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Fic: The Trick Is To Keep Breathing (Battlestar Galactica, Crashdown/Boomer)
Title: The Trick Is To Keep Breathing
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Pairing(s): Crashdown/Boomer
Word Count: 950
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "I'm not a Cylon." She says it the way she might have said I'm flying CAP tomorrow, like it's nothing of great importance.
Notes: Spoilers up to episode 1:8 - Flesh And Bone, including deleted scenes. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
bsg_pornbattle.
"I'm not a Cylon." She says it the way she might have said I'm flying CAP tomorrow, like it's nothing of great importance.
And, almost, like it's news.
"Um." Crashdown really doesn't know how to respond to that, isn't sure if he's supposed to, so he kind of laughs. "That's great. That's really a load off my mind."
Boomer sits down on the rack (his rack, not that he minds), and after a moment, he sits beside her.
"Dr Baltar tested me."
"Wow," he says, and almost lays a hand on her knee. (It falls a little short. Story of his life.) "You're serious."
She looks up at him, then, lost and hurt and confused and resigned, but not like she expects him to fix any of it. And he gets it, she's talking to him because he's here, she flies with him because she has to, he was never her first choice.
She shrugs, and looks away. "I just wanted to ..."
"You didn't really think you were a Cylon," he says. It's not a question, because he doesn't know how to make it one. "Come on, that's crazy."
"Is it?" she asks, and if he were someone different, he'd reach out, take her chin in his hands and make her look at him.
He stands up, instead.
"It's crazy," he repeats, and leans against the bunk, running a hand over his head. He's not made for this. He's nobody's go-to guy; he doesn't fix problems. "Listen, I know everything's been -"
"Crazy?" she asks, and he almost laughs.
"Yeah," he says. And - okay, they're standing here, discussing whether his pilot is a frakking robot, so maybe it is funny, after all. "You just need -"
"I need a drink," she says, and he knows why she cringes, afterwards. Fifty thousand people left, and she's stranded on a ship with her ex-boyfriend. Bad enough the Chief fixes her raptor, he's also in charge of the only distillery on Galactica.
That part, maybe he can fix.
"I might be able to help you out there," he says, and he's been telling himself he's saving it for a special occasion, but this maybe qualifies.
Thank you, Boxey.
He opens his locker, and he can see Boomer in the mirror, stroking the glass, standing so close he can almost feel her at his back. Her expression is unreadable (understandable; the glass is old, dirty and a little warped), and he shuts the door, almost bumping into her as he steps back.
"Ambrosia," he says, and smirks, remembering the guarantee he isn't going to hold Boxey to. "Vintage."
"Classy," she says, and she looks like she's almost begun to relax, but he unwraps the bottle, throwing the old, rust-stained towel Boxey had it wrapped in down on the bed, and she jumps back like he slapped her.
"Boomer," he says. "I know it's not exactly top-quality stuff, but -"
"Where did you get that?" she interrupts him.
"What?" he asks. "The ambrosia?"
"Um," she says. "Yeah."
He shrugs. "Boxey sold it to me. I figured, better I have it than the kid, right?"
"Uh huh," she says, but her eyes are unfocused, and he has time to wonder if maybe she's changed her mind, if maybe she's worried about this being a bad idea in a way that he really isn't, before her hand closes over his wrist, and she steps forward.
"Boomer," he says. And it's not like this was never a possibility, but he still didn't really expect it.
"Shut up," she says, and then she kisses him, and he sets the bottle down, still unopened, as gently as he can manage.
(It still makes a dull clank on the table, but the sound barely registers.)
"Are you sure about this?" he asks, and his hands are already reaching for her tanks, so maybe it's barely a formality, but he still feels, somehow, like he's taking advantage.
"Positive," she says, and it's good enough for him. He pulls her tanks up over her head, and her skin is warm to the touch, soft, and the Cylons might look like them, but he'd bet his life no frakking machine ever felt like this.
"Okay," he says, against her lips, and then she's pushing him back onto the rack, and he goes willingly, shucking off his pants, watching as she does the same. And then she's kissing him again, lowering herself onto him, and her fingers clutch at his shoulders, hard enough to hurt, not so hard that he can pay attention to anything above his waist. "Gods, okay."
Boomer laughs, a little, the smile barely turning up the corners of her mouth, but it's still the happiest he's seen her look in days. And he doesn't want to close his eyes, but they kind of do that on their own, and when he opens them again, she's slumped over him, one hand planted on his chest to keep herself upright, her hair sticking to her shoulders.
She's frakking gorgeous, but he knew that already.
His hands feel heavy, leaden, but he raises them to her hips, feels the heat of her spine, traces a finger alongside the drop of sweat running down between her breasts. For a minute, neither of them move, and then she does, climbing off him, and he pulls the sheet up to cover his waist in a probably futile attempt at modesty.
"Wow," he says, still breathing hard, and sits up, pretending like it's not an effort. "So what happens if I actually get you drunk?"
