TITLE: Shopping List

By Anna Orr

Fandom: Battlestar Galactica

Pairing: Starbuck/Apollo

Rating: NC-17

Note: BSG info : Battlestar Galactica has to be the slashiest program ever, and Apollo (delectable green eyed Strike Captain) and Starbuck (devil-may-care Lieutenant) are THE slashiest couple. All you need to know for this story is Apollo married (briefly) Serina, at a time he was a bit broken up because Starbuck was missing in action and thought dead, but that Serina was killed within a day or so of the wedding. Her son, Boxey, was adopted by Apollo. Apollo's father is the Commander of the Battlestar Galactica, and the leader of the remnants of humanity who are fleeing to Earth from the Cylon menace.

BSG had its own daft terminology. Felgercarb or felger is shit, and frakking is a more-or-less polite euphemism for what the boys get up to. Mushies are sticky sweets, often purple (just don't ask what they flavoured those with!) Astrum is arse/ass. But best of all are the totally naff time units. So yahren = year; sectar =month; secton = week; centar = hour; centon = minute; micron = second.

For some reason, Universal never thought up clunky terms for "day" and "night", so you have a nice, inconsistent mix. Keeps you awake as you read, I suppose.

Oh, and I'm British, so British English spelling throughout.

SHOPPING LIST
by Anna Orr

"Tall."

"Tall?" Boxey considered that, wriggling around in his seat for a centon or two. "Sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Mmnn." Boxey leaned his chin on his hands in imitation of his grandfather's deep-in-thought pose, although his expression mirrored his father's seriousness exactly. "Why?"

"It's the kissing thing," Apollo explained, already regretting the game they'd devised to while away the time waiting for Starbuck to join them. "I don't want to get a crick in the neck."

Boxey nodded solemnly. "Do you have to do that?"

"Afraid so. It's expected." And Apollo sighed deeply.

"Do what?" Starbuck asked with interest from behind him.

Apollo looked up, glowering. "You're late."

"Hi Starbuck!" Boxey abandoned Apollo-seriousness for Starbuck-spontaneity, glittering and consciously charming.

His father winced. His son, only just seven yahrens old, was altogether too adept at soaking up other people's mannerisms, his talent for mimicry encouraged by Starbuck despite Apollo's protests. If truth be told, it amused Apollo as much as anyone else, until Boxey decided that he was going to be Starbuck for a while. Then it stopped being funny. Apollo thought it almost unbearable.

"Hi there, Tiger." Starbuck ruffled Boxey's hair affectionately and slid into a seat. He turned the massively alluring smile onto Apollo. "And a very good evening to you too, grouch. What's bitten you in the astrum?"

"You're late for supper, of course." Boxey switched instantly back to Apollo-seriousness.

"I'm always late."

"I know. But I think Daddy's hungry."

Indeed. Apollo sighed again. But, oddly enough, not for food. He was hungry for something he couldn't have. Something he'd hungered after for yahrens, but for which the longing had seemed to become unusually acute recently. Something that had him as horny as a teenager most of the time. Something that kept him awake at nights, until, groaning with frustration, he took things in hand to give himself some relief.

Something he could never mention to anyone, particularly Starbuck.

"Well, we'd better take care of that," Starbuck said, and signalled the mess steward.

Apollo sighed yet again, deeper this time. He wished devoutly that Starbuck *would* take care of it, spending the next few centons in fantasy as he watched the two self-absorbed creatures in front of him, the original and its miniature copy, as they had all the fun of ordering supper between them. He agreed to every suggestion they made to him for the meal, suddenly listless and depressed. There was no answer to this. No way out. He'd have to learn to live with it. Of course, his bloody father was hardly helping.

"What were you two talking about when I got here?" Starbuck asked, sipping delicately at the glass of ambrosa in his hand.

Boxey sipped as delicately at the milk that he'd insisted on having served in an identical wine glass. "The list."

"What list?"

"The list about someone for my Dad," Boxey said.

"Someone for your Dad?" Starbuck repeated, slightly bewildered.

Boxey nodded. "Grandpa was talking to Auntie Thenie today." In his eagerness, he stopped being Starbuck and reverted to an excited little boy, allowed to stay up late and out for treat with the two people he loved best in all the world. "He said it was high time they found someone for Daddy."

"Did he now," Starbuck said, all his attention seemingly on putting his glass down in one exact spot.

