Title: Rota
Characters: Kara/Lee
Rating: M. Sexual references.
Spoilers: Minor spoilers for early s2; nothing specific. Relatively AU otherwise, though in my universe it would be more like 'missing scenes.
AN and Disclaimer: Not mine, yadda yadda, belongs to RDM / Sci-Fi, used without permission and without intent to profit. My thanks to wikipedia for some information re: naval timekeeping.

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Green Hours: the 'social' hours among pilots of Galactica, so called as a contrast, because alerts are color-coded. Green hours fall during the early 'night' shift aboard the battlestar, during which leisure time is available to the largest proportion of the crew.

"I gotta go," he says, and if there wasn't so much reluctance in the tone, she'd want to hit him. Instead, she wraps her fingers more tightly around his bicep, presses her face against his shoulder.

"Yeah," she says, after a long moment when he hasn't moved. "Someone will come looking for you soon."

Someone probably will. He's the CAG, with responsibility for the pilots, the flight support staff, the specialists and maintenance crew. He oversees ordinance for Vipers and Raptors, both resupply and construction. He regulates and monitors fuel usage and craft readiness. He has to report to both Medical (and liaise with Cottle on individual cases) and CIC on all aspects of the well-being and effectiveness of everyone under his specific control.

"Yeah. Or for you."

She's the best pilot: unofficially, perhaps, but it's a very real role. It doesn't matter if she's just worked two days straight, if the Cylons show up, they'll need her in a Viper, out there, facing off the enemy, for no other reason than that it makes the rest of them feel more confident. Especially the pilots she's trained herself, which now number almost half their current roster. Unofficially, she's also his second-in-command, dealing with anything and everything that comes up in the flight pod that doesn't need his signature.


The echo is muted in the tiny, curtained space. Soon, someone will need him, or her, or both of them. Or someone will just want a little sleep, or company, or something, and their safe-haven will vanish like dradis-shadows. They've had three hours. The quiet will end, soon.

Neither of them move.

CAP margin: the ten minutes overlap between patrol flights to ensure the fleet is never unguarded.

The days are arbitrary, in space. Bereft of the guide of a planet's rotation around the sun, they live in slices of time, stealing as many as they can: even this, even the grudging leftover minutes their efficiency can carve from their CAP.

Five minutes after they land, he slams the hatch of the EVA locker behind them. Before he's finished spinning it to locked, she's on him. "Frak," she swears, tugging at his belt-buckle with unusual clumsiness. "Frak, Lee -"

He snarls as she finally yanks the fastening undone, their arms tangle as they try to strip each other as fast as possible. It takes only three seconds after they're free of the flight suits for him to have her up against a locker, her bad knee at his hip, fingers wrenching aside her panties so they're not in the way of his cock. Three seconds until he's slipping inside her, untouched but desperate to be there.

"Kara," he growls, sliding home. "Kara."

Four minutes to go.

Dog Watch: the half-duration shift of late afternoon or the consecutive early evening watch. Half-duration shifts allow for personnel to rotate through all watches over a period of time, rather than confining crew members to the same shift constantly. The two-hour watch also allows for all crew to take an evening meal at an appropriate time.

They can hear footsteps past their hiding-place, frequently. It's their camouflage: double changeover, the ship in flux, people moving around. Lots of people. Hard to find anyone in the milling and movement: unless there's an emergency, they won't be missed.

Lee wraps his fingers through the length of chain that dangles between her breasts, loops it so he can see the skin of his fingers whitening with the strain, drags her down to him. She pauses in her movements, the slow, rhythmic motion that's driving him insane, kisses him.

The brief stillness lets him gauge their situation: she's not close again, not yet, her eyes too clear, smile too cocky, and the ship's motion has hit zenith. Soon, the noise of six-hundred or so shipmates switching shift and going to dinner will slow, and Galactica's bustle will descend to silence again. He wants to make her come again, before that, wants to feel her shudder and shake and hear her moans muffled when she bites her lip not to scream.

"Off, Kara," he tells her, nudges her off him but doesn't release her chain. Instead he slides with it, moves with her, until she's on her knees before him on their makeshift pallet of blankets, letting it loose only when he pushes into her from behind. She keens softly, head thrown back in delight.

The chain falls loose again, swaying below her. There's only one tag on it now: nobody walking past their locker will hear it rattle.

Seven Bells: the chime struck by the ship's timekeeper to mark the beginning of the final half-hour of a four-hour watch.


It never occurred to him, before they started this thing, that maybe all that time spent with a cigar in her mouth could have taught her anything. But he's found out, now -


- her tongue, gods, her tongue - and if it weren't for that insistent noise in the air, he wouldn't even feel time passing, not while her mouth's wrapped around him like a -


- glove, and her tongue's tracing and swirling and then he feels the light graze of her teeth and oh -


- frak that's good, oh, frak, Kara, don't stop, and she doesn't, she isn't and now she's -


- sucking, gods, and her fingers stroke his balls, squeeze, oh gods, and one's slipping lower, lower, and -


- in and he's launching, flying, out into space and into her mouth, and oh, frak -


Oh-Eight-forty: standard pilot briefing time aboard Galactica, held in the CAG's ready room. The hour is chosen to allow attendance post-breakfast for all but the current patrol watch.

He's managed so far not to focus on her, not to stare at her in her accustomed front-row seat. She's not above teasing him, her sweats unzipped a little more than necessary; it's easier not to look, most mornings. Besides, there's fuel warnings - again - for half the newer pilots; Kat and Cracker, especially, have been burning too many joules. Getting cocky, pushing faster. He wishes he could threaten to cut their flight time, but he can't. As always, there's not enough other pilots to fill an ordinary rotation if he does.

Kat's sullen in her seat, and Cracker won't look at him. Starbuck, of course, has the answer to his dilemma. "I'll take Kat's CAPs, sir!" she pipes up, grin a mile wide as she bounces upright in the leather seat.

Kat's instantly protesting, and Lee lets them talk trash for a minute before he pulls rank. "It's a generous offer, lieutenant," he says, and it is, but he doesn't want to accept. "I'll think it over and get back to you after the next fuel report comes in."

Kara looks at him, their eyes catching for the first time since he kissed her and snuck out of her bunk an hour ago, and he knows she can see it all, right there in his face: stay with me.

Maybe it's because they'd procrastinated last night, stayed curled around each other, dozing rather than sleeping while they counted the shift out in hearbeats, spending as much time as possible in the dim elysium of her bed. Maybe it's because she's tired, or because she enjoyed it as much as he did, and wants it to happen again, but for just that moment, he can see her answer: not going anywhere.

Briefing's over, and the pilots all stand, oblivious; there's the trail of salutes as they exit, Kara's the last, delivered with a smile and the hint of an air-flung kiss. They can hear Kat complaining in the corridor about misaligned thrusters and faulty tylium filters, but the only words that mean anything are the ones he mouths, without sound, before she turns away.

Sixteen-hundred, he mimes.

Her nod answers: I'll be there.


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