Boomer glances back at him, already half-dressed, and picks the bottle of ambrosia up from the table. "Want to find out?"
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Pairing(s): Crashdown/Boomer
Word Count: 950
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "I'm not a Cylon." She says it the way she might have said I'm flying CAP tomorrow, like it's nothing of great importance.
Notes: Spoilers up to episode 1:8 - Flesh And Bone, including deleted scenes. Written for
bsg_pornbattle."I'm not a Cylon." She says it the way she might have said I'm flying CAP tomorrow, like it's nothing of great importance.
And, almost, like it's news.
"Um." Crashdown really doesn't know how to respond to that, isn't sure if he's supposed to, so he kind of laughs. "That's great. That's really a load off my mind."
Boomer sits down on the rack (his rack, not that he minds), and after a moment, he sits beside her.
"Dr Baltar tested me."
"Wow," he says, and almost lays a hand on her knee. (It falls a little short. Story of his life.) "You're serious."
She looks up at him, then, lost and hurt and confused and resigned, but not like she expects him to fix any of it. And he gets it, she's talking to him because he's here, she flies with him because she has to, he was never her first choice.
She shrugs, and looks away. "I just wanted to ..."
"You didn't really think you were a Cylon," he says. It's not a question, because he doesn't know how to make it one. "Come on, that's crazy."
"Is it?" she asks, and if he were someone different, he'd reach out, take her chin in his hands and make her look at him.
He stands up, instead.
"It's crazy," he repeats, and leans against the bunk, running a hand over his head. He's not made for this. He's nobody's go-to guy; he doesn't fix problems. "Listen, I know everything's been -"
"Crazy?" she asks, and he almost laughs.
"Yeah," he says. And - okay, they're standing here, discussing whether his pilot is a frakking robot, so maybe it is funny, after all. "You just need -"
"I need a drink," she says, and he knows why she cringes, afterwards. Fifty thousand people left, and she's stranded on a ship with her ex-boyfriend. Bad enough the Chief fixes her raptor, he's also in charge of the only distillery on Galactica.
That part, maybe he can fix.
"I might be able to help you out there," he says, and he's been telling himself he's saving it for a special occasion, but this maybe qualifies.
Thank you, Boxey.
He opens his locker, and he can see Boomer in the mirror, stroking the glass, standing so close he can almost feel her at his back. Her expression is unreadable (understandable; the glass is old, dirty and a little warped), and he shuts the door, almost bumping into her as he steps back.
"Ambrosia," he says, and smirks, remembering the guarantee he isn't going to hold Boxey to. "Vintage."
"Classy," she says, and she looks like she's almost begun to relax, but he unwraps the bottle, throwing the old, rust-stained towel Boxey had it wrapped in down on the bed, and she jumps back like he slapped her.
"Boomer," he says. "I know it's not exactly top-quality stuff, but -"
"Where did you get that?" she interrupts him.
"What?" he asks. "The ambrosia?"
"Um," she says. "Yeah."
He shrugs. "Boxey sold it to me. I figured, better I have it than the kid, right?"
"Uh huh," she says, but her eyes are unfocused, and he has time to wonder if maybe she's changed her mind, if maybe she's worried about this being a bad idea in a way that he really isn't, before her hand closes over his wrist, and she steps forward.
"Boomer," he says. And it's not like this was never a possibility, but he still didn't really expect it.
"Shut up," she says, and then she kisses him, and he sets the bottle down, still unopened, as gently as he can manage.
(It still makes a dull clank on the table, but the sound barely registers.)
"Are you sure about this?" he asks, and his hands are already reaching for her tanks, so maybe it's barely a formality, but he still feels, somehow, like he's taking advantage.
"Positive," she says, and it's good enough for him. He pulls her tanks up over her head, and her skin is warm to the touch, soft, and the Cylons might look like them, but he'd bet his life no frakking machine ever felt like this.
"Okay," he says, against her lips, and then she's pushing him back onto the rack, and he goes willingly, shucking off his pants, watching as she does the same. And then she's kissing him again, lowering herself onto him, and her fingers clutch at his shoulders, hard enough to hurt, not so hard that he can pay attention to anything above his waist. "Gods, okay."
Boomer laughs, a little, the smile barely turning up the corners of her mouth, but it's still the happiest he's seen her look in days. And he doesn't want to close his eyes, but they kind of do that on their own, and when he opens them again, she's slumped over him, one hand planted on his chest to keep herself upright, her hair sticking to her shoulders.
She's frakking gorgeous, but he knew that already.
His hands feel heavy, leaden, but he raises them to her hips, feels the heat of her spine, traces a finger alongside the drop of sweat running down between her breasts. For a minute, neither of them move, and then she does, climbing off him, and he pulls the sheet up to cover his waist in a probably futile attempt at modesty.
"Wow," he says, still breathing hard, and sits up, pretending like it's not an effort. "So what happens if I actually get you drunk?"
Boomer glances back at him, already half-dressed, and picks the bottle of ambrosia up from the table. "Want to find out?"