Boxey had a very good memory, with all the mimic's ability to repeat conversations. He even had Adama's intonation down pat. "Yes. He said that Daddy had moped around too long. He said that Dad was a dismal
pain to be around and that my Mom wouldn't want him to waste his life like this, and the sooner they got him sorted out the better for everybody. I said that Daddy had me to keep him company, but it was a good idea for someone to live with us so he wouldn't be on his own when I was at school, and I asked Grandpa who he thought we should get. Auntie Thenie couldn't stop giggling, and Grandpa went pink and said that I had big ears and that I wasn't to say anything to anybody about other people's private conversations."

"Oh." Starbuck looked at Apollo and grinned slightly. "But my guess is that you told the grouch here."

Boxey nodded vigorously. "Of course I did. He's not anybody. He's my Dad. I tell him everything."

"Thank you, my son," Apollo murmured. "I'm touched to have your confidence."

"You're raising a snitch, Pol." Starbuck was more disapproving.

"Daddy said he'd talk to Grandpa about it," confided Boxey.

"I bet. Time for one of those father-son chats, Pol?"

"No," Apollo said, a touch grimly. "Time for a son-father chat. I intend to do all the talking, mainly about how I can manage my life without his interference, thank you very much."

"Can I watch? It's such fun when you two go head to head."

"It won't be fun." Apollo's anger was re-igniting. "I'll decide for myself when I want to find someone else! I don't need him or anyone else to help me. I can do things like that all on my own!"

"Really? Things *have* changed. You used to need all the help I could give you." Starbuck gave him a smile that had him floundering for a micron, drowning helplessly in its warmth and intimacy.

"What does that mean?" Boxey demanded.

"That your Dad was never very good with the ladies, even with me helping him along."

"That's not true! I found your Mom all by myself, Boxey."

Boxey seemed to think about it, then shook his head. "Me and Starbuck did it. Starbuck said that if we didn't say something and get you moving, you'd never get round to asking her to get sealed to you."

"Just a little push, Pol," Starbuck said gently.

Apollo stared at him. Starbuck thought he had pushed him towards Serina? Why had he done that? To get rid of him? To make it crystal, crystal clear that he, Starbuck, didn't want him? The sudden doubt hit him like a blow.

"Question is, are you ready to find someone else?"

Another blow. Did Starbuck want to get rid of him again? Apollo wanted to smack Starbuck around the head for being obtuse, but settled, after a centon, for saying, with a warning glance at Boxey: "It's been a yahren and a half, Starbuck. I'm doing okay, but…" he paused and shrugged. "I wouldn't mind."

All his loneliness and longing in those three words, and Starbuck gave him a thoughtful glance. "Well, Boxey seems to think it's a good idea."

"It'll be nice having someone else to live with us and look after me when Daddy's busy."

"You see the motivation here," Apollo said dryly and Starbuck laughed.

"So who's it going to be?"

"I don't know. I asked Daddy."

"And what did he say?"

"He said he had no frakkin' idea, and what the Hades did Grandpa think he was playing at and that he'd have something to say about interfering old men. And then he said Grandpa would get it all wrong, and I'd better help out by making a list of all the… the…" Boxey paused, his memory failing him for once over the new word he'd learned that day. "What was it, Dad?"

"Criteria," Apollo said, seeing how much Starbuck appreciated Boxey's verbatim report. "That just means all the things I'd want that someone to have."

"Ah." Starbuck nodded. "A shopping list."

"I guess." Apollo smiled reluctantly. "I hate shopping."

"This is different. This is the best kind of shopping. Can I help?" Starbuck was almost as eager as Boxey. "How far had you got?"

"We'd only decided on tall," Apollo said.

"For kissing," explained Boxey, as the mess steward put the plates in front of them, oblivious to the man's slight start. "So he doesn't get a crick in his neck."

Apollo, conscious of the steward's interest, grinned at him weakly, all too aware that neither Starbuck nor Boxey shared his reticence and wouldn't much care who overheard. It seemed to Apollo that the steward drifted away unusually slowly, as if he were straining to hear what was going on.

"Seems reasonable," approved Starbuck. "It's awfully hard to fly a Viper when you've got a sore neck. How tall, though? We'll have to pretty exact here - we don't want your Grandpa to be looking at people who're too tall or just a centimetre too small. He's a busy man with a lot of responsibilities, and we can't have him wasting his time on people who are obviously unsuitable. We'll have to give him an exact specification. What do you think, Pol? About my height?"

