Dirty Hands

He wasn't so sure why he was so stupid. Intelligent, yes, not a genius as the doctor had called him in their earliest moments, but sharp enough when it came to science. Somehow he never managed to measure up when it came to the social sciences. And now as he stood in the shower, tilting his face up to feel the hottest water the ship could give him flood down over his skin and he couldn't help but feel utterly lost.

Gaius had hardly been free two weeks, he hadn't even known where he was staying until a little whisper passed through the ship, a girl with dark eyes told him reverently that He wanted to see him. And he hadn't wanted to go. What he wanted was to purge the false prophet from his thoughts, to never think of those giant needy eyes again. The traitor's eyes followed him in his sleep, the texture of his stubble and his greasy hair hummed under his fingertips as he ran his hands through his own hair, trying to scour the traces of Gaius off of him.

But of course he'd done it. He'd gone and Gaius had tried the same honeyed tones and gentle words that had won him to his bed on Colonial One, the sort of double edged effort that would either seduce him into worship or enrage him into satisfying Gaius's submissive little fantasies. It had worked even when the 'interns' he'd hired left him smelling of a whorehouse; even the blonde cylon hadn't really deterred him, as much as he'd wished. It wasn't that he'd ever had personal designs on him, that he'd ever really believed they'd have anything special, but these days you grasped at what you could get. Everyone was doing it, reaching out and latching on, and failing. There wasn't much hope when the only happy marriage was between a cylon and a human.

The water sputtered to lukewarm and then ice cold, and he shut it off, scowling, and slunk out to towel himself off. It was almost certain everyone knew where he'd been; surely it had been unsaid evidence against him at his trial that this one was such a traitor he'd bedded with Gaius, even when he'd known what he was. Surely Lieutenant Thrace was excused for her equally rumored blunder into that bed because it had been so much earlier.

He had changed since his imprisonment, his time with the cylons. The fear and the lust were still there, intermingled, the begging, the whimpers as he'd pulled Gaius's hair back. His passive selfishness had only gotten worse from pampering, but there was a new reverent look in his eyes as he took pain, a particular faux-transcendant slackjaw that had made Gaeta wish for a pen, but instead had forced him onto his stomach to not have to watch his face as he took his pleasure from his body. He'd held him down at the neck and left Gaius unsatisfied, something he could only imagine he'd gotten perverse satisfaction from, that he'd only compounded as he finished messily onto his back.

As he dressed he asked himself what was it about Gaius Baltar that he couldn't let go of. He'd had other lovers before and after, many who seemed interested in actually satisfying his needs, doing things the way he wanted, let him go slow and enjoy the bed afterwards. Sure, none spoke the way Gaius did, that effete little purr against his neck, the breathy moan of his name... but no one lied like Gaius did, either, feigned every emotion to play others, and when they did, they had the decency to be good liars. It was incredible to be his focus, even when it was a lie, like turning your face to a sun, but whenever he looked away it felt like the chill of space, but it was colder from the memory of the heat. He'd had his first taste of that chill when Gaius had ditched him to play cards and flirt with Starbuck, and he'd known what he was then... but he couldn't resist it. No one else's attention had ever felt like sunlight on his skin.

The Demetrius would be freezing, but he'd take it to get away. It was easier to ignore your needs when you couldn't satisfy them.