After the beating, after the disgust and hate on the faces of the Pegasus crew, Karl rubs at his wrists, glancing at the Chief. "You OK?" Tyrol shrugs, grimacing. "Bastards." Yeah, well at this point, that's not unexpected. "Guess I'm just surprised they didn't try anything sooner." "You're right. Should've seen it coming." He's rubbing at his belly, almost reflexive. "What about you, LT? You hurting?" Karl's had far worse but somehow it's different when it's at the hands of people who are supposed to like him, be like him. People he might have ended up serving with, if things had been different. "I've dealt with worse." Tyrol's expression is stricken, like maybe now he's just remembering about Karl and how bad it got back on Caprica. And that doesn't make much sense, because Karl's heard stories of what happened while he was gone, what the crew had to deal with. Maybe they weren't down on a planet, maybe they had the ship sheltering them, but they were still running, and falling apart; picking themselves up and running some more. And he's heard stories about the Chief, left on Kobol, trapped and angry and keeping people together. Tyrol looks soft right now, wrapped up in that old sweatshirt, sweaty and bent over and nursing his gut, but Karl's heard otherwise. Frowning, he says, "Pull your shirt up." Tyrol looks up. "What?" He steps forward. "Pull your shirt up, let me check you out. They're right, you know. They could've done damage that isn't easy to catch. Burst something, left something swollen up inside. Let me see." By see he means feel, checking everything for tenderness or unnaturally hard areas. Tyrol frowns back at him, but slowly pulls his shirt up, and lies back on the bunk. "You a medic?" Hardly. But he's done this kind of thing with Sharon, this frantic checking over of each other for injuries or problems. He's done it so many times – after finding Sharon, bleeding and groaning. After he's fallen from too much running, or lost his balance from exhaustion. He remembers hitting his head, almost breaking an arm, so many small things that piled up together might have slowed them down, gotten them caught. Karl doesn't say any of this, just shakes his head and kneels down. "Looks OK," he says, brushing his fingers along the edges of faint bruises. They're just forming, but they won't get much darker. He pokes around Tyrol's abdomen, and there aren't any grunts of unbearable pain. No distension. "You're OK." Tyrol nods at him, watching intently, oddly. "You? Want me to check?" "No. I'm fine." He doesn't move his hand, just keeps it lightly on Tyrol. "Yeah. You're pretty, uh – you're fit. Hard abs." He gestures at himself, half-smiling, half-bitter. "Not quite like me." Karl can't think of anything to say to that. The Chief doesn't need to be in peak physical condition. It isn't part of his job. "You're not soft," he says, and he knows he should pull away, move back to the other side of the cell, to his own space. But he doesn't. Sometimes he wonders if Sharon got into his head and put something inside him, some kind of chip or tech that's changed how he thinks and what he wants. Those are the worst days, the days he tries not to think about, because he can't believe she'd do something like that. He can't see her that way. But right now, the Chief's belly is warm under his hand, and he wants something else, something the other Sharon had and wanted. It just makes him wonder if he should've seen this coming. "LT –" Tyrol starts, glancing at the glass wall. Karl snaps back to the now, and looks too. There's no one out there, no one watching. "What are you –" Karl isn't in the mood for talking. He hasn't been in a long while. He's talked too much – to Adama, convincing him about Sharon; to Starbuck, talking about Caprica and Anders and if they'll ever go back; to Sharon, about the baby and what they'll do if anything goes wrong – he's had enough talking. "Shut up," he manages to grate out, before he leans in close and presses his mouth against Tyrol's. Tyrol is still for a moment, but he grunts when Karl pops open the buttons of his pants, quick, fast, and slides his hand in, just inside the waistband. Tyrol's own hand reaches up, grabs the back of Karl's head, and pulls him closer. They're not kissing so much as pressing against each other, mouth to mouth, teeth biting into lips. Karl drags a deep breath through his nose, and gets his hand further inside Tyrol's pants, beneath his underwear so Karl can cup his cock. It's hot and already half hard and pushing up into Karl's hand. "Frak," Tyrol mutters, mouth moving against Karl's, tongue sliding out to lick Karl's lips. Karl opens his mouth, and then they are kissing, harsh and desperate, as Karl jerks Tyrol's cock. The friction of skin against skin is almost too rough, he can tell, except around the head of Tyrol's cock, which is slick and smooth. He pulls back from Tyrol's mouth, pulls his hand out of Tyrol's pants, and licks at it. It's the familiar taste of his skin, mixed up with the sharp, unknown flavour of someone else. Tyrol watches, his eyes dark, as Karl gets his hand good and wet. Tyrol's free hand, the one not still wrapped around the back of Karl's head, is clenches at the sheets, clenching and releasing, and Karl doesn't want to see any more, not Tyrol's slick lips, or the way he watches Karl's tongue moves. So he leans in closer again, gets back to kissing even as he wraps his hand back around Tyrol's cock. It's better now, the glide of his hand, and the way that every time he squeezes a little tighter, Tyrol grunts and thrusts upwards, his teeth biting down on Karl's lips. The cell fills up with sounds, ragged breathing, the suck of mouth against mouth, the muted clack of teeth mixing up with the mild squeaks of the bunk as it moves under Tyrol. Karl focuses in on it all, on the way that Tyrol's tongue feels against his, on the heat of his belly brushing against Karl's arm, on the way Tyrol's cock feels in Karl's hand, heavy and insistent. He twists his hand, half-grinning at how it makes Tyrol's hips rotate and push up again and again. Tyrol's hand slides down to Karl's neck and tightens. Karl's hard, too hard, and he pulls away for a moment, twists his body so he's balanced, and opens his pants with his free hand. Tyrol watches him, eyes half-closed, and then arches his head back when Karl starts jerking himself off, awkward and fast. Karl stares down at the curve of Tyrol's neck, and doesn't think about it, just bends down and bites, hard, under Tyrol's jaw. "Shit," Tyrol hisses and arches again, coming all over Karl's hand in long, hot spurts. Karl keeps sliding his hand up and down Tyrol's cock, the movement dragging and sticky. When Tyrol's shudders settle, Karl pulls his hand away and uses it to brace himself on the bunk. The balance helps and Karl fucks his hand, his fist loose and too dry, but he doesn't care. He just leans over Tyrol, mouth not quite touching Tyrol's neck, and pants and twists his hand, and breathes in the scent of sweat and fear and arousal until he comes too, biting back a cry. He lets his head fall forward, and just breathes his way through the pleasure. Afterwards, once he's stopped shuddering, Karl stays put for a minute as he catches his breath, his forehead pressed to Tyrol's chest, his knees against the cold floor. Tyrol's hand slides down from Karl's neck and cups his shoulder, patting once, twice. When Karl stands, he wipes his hands on the top bunk, doing up his pants and pulling himself together. He shakes his head, not sure what he's supposed to say or do now. Slowly, he moves to the other set of bunks. The cell smells like sex. "We are so frakked," Tyrol mutters, half-smiling at Karl, rueful. His shirt is still rucked up, he pants not quite done back up. He's lying on the bed, and it doesn't look like he's planning on moving any time soon. Karl wonders how long before the Pegasus grunts try again; how much longer before the execution. "That's nothing new," he replies, crossing his arms and settling back against the bunk. |
| Tyrol/Helo NC-17 Summary: "Pull your shirt up." Notes: Takes place during Resurrection Ship Part 2. |