Apollo stared, the food he'd just speared onto his fork suspended in mid air. "Your height?"

"Well, you and me are about the same height. That's good for kissing." Starbuck gave him a big grin. "That way, nobody gets a sore neck."

The blue eyes were so innocently, ingenuously wide, and so close, that Apollo almost fell into them, momentarily unable to breathe. With an effort, he restarted both his lungs and the fork's upward movement, and nodded. "That sounds fine."

"Okay." Starbuck took a hasty few mouthfuls of food and pulled his wager book out of a pocket, along with a disreputable stub of a pencil. Watched eagerly by Boxey, he opened it at a clean page and carefully smoothed the page flat, his thumb rubbing almost sensuously down the book's spine, his fingers spread caressingly across the white paper

Apollo sighed.

Starbuck licked the pencil.

Apollo looked hurriedly away, feeling his ears - and other portions of his anatomy - growing hot with the lascivious thoughts that little gesture brought to mind. Lascivious thoughts about other things that Starbuck might lick, other things those sensuous fingers might touch and caress. The sudden rush of heat made him want to groan. He bent his head to the plate again, concentrating desperately on his supper. It was tasteless and bland. Starbuck would taste of musk and ambrosa and...

"Now then," said Starbuck, in the businesslike manner he employed for serious things like wagering. At least, Apollo thought dryly, drawing up a specification for his best friend's new lover would rate the same careful consideration as betting on the outcome.

Starbuck carefully printed the title on the top of the page.

*SHOPPING LIST : SOMEONE FOR APOLLO*

"You write nice," Boxey said approvingly. "My teacher writes like that."

"Nicely," corrected the conscientious parent, unheeded.

"I had to practice," Starbuck said modestly.

He wrote: *Tall - just like Starbuck* then looked expectantly at Apollo.

"Hair?" He took a quick mouthful of food.

"Hair would be nice," Apollo agreed.

Boxey and Starbuck looked at each other. Starbuck rolled his eyes and sighed. Boxey rolled *his* eyes and sighed, an instant behind him. Watching them, Apollo just sighed.

"Oh, a flash of wit," applauded Starbuck.

"Starbuck meant what colour hair, Dad," Boxey said as if explaining to a backward child.

Apollo shrugged helplessly.

"Brown?" Starbuck looked up and across the officer's mess to where Sheba was sitting with the rest of Silver Spar squadron, her long brown hair, almost waist length, flowing down her back.

Apollo's gaze followed the direction of Starbuck's eyes and he shook his head. "Don't think so."

"Really?" There was a flash of something in the intense blue eyes, gone too fast for Apollo to work out what it was. Satisfaction? Maybe even complacency? "Redhead?"

"Don't know one." Apollo said.

"And you think that will stop your father finding one if he thinks that's what you want?" Starbuck gave him a measuring look. "What do you think, Boxey? Your Dad's so dark, I think we should go for some contrast here, something to complement him. What about blond?"

"What's that?" Boxey asked.

"Cassie's a blonde," Apollo said.

"Cassie's got golden hair, just like a princess," Boxey corrected him firmly. "Cassie's nice. Cassie could live with us and look after me."

"But Cassie's Starbuck's girlfriend," Apollo said, trying not to sound wistful. It wasn't Starbuck he was jealous of.

"You could share. You always tell me I should share things, like the sweets Grandpa gives me." Boxey gave him a hard look. "And your share's always my favourite ones."

"He's a rotten sort of Dad to have," sympathised Starbuck. "But you can't share girls like that, Boxey. Besides, we don't need to. Cassie's not my girlfriend any more."

Apollo looked at him sharply. "Since when?"

"Since tomorrow." Starbuck shrugged. "Not a problem," he added reassuringly. "Been heading that way for sectars, and she knows it too. We've both just been marking time."

Apollo felt stunned, feeling his jaw drop inelegantly.

"Cassie's awfully pretty, too. Just like a princess in a book." Boxey sighed gustily.

"She is. But Cassie's not tall enough," Starbuck pointed out.

Staring at his plate, Apollo tried to absorb the news that Starbuck was free, while simultaneously worrying about the invidious effect of children's literature on his son's precocious appreciation of the opposite sex and having a vision of Boxey's impending adolescence that had him shuddering in apprehension. He put his fork down, appetite gone.

