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Jensen stormed through the flight pod like a darkening thundercloud. Oh, he had lost friends before: a training accident at the Academy, another buddy killed in a Viper malfunction coming in on a hands-on landing after a routine CAP. But never so many, not all at once. And never before with the feeling that he should have been there with the squadron, should have been up on the duty roster, flying that initial confrontation with the Cylons. Why should he be one of the handful of survivors?
What made his vision blacken with rage was the urge to get revenge, and the shame of knowing that the Cylons were out there taunting them, and the Galactica wasn’t, he wasn’t, good enough to kick their toaster asses to kingdom come.
He settled for kicking some debris on the landing bay floor, and the clang/scrape of metal on metal made Cally cringe, but he ignored her worried frown and stomped off toward the barracks with a scowl.
“Hey, Jackles!” Crashdown called to him over a hand of cards, visible through an open hatch to the rec room. Four or five haggard faces looked up at the hail, weary pilots and ECOs trying to distract themselves, to pretend that their home worlds hadn’t just been destroyed. “Want us to deal you in?”
He shook his head and moved on. A game of Triad wouldn’t do it. If he wanted to climb out of this black cloud, what he really needed was an overnight pass to the nearest recreation liner. He needed to knock back a few glasses of ambrosia, get pleasantly buzzed, and then pick up some tall, dark, and sexy stranger and frak his frakkin’ brains out.
Not one of Galactica’s crew. That led to attachments, or complications. Everyone knew Jackles wasn’t interested in any of that.
But a nameless pick-up in a dark, smoky bar? Especially someone brawnier than he was… after the beating they took at Caprica, there’s nothing Jensen would like more than to order some guy who towered over him to sink to his knees. By your command—that’s what the comics he’d grown up with showed the old Cylon chrome jobs saying. Yeah, watching some big guy submit like that might make him feel less frustrated and helpless. And maybe even forget. At least for a few hours.
“I know what you need.”
He startled at the voice, wondering how Starbuck had crept up behind him so silently. He must really be wrung out.
“I know too,” he said gruffly. She probably did know exactly what he was thinking, no stranger to battle lust and the aftermath herself. And he knew she wasn’t suggesting getting their rocks off together. His preference for men was no secret. He shook his head. “But there’s no way anyone’s getting any leave right now,” he reminded her.
“And I suppose you’ve already screwed everyone on Galactica that you’re interested in. Right?”
“Starbuck, you know that’s not my style.” He pulled away from her, turning back down the corridor.
“Ri-ight.” She smirked around her cigar, and trotted to keep up. “What you need,” she said with a mischievous waggle of her eyebrows, “is a hooker.”
Jensen stopped, his mouth twisted in dismissal, but his eyes turned speculative. Then he sighed and began walking again toward the duty locker that held his bunk. “Even if the Cloud 9 had survived the Cylon attack, and the FTL jumps, there’s no way. We’re all restricted to the Galactica right now.”
She fell into step beside him. “What if I told you there was an honest-to-gods socialator on board, with those other civilians who were here for Galactica’s decommissioning ceremony and got stranded when we came under attack?” At Jensen’s skeptical look, she added, “He came here as the ‘personal’ companion to some VIP. After the last jump, the big shot bolted with the first shuttle off the Galactica, and left him to fend for himself. There are dozens of refugees stuck here, waiting for assignment to a civilian ship.”
“And how do you know all this?”
She smiled and twirled in a circle. “I have my sources, Lieutenant. But a girl’s gotta keep some secrets.”
“If this mystery man really exists….” Jensen almost couldn’t believe he was saying this. But what did he have to lose?
“His name’s Jared. The refugees are all bunking in ‘Camp Oil Slick’—what used to be the starboard hangar deck.”
“I thought they converted that hangar deck into a gift shop when they decided to turn the Galactica into a museum?”
“Yeah, well, we tore it down to get the old Mark II Vipers off the exhibit floors and into combat. Now the area’s a refugee camp.” She stopped to consider something. “But if you want to approach him in a less crowded setting… I heard him ask Gaeta if civilians could use the weight room on board, so I’d guess if you hang out there, you might cross paths.” She eyed Jensen’s biceps, nicely offset by the uniform gray sleeveless tee covered by a brown tank top, and nodded with approval. “And it does look like you know your way around a gym.”
