Title: What a Wingman Does
Author: rita
E-mail: mommacita1@juno.com
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: SB/A preslash
Archive: Yes, please, just tell me where!
Series: No.
Website: http://www.geocities.com/jennylmr/index.html (And thanks to
Jenlmr for hosting me)

Disclaimer: I don't own the boys nor do I make any profit from my
writing.  I just like to play with them and I mostly put my toys back as
good as new.

Warnings (if needed): Starbuck injuries, Apollo angst

Summary: When Starbuck is permanently disabled saving Apollo's life,
Apollo takes it upon himself to care for his damaged love.

Thanks to Val for beta-ing at light speed - and for figuring out what
wasn't right about the ending.

***

Apollo veered off to the left to backtrack the Cylon attackers and missed
the one in his blindspot.  Starbuck didn't and, with no time to coax
another volley from his almost discharged laser, did the only thing he
could - he used his own viper to shield his Captain.

Apollo felt the shockwave as Starbuck's craft rocked with the broadside
hit then spiraled away uncontrollably.  Apollo broke off his quest for a
baseship and followed the sparking viper into the asteroid belt, wincing
as he watched it impact the first one in its erratic path.  Breathing
prayers instead of the recycled air from his helmet, Apollo followed his
wingmate down.  Landing, he popped his canopy and, without bothering to
check his sensors for elements inimical to human life, he ran to the
smoking wreck, his boots clanging on the metallic surface of the
planetoid.  

Almost immediately he saw the pilot struggling to free himself and his
concern turned to anger.  "Why in Hades did you do that?" Apollo
demanded, pulling Starbuck from the wreckage of his viper and holding him
more tightly than necessary.

Starbuck grinned insouciantly into the Captain's snapping green eyes. 
"Uh, uh, uh, Captain," he chastised his superior.  "You're hugging a
junior officer again."

Apollo shook him by the shoulders as the microns-long scene played itself
out once more in slow motion inside his head. "Well," Apollo demanded.
"Do you have an explanation for that foolhardy maneuver, Lieutenant?"

Starbuck shrugged, then pulled free of Apollo's grasp.  "It's what a
wingmate does," he said simply.

"Tries to kill himself?"

Starbuck sighed.  "Protects his wingleader," he corrected.

Apollo had no answer for that.  His eyes misted over and he abruptly
turned away.  "Let's get off this hunk of rock," he said gruffly. "Climb
into the jump seat."

***

Starbuck pulled off his helmet and shook his head to clear it as he
climbed out of his viper.  The headache that had been plaguing him since
his close encounter with that metallic asteroid was back.  This time it
had hit with such blinding force he had nearly sideswiped the cadet he
was supposedly observing on his first solo.  In the past two sectons each
occurrence had been more painful and longer lasting than the previous. 
He sighed.  Much as he hated taking drugs of any kind, he resigned
himself to getting some fast-acting painkillers from Cass.  He'd keep
them at hand to ward off the next attack.  Meanwhile, he'd have to defend
himself from a different kind of attack.

"Captain wants to see you soon as you're out of decon," Jenny told him
laconically as she took his helmet.

"What a surprise," he muttered.  "I'm surprised he's not waiting to
pounce *in* the chamber."

"Probably would be, but he's debriefing the cadet you tried to
decommission," she replied.

He nodded morosely, winced as it caused pain to lance through his head,
and stumbled towards the decontamination chamber.  Jenny watched him go
with a frown on her face.

***

A secton later, confined to the BOQ except when on duty, Starbuck
discovered that the painkillers Cass had provided, the strongest she
could give him without incapacitating him altogether, were insufficient. 
This time the vessel he sideswiped was the Galactica itself, which
brought, not only Apollo, but Colonel Tigh down to the landing bay to
greet him.

Tigh spoke to Apollo as though Starbuck wasn't even there. "I thought you
said he was confined to the BOQ, Captain."

Apollo, too, ignored Starbuck.  "He was, Sir."

"Might I suggest you search the entire BOQ for ... contraband."  He
looked with disdain at the swaying pilot, who was barely holding himself
upright with one hand on his viper.  "Obviously, the Lieutenant - and
you're just barely still a Lieutenant at this point, Starbuck - has been
getting non-nutritional supplements somewhere."

"Yes, Sir.  I'll have the entire barracks searched thoroughly," Apollo
promised.  "Lieutenant," he said, turning to Starbuck, "when you're
through decon, report to Life Center and get yourself detoxed.  You're
confined to the ship until Salik clears you for active duty."