"Oh." Boxey nodded. "Okay."

"And anyway, I was thinking a darker blond. Not as golden and lacking the final `e'. Between you and me, Boxey, Princesses have hair that might be, well, *too* golden for your Dad. He's a bit dull for that."

"Hey!" That brought Apollo out of his apparent trance.

"More like your hair, then?" Boxey suggested after a centon's thought. "Yours is a sort of gold, but it's not bright gold like Cassie's."

Starbuck put down his fork for a centon and pulled a lock of blond hair in front of his eyes, squinting at it critically. "It might do," he said, sounding dubious. "What do you think, Pol? Something along the lines of this should contrast with yours pretty well. Subtly gold and gleaming, without being flashy."

Apollo swallowed hard, and pushed his plate to one side, unable even to look the food in the eye anymore. "It's okay, I guess."

"Is that a yes?"

"Okay. Yes." Apollo watched, fascinated as Starbuck picked up the pencil, licked the point again and wrote.

*Subtly gold-blond hair - just like Starbuck*

"We're making progress," Starbuck said in satisfaction. "Slow but sure. Now, eyes."

"Uuhh?" Apollo dragged his own up from reading Starbuck's list -upside down - and tried to work out what was going on inside the machiavellian mind inhabiting the man in front of him.

"What's your favourite colour eyes, Boxey?" asked Starbuck.

"Green," Boxey said promptly, giving his father a melting look of adoration and hero worship, looking up into Apollo's jade green eyes.

Apollo grinned, helpless as ever before Boxey's charm. "Very flattering, infant, I'm sure. And?"

"And?"

"And what do you want?"

"Can I have mushies, Daddy?"

"It's all in the timing," murmured Starbuck, looking proudly at his pupil, as Apollo laughed for the first time that evening.

"You're corrupting him," Apollo said, good-naturedly, welcoming the distraction that allowed him to try and work out what in Hades was going on. "It's like he's been cloned from you, some days."

"Then they've cloned my good taste, as well. Green's my favourite, too."

Apollo stared, then instead of offering the healthy apple he'd been determined his son should have for dessert, he found himself agreeing to mushies. But it was the last gasp of whatever sense of self preservation he had that prompted his hasty addition: "But if you're sick, Starbuck will have to come and look after you."

"Then I'll have choco mushies, with lots of choco sauce." Boxey sounded immensely satisfied.

Apollo just laughed again, and called over the steward to give the order. He watched Boxey attack the resultant mountain of sticky sweets with some trepidation.

"Now that's settled, can we get on?" Starbuck jabbed his pencil at the page. "We were deciding on eye colour."

"Grey? Brown?" Apollo said. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters! You've got to take this seriously, Pol, or the Lords alone know who you'll end up with. Even if you don't care yourself, think of Boxey! You can't shame him by getting someone with the wrong coloured eyes."

"All right," Apollo said, submissively. He was feeling uncomfortable again, half afraid that Starbuck was having some huge joke at his expense and sorry that the diversion of Boxey's choco mushies hadn't been enough to turn the conversation onto something else. Starbuck seemed to be determined not to be side tracked, and Apollo sighed for all the times when, like now, he'd had indisputable evidence that Starbuck wasn't nearly as frivolous as he pretended.

"So, what goes with subtly gold-blond hair?" Starbuck once more pulled forward the lock of hair and squinted at it. "Can't be green. You can't have two green-eyed people together. That'd be too weird. Brown's possible, I suppose."

"A bit dull," Apollo suggested.

Starbuck glanced over at the Silver Spar table again. Sheba's brown eyes were fixed on Bojay's face, watching and laughing as her wingmate told some improbable, but probably obscene, story.

"Brown's out then," he said, and this time there was no mistaking the satisfaction. "Grey?"

Apollo started to smile, his anger at his father's threatened interference and the vague depression both lifting. It was silly, but this was like some strange fantasy coming true, like one of those fantasies that kept him awake at night and that he could only deal with by taking himself firmly in hand. Almost as if that reminded him, he became aware of the throbbing pressure in his groin and he shifted in his seat, slightly guilty about the pleasure his desire was giving him. Surreptitiously, he slid a hand below the table top and rubbed gently, seeking a micron's relief, hoping that Starbuck's attention was all on the page.

"Too cold."

"Then what's left?"