“I guess I do.”
The Lords of Kobol must have been looking out for him, because the only person in the weight room that hour was a stranger. A stranger with decidedly non-military-length hair, which clung to his scalp and neck, shiny with sweat. Jensen imagined his fingers tangled in that hair, tugging it while—
He slammed combat landing magnetic clamps, metaphorically speaking, on that train of thought. Don’t go there till you’re sure of the guy.
Said guy was seated on a weight bench doing arm curls, oblivious to the ogling Viper Mark VII pilot. He was wearing workout gloves, loose gray gym shorts, and a tee shirt combo that matched what Jensen was wearing but without the dog tags. Jensen cast a quick glance at the bins in the corner, just outside the showers. One of the perks of being in the military: dump your laundry for someone else to do. This guy must have raided the clean laundry pickup bin, and Jensen wondered just whose gear he was borrowing.
He couldn’t tell how tall the new guy was, but those biceps and shoulders might just give the new CAG, Apollo, a run for his money. He cleared his throat. “You Jared?”
The civilian let the weight fall to the floor with a heavy thunk. “Yeah? I mean, yeah, I’m Jared.” He stood, peeling off the gloves, and Jensen had to tilt his chin up to keep eye contact as the man rose. Taller even than Helo, he’d wager. “A… Lieutenant Gaeta gave the okay for me to use your gym,” Jared continued, using the back of his wrist to wipe sweat off his high forehead. “Is there—is there a problem?”
Nice hands. Big and broad, with long fingers….
“No. I mean, I’m sure you need to stay in shape. In your line of work.” Jensen cringed as soon as the words fell from his lips. Prostitution was a perfectly legal occupation in the Twelve Colonies, but that sounded more like a lame attempt at a pick-up line. And Jensen was not lame. Usually. Being near this guy turned him stupid, apparently.
Something stormy flickered in Jared’s hazel eyes; a reaction to Jensen’s words? But it was gone before Jensen could try to read it. The stranger slowly looked Jensen up and down, and for a moment Jensen felt like he was the one being assessed, like a piece of meat. He didn’t much like the feeling.
“You buying?” Jared asked, blunt.
Jensen’s hand strayed to his pocket, even as he was asking, “How much?”
Jared stretched a long arm to the nearest treadmill, snagged his damp towel, and draped it around his neck. “I have a feeling your cubits aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on any more.”
He got that right. Jensen scratched the back of his neck. This wasn’t really going the way he’d planned. Not that he’d put much thought into it at all; crazy impulse. “What do you want, then?” he asked.
Jared tensed. Like he was bracing himself for something he didn’t want to do. Jensen started to raise a hand, wave a never mind to write the whole thing off as a stupid prank, but Jared intercepted the gesture, moved to shake hands on it. His grip was firm when he answered, “A candle.”
“A candle?” What? Didn’t Camp Oil Slick have electricity? Well, maybe not. The Galactica was a wreck, the port flight pod ripped apart when they were nuked by a Cylon Raider. The hull plating kept out most of the hard stuff, but damage control crews were still working overtime on repairs throughout the ship. And combat functions were bound to be a priority over a refugee camp.
But a candle? What would a candle be worth? Surely not even a blow-job. A hand-job in a stall in the head maybe? To be honest, a candle probably wasn’t worth any more than an old copy of a skin mag like Nymph. In decent condition, of course. Where the pages weren’t sticky. Demanding anything more than that in exchange for a candle might amount to extortion.
Damn, he must really need some R&R, the way his thoughts were spraying all over the place like the point defense guns laying down a flak wall.
Jared’s lips curled in amusement, as if he could read Jensen’s mind. “You’re wondering how a hooker’s price list would run, now, after everything. Just what services will a candle buy you? Or what if you offered me a book instead?”
“A book?”
“I like to read.” The taut lines around Jared’s eyes eased a little. Jensen caught the flash of a dimple.
He shook his head. “You are the oddest sex worker I have ever had the pleasure of…. Well… I haven’t really had the pleasure yet, have I?”
