Fandom: BSG
Pairing: Dualla/Gaeta
Rating: Some language. Mild sexuality.
Word Count: 2466
Part of Arc One. The previous installments can be found here. Takes place during "Flight of the Phoenix", although in the earlier chapters, the timeline's a little wonky.



I.

Stupid. Frakking. Felix. Gaeta.

Ow.

She sucks her fingers, smarting from the wiring short. She should be paying more attention to what she’s doing.

Dammit.

She pulls the mono cable from the chassis impatiently, wondering who the hell Tyrol had running the comm network before she volunteered. Did they…? Had they actually used the old Arilon electrum chips for the transceiver module? Lords of Kobol. Why not just carve them out of soap and rocks?

Her head aches.

It would be easier if she could only be mad at Felix, but she’s angry with herself too. Angry for running from Lee straight into Billy, and then ditching Billy the absolute first moment she could to go straight to Felix.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing anymore.

She wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist and tells herself that the ache in her eyes is just from the dust falling from the ancient metal overhead. She doesn’t like to think of herself as the type of girl who falls in love with every man she lays, but the truth is, she doesn’t know. There was Wentworth, and then there was the Fleet, and not much in between them. Just boys like Billy, endlessly sweet and endlessly patient, settling for soft kisses and occasional groping.

…you know, if they’re going to use electrum chips, you would think someone would have the sense to realize the circuits can’t run in parallel like they would if they were using the more modern orosilicate chips. Lords, am I the only person aboard who knows how to rig a comm line?

She twists and cranes to trace a line and the bruise on her side lets out a rusty shriek of protest that leaves her breathless for long moments.

She doesn’t know why she’s so stuck on Felix this way; doesn’t know why this is so different. If anything, there are infinitely more reasons this is impossible, stupid, and dangerous…none of which are things she has ever aspired to. And if she has to be so damnably weak-willed, she should be grateful that Felix, at least, has the spine to do the right thing. The bastard.

And she’s not a masochist. She’s not. But she can’t help the niggling suspicion that there’s more—as her father would’ve said—up the sleeve than just the arm. That there’s more bothering Felix than any intimations of impropriety. And that worries her. Because he is such a…tight, self-contained, self-sacrificing son of a bitch.

There. She’s said it. Thought it. Whatever.

Damn…stupid…clips…come loose, would you?

It’s not a gift, though she thinks Meleus, the first boy after Wentworth, liked to think it so. Come to think of it, that’s probably why she ended it with him in the first place, other than the obvious—that he wasn’t Wentworth. It’s just paying attention. People are not nearly so opaque as they like to believe; it’s only that most are too wrapped up in their own things to pay attention to anyone else’s.

Dee pays attention.

Frak.

She can’t, however, tell the difference between the purple wire—which should be going to the primary squelch damper—and the brown—the channel cycler—in the dimness under the chassis. And if that isn’t a metaphor for something, she doesn’t know what is. Too damn blind to be able to do her duty. Lords. Dee sighs, and kicks with one foot to push herself out from under the proto-Viper’s shadow.

“…with the cockpit jammed up its a…Dee?”

Lee? Long hours in the CIC have done wonders for her ability to assume a mask of professional affability on a moments notice; she does it now. “Hey.” It seems like the simplest and least dangerous thing to say. Especially with the way he’s looking at her.

Mentally, of course, there’s an unvarying chorus of: Frak, frak, frak!

Lee looks like a Cylon has just brained him. Again with the weirdness and she’s just too tired to figure out the reasons why. “Wh…what are you doing here?”

“Communications, I think,” she answers wryly, going for the obvious. “Chief’s great with the hydraulics, but the comm system’s a mess.”

“Ten-hut,” Figurski mutters in warning.

“Had to see this with my own eyes,” Colonel Tigh’s voice drawls right behind it. Above her on the chassis, Kara shoots Dee a fast oh, frak! face, one that Dee returns before concentrating studiously on the nerve bundle in her hand. Kara suddenly develops an intent fascination with her own fistful of hydraulics. “Won't be long before we have the whole CIC down here. You working on this class project too, Apollo?”

Kara’s smirking, though with her head bent, Dee’s probably the only one who can appreciate it. She feels a smile of her own hovering around her lips, and she reaches up to swat Kara’s boot, as Lee avers, “No, sir.”