"Blue," Boxey mumbled, barely looking up from his mushies, mouth smeared with choco sauce.

Vivid jade green stared into intense blue.

"Blue could be good," Apollo agreed after a centon's staring.

"Dark blue? Light blue? Sky blue? Cobalt?"

"We'll need something for a comparison, a kind of example," Apollo said, letting himself just drift with it. Where they were drifting to he wasn't quite sure, but he was willing just to drift until he found out.

"Don't know what we could use." Starbuck sounded doubtful.

Apollo took a deep breath and finally joined in whatever game it was Starbuck was playing. If it was like most of the games Starbuck dragged him into, he'd end up losing his lunch money, metaphorically speaking. But, hey, who needed to eat, especially metaphorically? And it wasn't as if he hadn't already lost something far more important.

"Your blue eyes go pretty well with that subtly gold-blond hair," he said, just as the steward leaned over to refill Boxey's glass with milk.

Deeply embarrassed, Apollo flushed as the man stared and grinned. Shit! That was just what he needed, something for everyone to laugh at him about! He abruptly brought both hands back into view and tried to find some shreds of dignity, staring coldly at the steward. Boxey wasn't the only one who could do cold, scary Commander-like stares, and when it came down to it, Apollo had had yahrens more practice. The steward retreated rapidly, the grin wiped off his face.

Starbuck's expression was unnaturally solemn. He shook his head sadly. "Really, Pol, where's your sense of timing? Me and the kid have it in spades."

"You must have got mine too." Apollo tried to smile, furious with himself.

"Well, I certainly intend to get yours," Starbuck said, and while Apollo tried to work that out, he added to the list:

*Blue eyes - just like Starbuck*

Apollo's heart lurched at the unmistakable suggestion. Starbuck couldn't mean it. He just couldn't mean it. Fantasies just didn't come true like that. Not ever. Not even in the wildest dreams. He couldn't mean it! Could he? Did he mean it? Oh God, what if he really meant it?

Starbuck turned his attention to Boxey. "Okay, Tiger. What's next on the list?"

"I dunno," Boxey said, sounding a bit bored with the game. It was well past his normal bedtime and he was looking sleepy. He yawned and concentrated his fading energies on the final mushie.

"Well, let's move onto other things. What sort of things should this person be interested in? We need a few shared interests for those all too short centars when your Dad's not on duty."

Hot sex. Oh please! Hot sex! Lots and lots and lots of hot … Apollo looked at his son and swallowed the words unsaid.

"Apart from the obvious one that we can't mention in front of the child," Starbuck said smoothly.

Apollo wondered if Starbuck had developed psi abilities without telling anyone about it; if Starbuck, through the same hitherto unknown psi ability, knew about the growing discomfort in Apollo's groin. Starbuck's eyes were smiling at him. He knows, oh God he knows. Apollo looked unflinchingly into those blue, blue eyes.

"Triad," he said firmly, daring Starbuck to find anything suggestive at all to say about that.

Starbuck was, of course, equal to the challenge. "Oh, those uniforms!" He positively glowed.

*Loves Triad - just like Starbuck*

"How are you on smoking?" Starbuck asked, looking up from the page, and taking a fumerello out of his top pocket.

"Prefer not," Apollo said. He really didn't like the smell or taste of fumerellos, although he'd always tolerated Starbuck smoking because it was Starbuck. "Although I'll live with it," he added hastily.

"Ah." Starbuck glanced at the fumerello and put it down onto the table top. "I'll leave it as a tip. I've quit."

Apollo stared, then smiled, suddenly ridiculously and incredibly happy. Where *was* Starbuck taking them with this? He realised he'd go anyway. But his natural caution meant he'd prefer to know where he was headed.

"Gambling?" Starbuck asked, after adding to his list.

"That's okay, in moderation," Apollo said, who had a pretty good idea of an impossible objective when he saw one and had all the trained military strategist's dislike of wasting his resources on unwinnable battles.

"Good. Anything else?" Starbuck licked the pencil again, blue eyes watching Apollo closely.

Apollo hesitated. How was he going to say this? Starbuck just didn't want the same things he did. Not silly things like Triad and smoking and gambling. Apollo wanted things that were deeper and more important. He didn't want the casual kind of thing that was the breath of life to Starbuck. He knew he'd take it, if that was all Starbuck had to offer him, and deal with the consequences later. But he wanted more. Much more.

