It's not that Starbuck is a really vain man.  Truly he's not.  He knows that he's more good-looking than most—he's not blind and he has a perfectly serviceable mirror—and the Lords themselves know that they've gifted him with more charm than is good for him or anyone around him, but he isn’t really, truly, horribly vain.  He's just aware of his attributes and proud of them, that's all.

He's been around a lot, has Starbuck.  He's wined and dined a lot of women.  Actually, he's wined and dined quite a few men, too—he's never been that picky and he's always been open-minded, taking his chances where he sees them.  Opportunistic, Apollo used to say when his sister was one of the chances Starbuck took, and not in an approving tone.  He's experienced, is Starbuck.

So it stands to reason that he's seen the little shifts and stratagems, the little deceptions that enhance the good and hide the bad—the eyes made bigger and brighter with kohl, lips reddened and softened ready for kissing, cheekbones highlighted to accentuate the good bone structure underneath, skin dusted with powder to even out the tone and hide the little blemishes.  And he has, of course, noticed how candlelight flatters and compliments, how it makes the skin and hair glow with soft gold, and how the flickering shadows make everything softer, gentler.

So when he's the one who wants to make a good impression, memories of all these little harmless enhancements flit through his brain, reminding him of this effect or that as he sifts through them to decide which would work for him.

There's a limit to his vanity, though.  He's not averse to darkening his eyelashes to make his eyes more noticeable, for example, but he draws the line at kohl.  If anyone asks, he'll admit that he tried it once, but I can't use it, he once confided; nearly put my damned eye out with the kohl pencil and believe me, Boom-boom, having a red and weepy eye all through dinner does not give off the impression of attractive sexiness that I'm famous for.

Boomer's response isn't recorded anyway, but is unlikely to have been sympathetic.  Not that a derisory Boomer ever bothers Starbuck.  Boomer is a good friend and Starbuck loves him, but he doesn't love him, if you see what I mean.  Not that way.

No.  That's reserved for Apollo.  And tonight he wants to make a really good impression on Apollo: it's the first time for sectons they've had the chance of a whole night together and he's not one to waste the opportunity.  A quiet, romantic dinner with no Boxey demanding attention and mushies, a good wine to wash it down, and then… well, Apollo is the Galactica's Strike Leader and his quarters rate a nice big bed that Starbuck is never slow to make (in)appropriate use of.

What you have to understand about Starbuck is that he never had a lot as a kid and when he was growing up.  You know what that means?  It means he never takes anything for granted.  You wouldn't realise it, when you think about that ne'er-do-well, devil-may-care reputation, but Starbuck goes to a lot of trouble when his heart is really set on something.  He knows that he could probably slide in here later after an evening in the OC playing Pyramid and hustle Apollo straight into bed and Apollo would let him, but that, he thinks, is an emotionless way to get your passion.  There might come a time when loving Apollo becomes casual and ordinary, to be fitted in between a game of cards and the next patrol as if Starbuck's become desensitised to the wonder of it, but that time won't come if Starbuck can help it.  This thing they have is too precious for that.

So, he'll make the effort to make it a night to remember.  He's sorted out the special dinner by inveigling one of the cooks into a high-stakes game and then magnanimously forgiving the debt in exchange for luxuries that he hasn't seen since the Destruction.  He's sold his soul three times over for a bottle of wine smuggled through a supply line as serpentine as it's (probably) illegal.  All that remains is to make the best of those Lords-given attributes so that Apollo knows that he's gone to extra trouble and effort.

Because Apollo will then reward him, of course.  Starbuck's heart might be set very firmly on Apollo, but he'd be the first to admit that so is the rest of his anatomy.

His eye twitching in painful remembrance of the physical risks of cosmetics, he opts for candlelight as a sure-fire way of making both Apollo and himself look pretty and put them both in the mood for romance.  Not that he needs to be put into the mood, you understand.  The rest of Starbuck's anatomy—the most important bit of it, at any rate—is pretty much always up for sex.

The candlelight?  Is perfect. 

The room is dimly lit, its grey metal walls softened by flickering shadows, every imperfection hidden by the mellow light.  Starbuck almost forgets how much the Galactica's quarters need redecorating—it'll never happen, given the supplies shortage—and how shabby the furniture can look in the cold light of the Galactican day'.

But the candlelight is perfect.  The meal is perfect.  The wine is perfect.  And Apollo is perfect.

Apollo sips at his wine, and Starbuck stares, fascinated, at the play of light on Apollo's face.  Apollo, damn him, has the sort of bone structure that never needs enhancement, and something inside Starbuck grows warm and surges up into his throat as he falls in love all over again, seduced by the way that the candlelight casts shadows in the little hollows under Apollo's prominent cheekbones and under his jaw.  Starbuck likes to kiss the spot under Apollo's jaw that just now is in flickering shadow.  He really likes to do that.  Apollo seems to like it too.

Apollo puts down the glass.  The wine glows a clear red in the candlelight, like a jewel trapped in crystal

The warmth inside Starbuck grows until he wonders if he's glowing with it, a light to rival the candles.  He has to take a centon to allow his breathing to even out before he can put the candelabrum to one side of the small table, careful of the little flames and the soft, hot wax.  Apollo's smiling at him when he leans forward and gives in to the urge to kiss that little, shadowed spot.  Apollo makes a little Ahhhh sound, tilts his head back and lets him. 

Starbuck's mouth trails along the line of Apollo's jaw.  He mouths it gently, making it a line of little kisses, his lips touching every millimetre of skin, not letting one tiny morsel of it escape.  When he reaches Apollo's mouth, it's with the slow, delicious slide of his lips against Apollo's; Apollo's soft lips stealing his breath; Apollo's hot, wet tongue flickering out to lick against him; Apollo's teeth nipping, gently at his lower lip.

Starbuck pulls back far enough to study Apollo's face, cupping Apollo's jaw in his hands.  He's awed.  He's pretty sure that's the right word.  Awed.  What he feels is more than just pleased, more than just pleasure; it has something transcendental about it, something touched with might and power and terror, so terrible it's sublime.  After all these sectars, he's still awed that he's allowed to do this; to touch, kiss, hold, to look into the green eyes, a deeper, darker green than usual in the shadowed candlelight, and see himself reflected there.

He licks his lips, suddenly nervous, because the look in those eyes could stop his breath.  He feels the muscles move against his palms as a smile rounds Apollo's cheeks slightly.  This isn't the smile most people see.  This is the true smile, the open one, the one only he ever sees.  Not even Boxey sees this smile.

Apollo's hands are on him, clamped on his upper arms, and they're leaning so close, and this table is so tiny, that they're in the same space, close and together and Apollo is limned in golden candlelight and so beautiful that Starbuck's breath hitches in his throat like a sob that he can't hold back.

And the warm thing inside him swells and grows until it feels like he has a sun trapped beneath his ribs, bursting to get out and fill the world with gold; because Apollo leans in and kisses him and laughs, the little choke of laughter that comes from deep in his chest, and Starbuck feels every little tremor of it vibrating through his bones.

 

1461  words                                                                             March 2009