getting stuck with an outdated ship and an outdated, paranoid Commander. On those nights, Starbuck tends to start a fight with anyone who's dumb enough to make cracks in front of her. Karl always joins in, grinning. And once, in a bar where the knuckle-draggers drank with the pilots, he remembers a quick flash of the Chief throwing punches, his mouth set in a grim line. Karl's sure he saw something gleeful in Tyrol's eyes, though. Gleeful and competent. When it's a quiet moment in his day, when he can take a break, Karl surreptitiously watches the other pilots and learns about them, and from them. He watches Boomer's precise movements, and the way her rigid back gives away her concentration. He studies Starbuck when she's drinking and smoking and playing cards. She's always loose, and she exhales in strategic ways, making others shift, twitch, or briefly lose concentration in the fresh cloud of smoke. He admires her easiness, the same way that he admires Boomer's practical movements. Mostly, though, he watches their hands. Starbuck's are graceful, even when she's fighting. They're elegant, even when curved into a fist and red around the knuckles. Boomer's fingers move in quick, practiced ways, a minimum of effort for maximum effect, and some days, he can almost imagine that she's controlling everything around her. Karl's always had a thing for hands though he doesn't talk about it. Ever. Sometimes he wonders what it must be like to be Starbuck or Boomer. He wonders what it's like to touch them, to get burned up in Starbuck's arrogance and confidence; or what it's like to have Boomer's full, unwavering attention. He thinks of their hands, their fingers, brushing against his skin. And right now, he's looking at Tyrol, whose eyes are half-closed, one hand loosely holding his glass. The Chief is efficient calm on the deck; he meets new mechanical problems with action and orders and yells for the right tools. Tyrol knows the Galactica and the ships, and Karl suddenly wonders what it might feel like to be Galactica, to be so well known and understood. To be constantly under the Chief's hands. He realizes he's staring, and shifts his eyes away, fixing his gaze on the wall. "How long have you been on Galactica?" Tyrol shrugs, a small movement Karl sees out of the corner of his eye. "Longer than most." Yeah, that much is obvious. "You're good. With the ship." He gulps down his drink and has another refill. "And with people." "Most people." "Boomer –" "Is a pain in my ass." Yeah, yeah. "Look, I'm trying to –" "I swear to the gods, if she doesn't stay out of my way, there's going to blood. I'm not joking –" He continues on, the words running into each other, sometimes slurred. Karl shuts his eyes briefly because this isn't what he wants. The anger is supposed to be fading, they're supposed to be laughing about uptight pilots who just need to relax. When he opens his eyes, Tyrol is gesturing broadly as he rants, one hand still holding his glass. Karl watches, transfixed, as some of the ambrosia spills over the edge, trickling down Tyrol's broad hand, and he has to close his eyes again. This time, though, it's because this is something he wants. Karl knows this feeling well, this sudden want for someone that comes out of no where and feels like it's burning him up. It leaves him hot, flushed, his empty hand clenching and releasing. His skin itches, just a little, and he imagines Tyrol's capable hands scratching across him, replacing that itch with something else. Tyrol, and his sureness with the things around him, the parts and machines he keeps working. "—and when I looked at it for her, everything was perfect. She makes it up, she's a troublemaker –" Usually, when he feels like this, Karl pushes it away, because it doesn't pay to frak where you live. Or, if he's on leave, he finds some civilian substitute who's looking for what he's willing to give. But it's been a while, and why not? Just once, why not choose someone who knows what it's like to live in the Fleet? Karl opens his eyes. He sets his glass down so carefully and slowly that he knows he's drunk. He sits up a little, and reaches over to take Tyrol's glass out of his hand. Karl's fingers come away a little sticky from the spilt ambrosia. Tyrol barely notices he's missing his glass, and just keeps on rambling, talking, venting. Karl leans close and closer, and shuts Tyrol up with a kiss, his hand holding Tyrol still. Tyrol jerks, surprised, but Karl doesn't let go. He pushes Tyrol down against the floor, their bodies lined up, one hand cupping around the back of Tyrol's head. He just holds on and kisses Tyrol. They're hard, fast, kisses, almost chaste, except that Karl isn't thinking chaste thoughts. Karl's lips are being careful, his tongue is being tentative, but Karl's fingers are already tugging at the buttons on Tyrol's jumpsuit. He stops, briefly, when Tyrol twists his face away and says, "LT, we –". Tyrol's voice sounds like maybe he's saying this is a bad, bad idea. But his body is pushing up against Karl's, hips rolling, and one hand is