"Well," he said slowly. "I'm kind of serious, Starbuck."

Starbuck gave him a long look. "Just how long have I known you?" he asked, tone acid.

"Too long," Apollo attempted a smile.

"So what makes you think I don't know that?" Starbuck shook his head in mock despair and wrote something down quickly. He leaned back in his chair and looked his list over.

"Finished?" Boxey roused himself with another yawn, half asleep now.

"Think so." Starbuck studied the list for a centon or two more. "Okay, I think it's done. But I don't think that we need bother your Grandpa with it."

"Am I a hopeless case then?" Apollo asked, back to sighing.

"Naw. It's just that there's nothing for him to do. I think we've cracked it."

"Read it out, then," Boxey said, the effort of saying it and staying awake almost too much for him.

Starbuck cleared his throat and read the list in quiet tone.

*SHOPPING LIST : SOMEONE FOR APOLLO*

*Tall - just like Starbuck*

*Subtly gold-blond hair - just like Starbuck*

*Blue eyes - just like Starbuck*

*Loves Triad - just like Starbuck*

*Non-smoking, moderate gambler- just like Starbuck*

He paused then read the last line in a voice that trembled slightly.

*Seriously loves Apollo - just like Starbuck.*

Apollo stared, turned pink and then very pale.

"Starbuck would be nice, living with us," Boxey said to his father, sleepily.

Apollo nodded, dumb.

"Of course," said Starbuck. "I'm lying about one or two things."

"Which things?" Apollo's voice was a croak, his heart thudding
painfully.

"I haven't really given up smoking, though I promise to try and - well, would you describe my gambling as moderate, Pol?"

Apollo shook his head.

"Me neither. But I mean the rest. `Specially the next bit."

"The next bit?"

"About how serious I am"

"Oh." Apollo held out his hand and Starbuck put the wager book into it. He read the list through twice, each time eyes dwelling on the last line. "Me too," he said shyly.

They grinned at each other. Apollo thought that he had to be asleep and dreaming. It was getting hard to breathe again.

"I know," Starbuck said.

"You know? Then why did you push me, Starbuck?" He nodded meaningfully towards Boxey, who had woken up enough to lick choco sauce off his spoon in defiance of every lesson in table manners that Apollo had tried to give him.

"I thought she was the one you wanted." Starbuck said quietly, seriously. "It hurt like hell, Pol, but I wanted you to be happy."

Apollo thought about it. He had wanted Serina, he had been happy with her, but all the time knew that she hadn't been his first choice. "Do you still want me to be happy?"

Starbuck blinked. "Of course I do. I want to be the one to do it."

"Okay." Apollo nodded, read the shopping list once again, then smiled at Starbuck shyly. "This isn't the place to talk about it. Let's go to my quarters. I think that Boxey's going to be staying over with Dad tonight."

Starbuck grinned at him. "Give me twenty centons, Pol. I've a little shopping of my own to do."


********************************

The Commander of the Galactica, President of the Council and leader of the remnants of humanity, was an immensely dignified man with a great deal of gravitas, an imposing presence and a powerful personality. He was a man who was widely respected and revered, even, by the people who looked upon him as a saviour. He was a man who looked extremely sheepish and self-conscious when he opened the door of his quarters to find his son and grandson on the doorstep.

"Ah. Apollo."

Apollo glanced down at Boxey, then pointedly at his father, keeping the grim-faced expression steady. "Dad. I think you know why I'm here."

Adama winced. It wasn't often he was caught out in something so unsubtle, Apollo thought, hiding his excitement and anticipation for the evening ahead. It was good for the old man to be caught out now and then, to be reminded he wasn't infallible.

"I'm prepared to overlook your interference this time, Dad."

"I'm not interfering, Apollo," Adama began placatingly.

"Damn right you're not. What you are doing, is taking Boxey for the night. I've got a date. A hot date."

"A date!" Adama said eagerly, then bit off the question before he could ask it.

"Good," said Apollo, approving of Adama's restraint and knowing exactly what that effort had cost.

Adama sighed and held out his hand to take his punishment. Boxey sleepily hugged his father goodnight, and tucked his hand into his grandfather's.

"I'll pick him up at school time," Apollo said, and turned to go.

"Will you … er …?"