Kara kicks idly in Dee’s direction as Tigh draws himself up. “It's good to see someone has a little sense. Where's the chief, the tool room?”

Everyone freezes. Not long, but long enough, before Kara volunteers, “Ah…just getting some rack time, sir.”

Dee rolls her eyes. Kara may have a champion Triad face, but most of the time, she can’t lie to save her life. Or the Chief’s, apparently.

“You do realize it’s only a matter of time before the Old Man shuts this down, right?” Lee asks, after Tigh’s gone.

“Oh frak off, Lee,” Kara hops down and pushes him. “Don’t you have another class to teach or something? I hear Racetrack’s looking to learn some new moves.”

And that’s how Dee knows; it’s all over Galactica.

Great…all that trouble to keep Felix a secret and everyone’s just going to think I’m frakking Apollo anyway. The Lords must be laughing.

It rankles. Just a little bit. But not as much as she was afraid it would. She’s not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

Lee and Kara are scuffling like teenagers; she’s got him in a headlock, he’s busily trying to lift her off her feet. She only slides the cart under the ship just in time to avoid getting stomped on by two pairs of Fleet-issue boots. “Hey!” she shouts, “Innocent bystander here!”

“Hah! Not so innocent!” Kara shoves Lee away from her one last time and flops down on her belly near Dee, eyes dancing. “Or did you think I forgot?”

“I think ‘hoped’ is actually the word I was looking for,” Dee answers, reconnecting filament in careful loops and rosettes and tucking them back into place. “No one spends this much time discussing your conquests, do they?”

Kara’s nose wrinkles. “Who’s got that kind of time? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re fighting a war here, Dee.”

Dee sighs. “Make yourself useful and hand me that pin welder, would you?” She holds out her hand.

“So you could have told me it was Lee,” Kara says a moment later, in a quieter tone of voice.

Dee rolls her head sideways to look at the other woman. “It wasn’t Lee, Kara.”

“I mean, it’s not like I care or anything. Frankly, I think it’s about time that boy had a good f…”

“It wasn’t Lee,” Dee repeats firmly.

Kara eyeballs her for several seconds in silence before giving the barest of nods. “Too bad,” she says, and slaps the pin welder into Dee’s hand. “He really does need to get laid. Probably would’ve been the best thing to happen to him in a really long time.”

They look at each other several seconds longer then burst into giggles.


II.

“You want to what?”

Tigh’s had a nip—or three—of something; Felix smells it on his breath. It’s not ambrosia, whatever it is; it’s got a bite like solvent, mixing uneasily with the sour scent of the coffee he mixes it with, thinking he’s clever. Great. Dealing with Tigh is trying enough; Tigh on the sauce—depending on whether he’s gone jolly or morose—is almost more than he can handle right now.

Felix looks him steadily in the eyes and repeats, “Completely erase our computer drives, cold restart the entire ship's system, then restore them using our prewar backups.”

“Leaving us with our pants down until we're back online.” The lights flicker, putting shadows in Tigh’s gaze. “The Commander will never go for this.”

Lords of Kobol. Like their pants aren’t down already. What exactly does Tigh think is going on with the ship, anyway? He reins in his impatience. Calm. Calm. You’ve done this before. You know what Tigh is like. What he says is: “I've already spoken to him, sir.”

And hadn’t that been a fun interview, the Old Man eyeing him doubtfully behind the magnified rounds of his specs, while Baltar dithered in the background.

“It’s a big risk you’re taking, Mr. Gaeta,” Adama had said in that dry, careful voice that leaves everything to interpretation.

“Yes, sir; I know that.” Gods, does he. Still no brain scan, no closer to a resolution, and no clue if the work he’s doing is more of a help or hindrance. He is stretched too thin, but every hour that he has to spend on this and only this, only illuminates how little Galactica can afford to have any of any of her personnel impaired or absent. Even the ones who could potentially be Cylon collaborators.

Adama has a way of looking at you as if he can strip away the skin and see everything underneath; a look he’s more than willing to let go on for minutes at a time. Still, his other issues aside, he and Baltar agree—it’s the only thing left to be done; the only one with any reasonable chance of success, at any rate.

