Life Lessons Of The Frak-Up
It's easy to be a playboy, when you're the best and everyone knows it, love or hate you. I had a motto, back before the Cylons came. I had three goals in life: drink, frak, and blow shit up. I was doing pretty good at it, too. Well, not so much blowing shit up, but I was a good soldier, and the old man was keeping me on that path.
It's even easier to be a playboy when you're the best and no one can tell you no.
Drink, bone, blow shit up. It makes things easier. Nightmares of sitting in my Viper? Go start a poker game and make Gaeta pour the shots. Someone's got the frakking DTs from imagining the explosions on his homeworld? Grab his dick and have sex so hot and trigger-happy that you're both coming before you know it. Can't stand being stuck on Galactica another second?
Go on patrol and blow shit up. Then come back and find a crewman to give it to you for being so good at it. This is the Starbuck path to enlightenment. I can't deal anymore, not with the other way. The other way gets me thinking about Anders, and how much I wish I had stayed, and how it's not the same anymore.
Drinking, boning, blowing shit up.
"You look like someone took your bottle before last call," someone says to me. I turn around, and gods-bollocks-frak, it's Tigh. Yeah, that was the person I wanted to see during my sulks, good ol' declare martial law guy and get Lee in worse trouble and in that much deeper with President Roslin and her whole thing.
Hey, I like her, but I got a few earfuls of what that Meier guy was muttering about young advisors and President Roslin, and there is a point when it comes to the average age of a presidential staffer. I mean, I get it -- it's the nice middle-aged teacher equivalent of drink, bone, and blow shit up?
But not with Lee. That's too much.
"And you look like someone who got into a bar fight over the booze on the floor," I reply. "How's it going, sir?"
"Frakking fantastic, Lieutenant. Nice of you to ask," Tigh says dryly. "What's wrong? Did they confiscate that box of cigars you brought home, kid?"
"Pff," I say, pulling a stogie out. "Out of my cold, dead hands. What's wrong with you, sir? Did you get your ass blistered for going up against the president and losing?"
Tigh's expression almost darkens, but I think he notices I'm not sounding pro-assblistering, so he snorts, pulls out his flask, and sets it on the table.
"Crazy as hell world, isn't it?" he asks. "You know she's out of her frakking mind? Ellen went down and she couldn't even remember her own name, let alone Ellen's."
"Yeah, that's sad," I say, taking his flask and taking a swig. "Sit down, sir. Let's talk against our leaders like good high-level officers."
"Give me a frakking break, Starbuck," Tigh says. "There's a difference between disloyalty and blowing smoke, and you damn well know it."
I light up. "Mmm, smoke," I say. This is the deep thought from Kara Thrace for today. "It feels good going down."
Tigh takes his flask. "Not sharing, are we?" he asks. "That's kind of a raw deal."
I take another puff. "Gods, you're demanding. I just lit up, you big baby," I say, enjoying the smell of the cigar. "Everyone knows you're practically running the bootleg booze industry in the fleet. You can always get more of that rotgut, sir."
"Not nearly enough," he disagrees. I finally pass him the cigar to shut him the hell up.
"Aren't we cozy?" I say. "Old man's pissed at me, too. Never mind that we needed that stupid arrow after all. Never mind you were just doing your job."
"He's not that pissed at you," Tigh says as I glare at him until he hands back my cigar. "The old man loves you."
"He's got me grounded for a week. And Lee's back on duty as CAG. Sounds like the love's wearing thin, sir," I point out. "Maybe the old man's got a new sweetheart."
Tigh snorts. "I'm not going to get into that with you, Starbuck," he says. "That's the old man's business and the old man runs this ship. In case you were thinking of forgetting again."
"No, sir," I say. "Never did forget, as a matter of fact. Adama is my commander, now and forever, so say we all."
"Damn right and don't you forget it," Tigh says.
I sigh. "Shit was easier when I just wanted to drink, frak, and blow shit up," I say, maybe because the smoke is relaxing and the rotgut Tigh's drinking has to be blindingly high-proof. "Nowadays there's too much about loyalties. To the uniform, to the Colonies."
"And Apollo's made his choice, hasn't he?" Tigh asks, leaning back and taking a long slug of booze. I think about knocking him to the floor, but that won't make him less right.
"Yes, sir, I think he has," I say crisply.
"At least you're bright enough to know you don't like it either," he says, handing me the flask. "First smart decision you've made in weeks."
"Thank you, sir, for the backhanded compliment," I say, feeling like the game is spoiled somehow when we agree on something as fully as we do Lee's new and wrong loyalties. I snap on Tigh, he gives me shit, we get into a fight, and it's very satisfying in the end. "Makes me feel better about Adama's recent conversions, too."
He chuckles bitterly. "I'm here to help," he says sardonically. "Give me another shot at that cigar, Starbuck."
"No problem, sir," I say. "So, how did the old man punish you for aiding and abetting that woman's victory over him?"
"A long talk about principles," Tigh says, practically biting through the cigar. "I'd rather be shoved through an airlock than hear the old man tell me, in so many words, how disappointed he was in me."
"Gods," I breathe. "I got off frakking lucky."
"You're telling me. Told you he loves you," he says. "Anyhow, I've talked too much and you probably have a busy schedule of screwing around and doing nothing to get back to."
I do a half-assed sarcastic salute. "And you've got your busy off-duty life to attend to, I suppose. Sir," I say. "Nice hearing from a fellow frak-up."
"Duly noted, Lieutenant," Tigh replies, standing up and burping. "Damn fine cigars."
I nod. "So say we all, sir," I reply. "So say we all."