"Tell you about it? I might. But then again, I might not. Goodnight, Dad." Apollo paused and turned back on the threshold and smiled gently at his father. "By the way, I let him have choco mushies and gallons of choco sauce. I should think you'll be on turboflush duty all night." He paused to take a centon to savour his revenge, to treasure the expression on Adama's face, and the smile broadened. "Enjoy."

*********************************

By the time that the door chime sounded, Apollo was racked with doubt again. He'd spent the first few centons walking on air and reminding himself to breathe. But as the centons ticked past, all of his old uncertainties resurfaced. By the time that Starbuck arrived, Apollo had convinced himself that he'd misheard and misunderstood everything, that he'd made a complete and utter fool of himself by misreading every signal that Starbuck had sent him, and that his stupidity would ruin his friendship with the Lieutenant. Starbuck would never be able to forgive him, would never feel comfortable with him again. He'd ruined everything, ruined the most important thing in his life. His face burned at the thought of the come-on signals he must have been giving a reluctant and uncomfortable Starbuck.

When the chime sounded he retreated to stand with his back to the counter of the tiny kitchen area at the opposite side of the door, eyes wide with panic.

The chime sounded again.

He swallowed hard, forced himself to speak. He'd have to let Starbuck in, apologise, grovel, beg his forgiveness.

"Enter." His voice was a distressed whisper.

The door slid aside and Starbuck bounded in.

"At last! I thought you'd gone deaf." He was across the room in three steps, and when Apollo opened his lips to begin his apologetic grovel, fastened himself onto Apollo's mouth like a leech.

Astonished, Apollo just let him. There was still the sharp tang of ambrosa and a faint smokiness on the lips pressed against his, and on the hot, hot tongue that was pushing into his mouth. Apollo stood frozen only for a micron, tasting that distinctive Starbuck taste for the first time, then he closed his eyes and melted into Starbuck's arms, his own tongue pushing eagerly into Starbuck's mouth to taste it more. He got both arms up around the Lieutenant's neck and pulled him in closer. For a centon or two there was only the heat of Starbuck's mouth on his, Starbuck's hands moving on his back in slow, sensuous sweeps. Heaven.

When finally they broke apart for air, Starbuck drew back, smiling into Apollo's eyes. "How's the neck?"

"Perfect," Apollo said, breathless. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. That was it. Easy when you got the hang of it. "Not a crick anywhere."

"Well, we can cross the first item off the list, then," Starbuck said complacently. "And we know I've got the hair and eyes, that I love Triad as much as you do, and I haven't had a smoke for... ."

"About ten centons," Apollo said, staring into those intense blue eyes and twisting gentle fingers into the gleaming subtly gold hair.

"Well, I didn't say I'd give up smoking immediately," Starbuck said defensively. "And the gambling doesn't apply just at this moment. What's left?"

"Getting serious," Apollo said, having severe pulmonary trouble again at the thought.

"Ah yes," said Starbuck. "Getting serious and the one thing we couldn't mention in front of the child. Seriously loving Apollo… I want to do that, Pol. I want to love you very seriously, all night."

Complete pulmonary paralysis.

Breathe, Apollo. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

Pause.

In? Out? Oh God, it wasn't *breathing* he was thinking of!

Apollo could feel his face burning, but he nodded. "Oh God, yes!" he said with absolute, if breathless, conviction. "Kiss me again."

Starbuck laughed and obeyed, and Apollo melted away again for several long delicious centons to a place were there was only the sharp tangy taste of Starbuck and the wonderful feeling of Starbuck's hands on him. His own hands had already slid inside Starbuck's tunic and down over the taut stomach, running lightly over a body that he knew as well as he knew his own, but had never before touched with such intimacy and warmth.

Well, what did it matter? Who the hell needed to breathe anyway?

When they broke apart, Starbuck tugged him towards the main bedroom without another word said. Progress was satisfyingly slow. They were shedding clothes and boots on the way, stopping every micron or two for another long, deep kiss, for more exploration of familiar, newly intimately familiar, bodies.

Apollo could never be sure afterwards how long it took for them to get naked and into his bed. Just the right amount of time, though. Not too slow, not too fast. Just enough time to get seriously hot. And then he was lying under Starbuck, skin pressed to warm skin, feeling Starbuck's weight holding him down, Starbuck's erection pressing into his thigh, Starbuck's mouth on his and, fantasy of fantasies, Starbuck's hands running down his sides to start pumping his almost painfully-hard prick.