"Yes, sir," Starbuck replied quietly, head down.

"Report to the duty office at 0700 for your assignment in the interim,"
Apollo finished, turning on his heel.  "And don't be late," he called
over his shoulder.

***

Starbuck stumbled into the duty office at 0700 on the dot.  He swayed in
front of Apollo's desk, trying to maintain a semblance of parade rest.

"Are you drunk?" Apollo asked astonished.

"No, Sir," Starbuck replied.

"Hungover then," Apollo stated flatly.  "Where are you getting your
supply, Lieutenant?"

"Not hungover.  Not drunk," Starbuck insisted.

"What are you on, Starbuck?" Apollo asked in an almost frightened tone of
voice.  "If you've gotten ... addicted to something, we'll get you help."

"Not addicted," Starbuck said angrily.  "Never touch that stuff - not of
my own free will."

Apollo frowned.  He knew something of Starbuck's pre-Academy past and in
general the things he'd been forced to do.  "Is somebody making you take
..."

"No!"  Starbuck's shout echoed painfully through his head like a large
gong going off inside it.  His next words were badly slurred.  "Cann ...
get rid o' this headache."

"Have you been to Life Center?" Apollo demanded.

Starbuck nodded, then grabbed his head.  The pain was so bad he couldn't
hear past it, couldn't keep his body upright.  He slumped to the floor,
catching himself on hands and knees. "Not intoxicated, not high" he
managed to grind out through gritted teeth. "High doesn't hurt like
this."  Then his eyes rolled back in his head and Apollo barely caught
him before his head hit the floor.

***

Apollo paced the hallway outside the isolation unit, waiting for Dr.
Salik to tell him what was wrong with Starbuck.  Eight centars had gone
by since he'd called for a med team to the duty office.  Within centons,
Salik had commed him demanding he go back to the asteroid on which
Starbuck had crashed and bring back samples of "anything and everything".
He'd broken speed records and caused alarm among the fleet stragglers as
he zoomed by them going in the opposite direction then, seemingly only
centons later, zoomed back to the front of the fleet again.  Now another
four centars had passed while he paced.  He swung around as the Life
Center doors opened.

Salik and Paye came out, frowns creasing their foreheads, and seized
Apollo, running instruments over him and peering into his eyes and ears. 
They muttered in medicalese as they worked him up, not taking the time to
pull him into Life Center proper.

"EMI radiation?"

"Or magnetic flux?"

"Resonance from impact?"

"Combined with a concussion, could do it.  No sign of contagion."

"No analogous readings here."

"Must have been from that layer the nose bored into."

"It did have a different spectroscopic display from the surface sample."

Salik grunted his agreement and both doctors abruptly let go of Apollo
and headed back into the isolation unit.

"Just a centon!" Apollo yelled.  "What's going on?"

Salik turned back to him briefly.  "Don't worry, Captain, you don't seem
to have been affected."  He pushed through the doors before they fully
opened.  

Apollo grabbed Paye as he was about to follow.  "And Starbuck?" he
demanded.

"We're doing what we can for him," Paye said curtly.

"What does that mean?"

But Apollo was talking to empty air.

Another centar went by before Adama strode down the hall.  "Come with me,
Son," he said without breaking stride.  

The gentleness in his voice caused a shiver to run through Apollo. He
followed his father without a word through the isolation unit and into
Salik's office.  Salik closed the door firmly. The words flowed over
Apollo like scalding water, not staying long enough for him to grasp, but
causing increasing pain: "Synaptic interference, brain damage, dementia,
neural impairment, loss of motor control."

Adama's voice penetrated the fog that Apollo was lost in.  "I understand
that possibly irreversible damage has already been done," he cut off the
litany of medical terms.  "I accept that you won't know whether the
damage is permanent until and if it reverses itself.  Can you tell me
whether there will be further damage?"

It became clear that the doctors didn't know.  Nor did they know how long
it would be before they would know.

Dr. Salik sighed.  He hated to admit ignorance.  "All we can do is care
for him and try to reassure him."  He exchanged glances with Paye. 
"Actually, he's losing the ability to communicate, and we can't be sure
he even understands what's happening to him - or has the ability to
comprehend what we tell him."

Apollo held his head in his hands.  "I should have realized," he mumbled.

"What should you have realized?" Adama asked, turning towards him.