The dimple disappeared. “The price on the menu is a candle. Can you get one? And a lighter?” For the first time, Jared looked like he was the one negotiating for something he wanted. When Jensen didn’t answer right away, he offered, “The lighter can be a loan.”
“Oh, two things now.” Jensen found himself smiling, on the offensive now. “I’ll be expecting more if I have to provide your light source too.”
“Satisfaction guaranteed or your—merchandise back.” The retort came automatically, but Jensen could swear that his eyes were glistening.
Jared looked away, shoulders rising and falling in a single deep breath, and then he met Jensen’s gaze again. “I’ll shower, you procure the barter, and I’ll meet you at—”
“If you’d consider an IOU,” Jensen interrupted with an impish grin and a head tilt toward the showers, “we could ‘take care of business’ right here….”
Jared snorted. “One thing a professional never does is take an IOU from a stranger,” he said wryly. “Meet you at the… starboard hangar deck? In half a centar?”
His nose crinkled uncertainly (adorably, Jensen thought) when he said ‘starboard hangar deck’. So he’d made an effort to learn his way around. And to learn the real names for the areas of the ship. Well, Jensen could reciprocate and show he knew the refugees’ slang. “Camp Oil Slick?” He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
Jared shrugged, no explanation given, and headed for the showers.
“Wait! Don’t you want to know my name?”
“Okay.” Jared stopped and turned. “What do you want me to call you?”
“Jackles. My call sign is Jackles.”
It was harder than he’d expected to get his hands on a candle. Starbuck had a lighter she was willing to lend, for favors to be negotiated later. As long as they weren’t sexual favors—he was no socialator—Jensen could get on board with that.
But candles… candles… who had candles? He left the weight room and stopped in the corridor, thinking. There was Major Spencer’s birthday cake a few sectons ago, when they’d put 99 candles on his cake as a joke. But Jensen was pretty sure Spencer had threatened to make the aptly named Joker eat those candles, in which case—no thank you.
Senior officers had private quarters and gods knew the Old Man could be a proper gentleman about such things. Jensen paused to imagine a candlelit dinner between Commander Adama and the new President, Laura Roslin. If he had time, he was sure he could work out a con that would get him inside the commander’s quarters. But what he had was thirty microns.
Twenty-five now.
A marine walked by, hand on her sidearm, patrolling the corridors. “Any problems, Lieutenant?”
“None, Sergeant,” he replied easily. “You expecting any?”
“Just making sure no civilians get lost and end up in restricted areas of the ship.”
Jensen nodded and Sgt. Hadrian continued past him, heading toward the armory. He watched her go, and got an idea.
Running late, he jogged down the companionway that led from the starboard flight deck to the hangar bay. Turned the corner, and—there he was. Jared.
Standing outside the hatchway, wearing his own clothes this time. Simple civilian clothes that didn’t call attention to the sculpted body Jensen had seen in the gym. He supposed Jared’s ‘patron’ didn’t want his paid escort looking like… a paid escort.
It was noisy in the room behind him. Jensen tried to peer over Jared’s shoulder to see what kind of electrical inadequacies Camp Oil Slick was dealing with. It looked dimmer than the rest of the ship, that was clear, but lit well enough for him to see rows and rows of cots, some separated by blankets hung over clotheslines, all crammed in too small a space. A few hard metal chairs were interspersed between the beds, but there was nowhere else to sit. Some of the room’s occupants tried restlessly to sleep. Others stirred what looked like cold oatmeal in battered tin cups. Mostly, people huddled in misery on their cots or stood between them, talking fearfully, weeping, arguing.
“C’mon. Let’s get out of here.” Jared turned away and strode purposefully down the corridor. Which was a relief to Jensen; there was no way he was going to get what he was paying for in the midst of that wretched mob.
“Where to?”
No answer. Well, Jensen figured, now that he had the collateral in hand, the business transaction was pretty much a given. He could ask whatever he wanted; the prostitute’s job was to keep the customer satisfied, right?
“So, what made you pick this line of work?” Why not? He’d always wondered.
“My guidance counselor in school recommended it.”
That brought Jensen to a standstill. “What?”