He moaned into Starbuck's mouth, biting gently at Starbuck's lower lip, his hands cupping the smooth-skinned buttocks, pulling his lover in closer. It had been so long since a man had held him like this, and then he'd been very young, very drunk and very scared, and it hadn't been Starbuck. This was different. This was, oh, so very different.

"Pol." Starbuck was murmuring between fast distracting kisses that ran from one ear, around the line of his jaw and up to the other ear. "Pol. I want to make love to you. Please let me, Pol."

Apollo moaned again, softly. His answer was to part his legs and thrust up against Starbuck, invitingly.

"I won't hurt you," Starbuck promised, leaning over the edge of the bed to find the results of his own shopping trip. He'd tossed the lube he'd gone to find onto the floor at some point in that long slow undressing.

"I know," Apollo said, tangling both hands in the blond hair that was falling down into those intense blue eyes. "Right now, Star. Do it right now. I can't hold on much longer."

Starbuck grinned. "Me neither," he confessed.

Another long, long kiss, another endless time of bodies straining together, rubbing up against each other, then Apollo's back was arching as a well-lubed finger found his opening and pushed gently inside. He caught his breath sharply at the intrusion, gasping as Starbuck's probing finger found the magic little spot, his whole body responding in answer to the rhythm of Starbuck's wicked, evil, skilful finger. Another finger, and another, and Apollo was beyond thought and speech, conscious only of Starbuck lifting himself up for a centon, and then the fiery pain of penetration. It was too much, too much… and Apollo clutched at the beloved weight holding him down as Starbuck pushed slowly up into him, bending his knees outwards to give him more room.

Starbuck was inside him. Dear God, was Starbuck inside him! It felt amazing, such fullness, such completeness. Starbuck lay on him, still, breathing heavily. Apollo loved that, knowing that Starbuck was letting him get used to the feeling, waiting to be sure he was ready before starting to stroke. This was as hot as it got, but God, was it loving too.

"All right?" there was strain in Starbuck's voice.

Apollo nodded, and hooked his legs around Starbuck's waist. He pulled his lover in tighter and lifted his face for another kiss.

"Go," he said in Starbuck's ear.

He moaned loudly enough to wake the entire Fleet when Starbuck, grinning down at him happily, pulled back almost until he'd left completely, then slammed into him, pounding on his prostate and sending a wave of such intense pressure through him that Apollo drowned in it. Another stroke, and another, and a tiny coherent corner of Apollo's mind acknowledged that this was infinitely more pleasurable than the in-out of merely breathing, and then he was bucking wildly under Starbuck, matching him thrust for thrust, trying to get him in harder and higher, and there was nothing coherent about that. And nothing even remotely coherent about the way that the intense pain-pleasure of orgasm made him feel that his whole body was exploding through the white heat in his balls. The ecstatic, wonderful agony as he shot up against Starbuck had him whimpering as he kissed his lover frantically, feeling the sudden internal heat as Starbuck came deep inside him, spurting against his prostrate, crying Apollo's name over and over.

And then it was an exhausted, happy time, holding each other close, with tired little kisses and caresses, little half-broken words of love and pleasure, until Starbuck slid reluctantly out of Apollo and gathered him into a warm and loving embrace.

It was several centons before Apollo could manage an entire sentence. "I think we got everything on the shopping list, Starbuck. You've made the sale."

Starbuck smiled serenely. "I'd say that we got down to some serious consumer testing of the product, too."

"Love you," Apollo said, for the first time. It wouldn't be the last.

Starbuck's fingers caressed his cheek. "I love you too, Pol. So very much."

"Just as well," Apollo said, dizzy, starting his lungs up again. He'd have to watch that. It could be an inconvenient reaction to realising that Starbuck loved him as much as he loved him. Very inconvenient. He needed his breath for a second bout just as soon as humanly possible. "Just as well, Star. Somehow I can't see me wanting to put you back on the shelf."

Starbuck's grin grew broader and happier. He leaned forward, looking at Apollo so intently that the Captain was in serious danger of lung failure again.

"Pol. Think about it. Think about the thousands of people on this ship, on every one of those two hundred and twenty ships out there, and when you've considered every man, woman and child in the entire frakkin' Fleet, *then* you tell me just who exactly it was who was on the shelf?"

Apollo just smiled. "I always liked shopping," he said.



END
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