Ya See Somethin' New Every Day
by ALC Punk!

It's quiet, at night. The only sounds are the occasional indicators flickering and the comms traffic across the way. There are at least three people in the CIC and ops room at all times. They are less vigilant at night (no one's ever stormed the Galactica and taken the CIC, after all).

Still, the arrival of two snickering pilots should have drawn more attention than it does.

They're not supposed to be here. But Gaeta's on duty, and Helo knows how to talk him round sweet, and Starbuck winks at him as they tumble in, giggling. The comms tech gives them one look, then becomes studiously involved in his logging. And the tactician buried in her notes (probably applying for a promotion soon) doesn't even flick them a glance.

Helo's drunker than she is, and Gaeta knows this because he knows what Kara Thrace looks like when she's so drunk her eyes are dull and her skin is pale.

With shushing motions, he directs them to a corner of the CIC. It's his watch, and he knows he should kick them out (they're not in dress greys, which is standard CIC dress code, for one thing). But Helo paid him earlier, asked for his help. Said he wanted to show Starbuck something different.

And besides, he can't help the unbidden thought that this could be more amusing than monitoring an ancient battlestar that has no more use.

And he also can't help but watch from his duty station as Helo steps to her back and slides a hand under her shirts. The way her head drops back exposing the column of her throat makes him swallow.

Gaeta can't decide, as he makes a note of the readouts on his console, whether he wants to be the one making her arch like that. Or if he wants to be her, shifting slowly against Helo and making the ECO groan softly.

Duty calls him back to his console, and he flips through, making notes and checking call logs.

When he eventually looks back at them, Starbuck has shifted, spreading her legs, allowing the hand Helo has down the front of her pants plenty of access. Gaeta shifts in his chair as he hears her moan softly.

According to the regulations, he should be over there, reprimanding them for all sorts of things. Fraternization, public indecency, lack of proper dress... There are codes he's memorized for exactly these events (although he thinks Starbuck would be sad to find out she wasn't the first woman fingered to orgasm on the CIC, but second-year cadets on training missions sometimes got a little more than they bargained for).

In fact, Gaeta sometimes thinks he could write a book on the exploits of the misfits stationed on Galactica. The Fleet's best and brightest they aren't. They're the screw-ups, the frak-ups, the ones who pushed too fast and too far. And they leave Galactica the better for the old man and Tigh's joint rule.

But right now, he's not thinking of those other miscreants. He's actually trying not to think, because if he thinks, he'll notice the way the sweat is beading finely on Starbuck's forehead and the way she bites her lips to muffle her instinctive moans.

She's arched, her breasts pressing against her shirts (and one of Helo's hands is still playing with them). Her eyes are closed, her head back, and Gaeta assumes that whatever Helo's saying in her ear is simply adding to whatever his hands are doing. Swallowing against his dry throat, Gaeta shifts, trying to ignore the tingles beginning to spread through his own body.

A beep from his console distracts him, and he turns to deal with the flickering light. Stupid Galactica, sometimes these old sensors just went on the fritz because the equipment was so old. If the old man would just let them install the new networks--but it isn't Gaeta's place to second-guess the Commander.

Problem dealt with, he feels his gaze drift back and finds they've moved. Starbuck is now bent forward, gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles white.

Helo's arm is wrapped around her waist, hand still down the front of her pants and she's rocking against it, mouth open and eyes closed, soft little sounds escaping from her. Gaeta freezes as her eyes snap open, skewering him.

For a moment, they both stare at each other, her eyes burning into his, and then Helo does something extra, and the muscles in her face twitch. And Gaeta discovers that watching Starbuck orgasm is revealing. For a moment, she doesn't care who is watching, doesn't have to be proving who she is with her fists and words and stance.

Then the moment is gone, and she's straightening, reaching down and pulling Helo's hand out of her pants.

His arm slings around her shoulder, and he says something that makes her laugh, the sound a little breathless as it echoes up into the decking above their heads.

Gaeta lets out a breath of his own, and looks back at his console.

"Hey, Gaeta."

"Lieutenants." He doesn't look up from his clipboard.

"We'll get out of your... hair," Starbuck says.

And he has to glance at her, catch the look in her eyes, then turns back to his work, "You do that."

"Have a nice night, Gaeta."

Gaeta waits for them to leave, waits longer for his erection to go down. When it doesn't, even after he thinks about facts and figures and what the XO would do if he found out that two officers have been consorting in the CIC. He looks across at the communications technician, and finds the young man studiously looking at *his* console.

He's not going to ask.

Gaeta does, however, get up, shooting the tactician a look. And then excuses himself to the head. He's allowed five minutes.

It's going to be the longest five minutes of his life.

-f-

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© 2005 ALC Punk!