Jared stopped a second later, waiting impatiently for Jensen to catch up. “On Tauron, a male child is considered a man on his thirteenth birthday. When I was thirteen, my parents died in the Mellorak epidemic, and there was just me and my baby sister. We were dirt farmers, and I tried to keep the farm going and go to school too, but I hadn’t reached my full growth yet, wasn’t really big enough to do all the work needed to make ends meet.”
Jensen couldn’t help the compassionate look, but Jared acted like he didn’t need the sympathy. “At school, when I told them why I had to drop out, they suggested I pursue a career as a socialator—though no one really calls us that, do they? Went into training, then turned pro, and made more money in a secton than I did all year on the farm.” He shrugged. “My da always said to do what you love. And I knew even then what I loved doing.”
Well. That canceled out any reservations Jensen had that maybe Jared was reluctant to go through with this.
A few minutes of walking, one sharp turn and then another, and he found himself standing in a hallway he’d had no reason to pass through since The Attack. Crates and bins lined the base of the walkway, and the angled wall panels were covered, literally covered, with photos. Photos, hand-written letters, crudely drawn hearts…. Jensen rocked back on his heels, stunned, and then stepped closer. Something in particular had caught his eye.
A set of dog tags dangled over a snapshot of Prosna and Chief grinning in mischief as they worked on restoring the old Mark II Viper that Commander Adama had flown twenty years before. Prosna—he was... had been a galmonging good deckhand. Pulled the gimble and gotten Jensen's bent bird repaired and back in the air in record time just two days ago. And an hour later he was one of the knuckledraggers trapped in the fire when the port flight pod lost pressure and buckled.
Another KIA.
Jensen jerked his gaze away. To the right, there was a postcard of Riverwalk Market, Caprica City. Gone now. Beside that, a photo of a middle-aged couple, captioned: “Any news of my parents? Last seen on Sagittaron”. He looked down. A picture of a pretty girl smiled back at him, under which someone had written: “I wish I’d gotten to tell you that I love you.”
… and resting on some of the crates below the photos were trinkets: a house key to a house that didn’t exist anymore, a worn leather bracelet, a pair of small religious figurines… and everywhere, small glowing candles.
“A Memorial Wall,” Jensen whispered.
“You didn’t know?”
“I’ve been on duty ever since the jump from Ragnar,” he said. Duties that had kept him busy on the other side of the ship.
Jared nodded, swallowing.
Jensen remembered then what was in his pocket. Now he knew what the barter was for. “Here.”
Jared took it in both hands, looking slightly puzzled at the flat tin can about the size of his palm.
“It’s a can of paraffin, from the Firing Range. We melt it down to make wax bullets, for target practice.” He looked a little abashed. “I used a bit of shoelace for the wick.” Frak, he’d thought it was for a little night reading, not a memorial.
Jared didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with it. He placed it carefully, almost reverently, on an empty corner of a crate, and silently held out his hand for the lighter. After Jensen passed it to him, he put the small flame to the wick, coaxing it as it struggled to life. When he was satisfied, he handed the lighter back to Jensen, took a scrap of paper from his pocket, and held it over the makeshift candle until the name or prayer or whatever Jared had written curled and fell to ashes in the melting wax.
“My little sister,” he whispered. “She was ten.”
What could he say to that? Jensen had never known his own parents. He’d gone from an orphanage (no love lost there) to the Colonial Fleet Academy as soon as he was old enough. Battlestar Galactica was his home; its crew, his family. “I’m sorry.” Hands in his pockets, he stood awkwardly by Jared’s side, studying the wall and not his companion. “Do you have any photos, or letters, you want to put up?”
Jared didn’t look at him either. “I don’t have anything, Jackles—”
“Jensen. 'Jackles' is my call sign. My real name is Jensen.”
Jared’s shoulders shifted in a sigh. “I didn’t bring anything with me, Jensen. Just the clothes on my back, that’s all I have.” His voice caught. “I don’t have anything to remember Annie by….”
His shoulders still moved minutely, trembling, and Jensen suddenly realized that Jared was crying.
“C’mon.” Jensen grabbed Jared’s hand and pulled him down the corridor.
Jared followed willingly enough, straightening his shoulders and clearly trying to compose himself. They came to a stop outside the one of the pilots’ quarters, and Jensen spun open the hatch.