Apollo raised a tear-streaked face.  "I should have realized that
Starbuck would never be drunk on duty - or even report for duty so
hung-over he couldn't function properly.  He'd call in sick first; he'd
never endanger anyone else.  And I, " his voice broke and he had to clear
his throat before continuing.  "The last thing I did was accuse him of
taking drugs."

Salik and Adama spoke at the same time.  "If you knew his history ..."
Salik began. 

"With his background," Adama said.

"I know.  I do know his history, his background. But I accused him
anyway."  He buried his head in his hands again.  "And that may be the
last thing he remembers," he said in a muffled voice.

Paye looked at the two older men, who seemed helpless to comfort the
younger one.  "Captain Apollo," he suggested softly.  "I'm designing a
rehabilitation program."  He waited until Apollo raised his head.  "I
believe we should proceed on the assumption that the Lieutenant's illness
will halt at some point and we must be ready to help him recover as fully
as possible.  I also think we should establish a routine immediately to
keep the damage as minimal as possible, whatever that turns out to be." 
Apollo nodded and raised reddened eyes to the younger doctor.  "I think
having someone he trusts work with him will improve his own focus and
determination to recover.  Would you consider taking on the task?"

***

A yahren had passed since Paye and Apollo began working with Starbuck.  A
sectar after they began, his motor control stopped deteriorating. It took
the rest of the yahren for Starbuck to regain enough motor skills to be
released from Life Center.

Starbuck's slurred speech had deteriorated to stuttering phrases, then
disconnected words, before stopping altogether.  His damaged synapses
made written or typed communication impossible; he simply didn't have the
fine motor skills to even use a pointing device, let alone a keyboard. 
The recovery he made was the ability to shake his head for "yes" and "no"
to indicate when someone correctly described his needs and to point at
objects and directions.

Physical training was more successful with gross motor functions. 
Although his gait was halting, he could walk by himself.  He could feed
himself using utensils, although liquids often proved beyond him. He
could dress himself as long as there were no fasteners that required
close focus or fine motor control.

While he relearned how to take care of his daily needs, Starbuck's
friends learned how to provide for him while giving him as much
independence as possible.  Once he stopped speaking totally, no one was
quite sure how much he understood beyond simple directions, but everyone
was committed to keeping him among them.  After a great deal of debate,
Boxey began training to understand what little communication that
Starbuck still attempted.  He proved an apt pupil, quicker to recognize
discomfort and discern the source than his elders.  It was his suggestion
that Muffit be programmed to monitor Starbuck's state of alertness and
warn his guardians if he was in danger of injuring himself.  Finally
Starbuck was released into Apollo's care.

***

Apollo could have sworn he heard voices, not just Boxey's, but two
voices, conversing as he punched in the key code.  But when he walked in,
only Boxey was there.  Well, Starbuck, too, of course, and Muffit, but
only one person who would have been speaking.  He automatically glanced
at the vid screen - Boxey wasn't supposed to watch the IFB until after
last-meal when he had school the next cycle, but who was going to tell on
him?  But the vid screen was dark, no tell-tale glow of having been
hastily turned off. He brushed against it as he passed and it wasn't warm
either.  

Muffit looked up at him from his place at Starbuck's feet and emitted
something close to a purr - his "all is well" sound. 

Apollo murmured, "Good boy," at him and got a thump from his tail in
response.  He brushed his lips over Starbuck's mop of dark blond hair and
Starbuck stirred slightly in response.  Apollo moved into Starbuck's line
of sight and the blue eyes focused on him.  Was he imagining a slight
smile of greeting on Starbuck's face?  No, he decided.  It was real and
the eyes met his with recognition if nothing else, although he didn't
keep the contact for long.  Starbuck's eyes wandered to Boxey, and Apollo
allowed his gaze to follow.  

Boxey was seated cross-legged at the opposite end of the couch, astronomy
workbook open between him and Starbuck. Apollo ruffled the boy's dark
hair, so like his own that many in the fleet had forgotten, or never
known, they weren't biological father and son. "How was your day?" he
queried paternally.

"Good.  Starbuck met me at the end of school and we went to the Rehab
Center together.  They've got neat games."

A pang went through Apollo.  It sounded so right, so normal.  But Apollo
knew that Cass must have picked Starbuck up at the Adult Care facility
before going to get Boxey. 'If only Starbuck *could* be waiting for you
like he used to,' Apollo thought.  He forced a cheerful tone.  "You guys
have a good time?" he queried.