clenched tightly around Karl's bicep. Still. "Good idea?" Karl asks, just to make sure. Tyrol stares at him for a minute, and then nods, grinning loosely. "Yeah." And that's all Karl wants to hear. It's more than enough. Karl's hands feel too big, uncoordinated, but he finally manages to get Tyrol's jumpsuit undone, pulled down. He's balancing on his knees, Tyrol fumbling with Karl's pants. It's messy and clumsy and not fast enough even though they're trying. But Karl can't stop grinning, because it might be clumsy, but it's good. Tyrol's hands are warm, and when he finally gets Karl's pants loose, he smirks. "Good at what you do," Karl murmurs, and slides down onto his side, pulling Tyrol against him. This time, the kissing isn't chaste at all. It's tongues and the slide of lips and the clack of teeth meeting almost too hard. Tyrol bites once, and Karl's lips feel bruised and swollen, and it seems like Tyrol's trying to frakking map the roof of Karl's mouth. Mechanics, he thinks, and finally gets his hand inside Tyrol's jumpsuit, inside his underwear. "Yeah," he mutters as he circles his fingers around Tyrol's cock. About time. They should've been doing this from the beginning, forget the drinking. Tyrol pushes against him, his cock hard in Karl's hand. Hard and sticky, and just asking for it. Karl strokes, and maybe without lube it's a little rough, but Tyrol grunts, says, "Frak," and "Harder," and "More," against Karl's mouth, so Karl does as he's told. He wants to do more – wants to slide down and press his mouth against Tyrol's belly before sucking him off. He wants his mouth around Tyrol's cock, the taste of come mixing with the remains of the ambrosia flavour. But Tyrol's hands are doing things to Karl's ass, and Tyrol's leg is hooked around Karl's hip. Tyrol's mouth seems to just fit with his, an easy slide of lips now, and Karl doesn't want to lose that, he doesn't want to push away and down. So instead, he grins at the warmth of Tyrol's body against him. He concentrates on the feel of Tyrol's cock in his hand, heavy and hot. Tyrol's hand clenches at Karl's ass, and Karl grunts, sliding his mouth to Tyrol's neck and sucking once. He keeps jerking Tyrol's cock, wishing they were naked, wishing he could see the way it looked in his hand. He's about to say something, do something about it, when Tyrol stiffens against him, head arching back slightly, and comes all over Karl's hand. The look on Tyrol's face is the hottest thing Karl's seen in weeks. Months, even. Eventually, Tyrol's body loosens, his cock softening in Karl's hand. Karl pulls away enough to get leverage, and slowly rubs himself off on Tyrol's hip. He gets away with it for a few moments, but then Tyrol shakes him off, and pushes him onto his back. Tyrol loosens Karl's pants, pulls them off, and Karl doesn't even mind the cold of the floor on his ass. He just lies there, panting, letting Tyrol do whatever the frak he feels like doing. It's mostly kissing and sucking a trail down Karl's chest, leaving Karl's hips pumping up into empty air. And then finally, finally, Tyrol settles down, sucking at Karl's hipbone while he jerks Karl off, slowly and deliberately, like he knows exactly what Karl needs, and exactly what he's doing. Lords of Kobol, if this is the way Tyrol is with everything, maybe Boomer's Raptor is acting up, just so it can get Tyrol's hands all over it. Karl raises himself up slightly and looks down, watches, and it's incredibly hot to see, the Chief's hand and head right exactly where Karl wants them to be. And judging by the way Tyrol's panting into Karl's hip now, he's getting off on seeing his hand sliding up and down Karl's cock. "Frak," Karl says, because that thought sends him over the edge. His head falls back, and he comes, and Tyrol never stops moving his hand, or licking at Karl's hip. "Frak," he says again, sucking in air, and Tyrol laughs a little, and grins up at him. After, it's a haze of half-assed cleaning, and pulling his pants up, and moving until he's pressed up against Tyrol. Karl dozes. The floor is hard, he's sticky and thirsty, but he can feel himself grinning as he drifts off. * When he wakes up, his head muzzy but his body warm and relaxed, Tyrol is sitting, one hand resting on Karl's shoulder. "Hey," Karl says, wiping at his mouth. He tastes like stale ambrosia, and it's not entirely pleasant. Tyrol stares down at him, his expression grim. "So. You want me to lay off Boomer then?" Karl shakes his head and frowns, confused. Boomer? And, frak. He remembers how this got started. "That isn't why –" Tyrol's expression changes to a grin, fast and light, and he laughs a little. "Yeah, I know." Right. Well, that's good. Karl stretches, feels the way his shirt lifts up his belly, and feels the way Tyrol watches it. And that's good too, because Karl figures it's still hours until his shift, and there's lots of time for another round. |
| Pairing:
Helo/Tyrol Rating: NC-17 Summary: Helo can imagine an all-out pilot-mechanic secret war, if he doesn't do something about Boomer and the Chief. Pre-series. |