Inside, lights were low. Eight built-in bunks lined the port and starboard side walls, two lower and two upper on each side, and each equipped with a privacy curtain. Lockers separated the pairs, low benches split the middle of the room, and a table and chairs graced the far end.
“Where is everybody?” Jared asked, following Jensen inside.
“Half the room’s on duty; night shift. Two others were killed in the First Attack. That leaves Crashdown—who’s playing Triad in the rec room and won’t leave until he’s won all the worthless cubits everyone has left—and me.”
“So.” Jared forced a chuckle. “You don’t need to hang a tie on the door or anything then.”
“We use boots here for that, but no.” Jensen gave Jared a light push and Jared sat down on the nearest mattress. He started to unbutton his shirt, but Jensen stopped him with a touch, and then slid down to sit on the floor with his back to the bunk and rested his elbows on his knees. Neither of them looked at the other.
Jensen spoke first. “They say the war is already over,” he said. “They say we lost.”
“I can’t—” Jared started, faltered, started again. “Everything is different now. Forever different, you know?”
“Uncharted territory. Literally.”
Then, silence again. But not uncomfortable silence.
“When’s the last time you slept?” Jensen asked, apropos of nothing.
“I can’t sleep in that hell hole,” Jared admitted. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful to have a chance to rest and wash up and get meals. But it’s still….”
“I haven’t slept since the dogfight at Ragnar. Not really. I keep”—Jensen closed his eyes—“keep seeing our Vipers, just exploding into flames. You can see inside the cockpits of the Vipers, you know. See the look on their faces, when you’ve radio’d that they’ve got a Cylon Raider on their six. And then you pull away to try to get that frakkin’ Raider in your sights. But it’s too late….” He opened his eyes to stare across the room, where Dinger’s bunk lay empty. Had been empty since that night.
He felt a touch on his shoulder. Jared’s voice, low, murmured, “What can I do?” To help, he meant. Or maybe to fulfill the contract, Jensen thought. They amounted to the same thing. It’s why he sought out Jared in the first place.
“Sleep with me.” Jensen stood, peeled out of his shirts, toed off his shoes, and started on his belt.
“Yeah. ’Course. That was the plan,” Jared agreed, rose to his feet, and followed suit. When they were both down to their skivvies, Jensen put a hand on Jared’s bare shoulder. “Sleep with me”, he repeated. “I just want to sleep. Maybe with you here, in my bunk beside me… just breathing… maybe I’ll sleep.”
Jared looked at him, wide-eyed, and then the dimples made a re-appearance. “If you’re counting on my gentle snoring to lull you to sleep, Jackles, you’re out of luck. I don’t snore.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Jensen said, nudged him into the bunk, and climbed in after. He remembered to close the curtain.
Hours later, but not yet morning, found them curled together: Jared’s front to Jensen’s back, Jared’s arm flung across Jensen’s shoulder.
“CBDR, man,” Jensen complained in a loud whisper.
Jared sniffed, wriggled slightly in the tight confines, and mumbled, “Wha—?”
“CBDR,” Jensen warned him again. “Constant Bearing, Decreasing Range?”
“Oh.” Jared’s hips were flush against Jensen’s ass. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he mused aloud, “You know, I don’t think I’ll have the same profession in this new society. They’ve started a registry of all the civilians, did you hear? Someone somewhere is probably figuring out what jobs are needed across the fleet, and plugging people’s names in to do those jobs. And I have a feeling that “space hooker” isn’t on the roster.”
“So, you’re off the clock now, that’s what you’re saying,” Jensen surmised. Well, it had been a nice fantasy while it lasted.
“Mmm-hmm,” Jared agreed sleepily and shuffled to get comfortable again.
“What do you think you’ll do then?” Jensen asked. He wasn't going to be able to fall back asleep. And he really couldn’t wriggle any farther away from Jared without falling on the floor.
“Something with my hands, I expect,” Jared answered. “I’m good with my hands.”
Jensen gave up trying to maintain a safe distance. He rocked back against Jared, felt an enthusiastic response and a definite interest stirring in his own loins. “You planning on showing me how good you are with your hands?” he asked.
Jared pressed his lips to the back of Jensen’s neck and his answer tickled the soft hairs there. “For starters….”
~ end ~