Tigh’s lip curls a little, disbelief or disdain, Felix isn’t sure which. He doesn’t really care. It might be the tiredness, but anger seethes in him just below the surface, hot and quaking. “What did he say?”

“He's considering it.” Steady gaze. Steady voice. There is a type of man that believes he can discern the truth of a situation—or a person—simply by eye contact and a handshake. Felix’s father was one of those, as is Tigh. They really are remarkably similar in some horrifying ways. But this, at least, means Felix has lots of practice. He could tell Tigh that the Cylons are really alien teddy bears, and as long as he maintains that steady rock-hard look, Tigh’s halfway to believing. Not that Tigh would ever admit as much.

“It's the only way to destroy the virus,” Baltar points out, bringing attention to his presence. It’s a mistake, dividing Tigh’s attention, and giving him a second target for his scorn. For such a smart man, sometimes Dr. Baltar can be exceedingly dumb. Or perhaps three time Magnate winners have never had to deal with the Saul Tighs of the world.

“I thought the commander told you to stay out of this,” Tigh growls suspiciously.

Baltar draws himself up to his full—unimpressive—height. “I'm sorry; do you want to survive this one or not, Colonel?” he asks, touched on the raw.

Felix takes a deep breath. He has to stay focused, if no one else can.

“All right,” Tigh drawls carelessly, “so we calculate a jump and get some distance on these Cylon bastards—“

“No, sir,” Felix insists doggedly, “we can't risk a jump. All of our systems are compromised, including navigation. The virus could drop us in the middle of a sun.”

“We're running out of time,” Baltar interrupts again. “Our signal's going to catch up with the Cylon fleet. If we have not come up with anything before then—“

“They'll take control of all of our systems, and then they'll have a hundred ways to kill us,” Felix finishes.

Tigh throws up his hands, another gesture Felix remembers from his father—the one that says these little niggling details are beneath him—and stalks off. Felix lets out a long, slow breath that does nothing to ease the frustrated knot in his empty stomach. He should’ve eaten the food Dee brought him.

“Are you all right?” Baltar asks him quietly.

“Yeah, sure,” Felix answers, putting his hands flat on the console and stretching the cramped line of his spine. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just…” Baltar hesitates, his forefinger over his lips. “You seem rather on edge, Lieutenant.”

Felix casts an incredulous glance sideways. “Are you serious?”

Baltar looks abashed. “Yes, well, of course you’re on edge, we’re all on edge, yes, I get that . I just meant…how are you holding up, given the current situation and…” Baltar gives him a significant look, transparent and embarrassing, “you know…your other problem…”

“I’m fine,” Felix answers shortly. He really doesn’t want to discuss this; not now, not here, and not with Baltar. He needs the doctor’s help, but it doesn’t mean that they’re confidantes.

“Well, I certainly don’t mean to pry, Lieutenant, it’s just that you came to me, of all people, for help with…well, you know what you came to me for…and I don’t think it’s all that unusual for me—as a scientist—to take an interest in…in…the root cause, as it were, for whatever it is that’s causing this concern.”

Felix pinches the bridge of his nose hard between his fingers, torn between the desire to laugh and scream. “I think that’s something best saved until we can be sure we’re not all going to die a horrible death from asphyxiation…or any one of a hundred other things, don’t you?”

Baltar makes a swooping and vague gesture that seems to mean agreement. “Yes, of course,” he says. Is it Felix’s imagination, or does he seem disappointed? “I only meant to… Well. I only meant to say, if you feel like you need someone to talk to, a sympathetic ear, as it were…”

Felix nods. He suddenly feels a little guilty of how contemptuous he’s been towards Baltar. He is the one who asked for help, and Baltar agreed, no questions asked, when he really has nothing to gain. “Thank you,” he says stiffly, the words sticking in his throat like everything else he’s tried to eat in the past couple days. Makes sense crow would be no different.

Baltar beams, his nervous and somehow manic grin. “Not at all, not at all.”

“Lieutenant Gaeta.”

He turns quickly at the sound of Adama’s voice, splaying his hands across the console to hide their twitch. “Sir.” Then his brain kicks back in. “We’re ready to run the purge as soon as you give the order.”

Adama’s eyes are unreadable behind thick glass, but his mouth gives a quick crook that could mean anything or nothing. “We have a slight change of plan.”