Muffit nudged his foot, signaling that Starbuck wanted something. Apollo
looked at Starbuck, who slowly nodded in response, Apollo realized, to
his question.  

"Starbuck beat me at Tiles," Boxey reported.  

Apollo raised an eyebrow.  They had all been cautioned not to let
Starbuck win at the games he was once so proficient at.  

"No, really, Dad.  On the computer.  When he doesn't have to move the
tiles with his hands he's really good.  Not so ... " Boxey searched for a
word. 

"Clumsy."

Apollo had been distracted again by Muffit nudging him and looked down,
but he thought Boxey's voice had deepened.  He looked up frowning
slightly.  Wasn't Boxey too young to have his voice start to change?  he
shrugged mentally.  He remembered the voices he thought he'd heard.  "Who
were you talking to when I came in?" he asked. 

"Starbuck was helping me with my astronomy homework," was Boxey's casual
reply.

"Boxey," Apollo began warningly, then thought better of it.  Too often
those around Starbuck talked about him as if he wasn't there.  It wasn't
right and Apollo tried not to do it.  "Starbuck, would you set the table
for dinner, please?" he asked.

Starbuck sat still and processed the words, then nodded.  Slowly, leaning
on the arm of the couch, he got up and, once balanced, made his way
carefully to the utensil drawer.  Once there, he looked over at Apollo
and Muffit, who had followed him, gave a short bark to get Apollo's
attention.

"We're having stew, so forks and spoons should do it," Apollo said.  He
smiled encouragingly and the blond turned to the drawer, opening it and
selecting the utensils with awkward movements.  Apollo forced his gaze
away from the sight and sat down in Starbuck's place on the couch. 
"Boxey," he said in a low voice, "if you were on the comm with a friend,
it's okay.  You don't have to spend every centon keeping Starbuck
company.  No one expects you to and he ... he would understand."

Boxey grimaced in disgust at his father's words.  "I *know* that, Dad,"
he said not even trying to keep his voice down.  "I wasn't on the comm -
or the computer.  And Starbuck *does* understand that sometimes I do
stuff on my own.  But he *was* helping me with my astronomy.  He knows
*lots* - even more than you, I bet."

"How can he help you?"

"When I don't get something, I show him and he reads it - sometimes I
read it to him 'cause he reads real slow - and then he shows me what it
means.  Here, look." Boxey pulled out a rough drawing of the Kobolian
system.  The hand that had drawn it was unsteady and the stylus had
broken the surface of the thin paper in places.  The ellipses were
ragged, but the overall drawing was clear as were the numbers describing
the relationships and distances among the objects depicted.

"Starbuck drew this?" Apollo said skeptically.

"Yes." Boxey was annoyed.  "His hands shake, but sometimes he can't
explain in words, so he draws it for me.  It's easier when he shows me
math.  That's all numbers and he can use the padd pretty good now.  He
knows some neat tricks to do math problems."

"I'll bet," Apollo remarked before he realized he had bought into the
story, thinking of the old Starbuck.  "Does he really?" he couldn't help
asking wistfully.

"Yes!" Boxey all but shouted.  "He can't talk so good and he can't write
so good, but if you guys would just wait for him to think it out, you'd
see for yourselves."  He gathered his papers up and stormed into his
room.

Muffit whimpered, torn between his new duties to protect Starbuck and his
loyalty to his original master.

"Go on, Muffy," Apollo said, sighing.  "I'll take care of Starbuck."

***

Muffit's yips alerted Apollo to the fact that Starbuck was awake.  He
forced a smile onto his face as he walked into the bedroom they shared. 
"Good morning!" he said and was rewarded with the blue eyes meeting his. 
"Ready to get up?"

A slow nod answered his question and Starbuck, his face set with
concentration, sat up and pushed his feet into slippers.  

Apollo forced himself to wait and not give further direction.  The
improvements were microscopic, and the doctors were skeptical, but all of
Starbuck's caregivers saw them.  At the Adult Care Facility where
Starbuck spent most of his waking hours, he had been moved from the
full-time supervision group to the "high performance" group, those
capable of feeding and toileting themselves with minimal prompting.

Today Starbuck rewarded Apollo again.  He stood slowly, holding the side
table until he got his balance, then pointed at the turbo flush and
cocked his head to one side, his questioning gesture.

Apollo's grin wasn't forced this time.  A new question, clearly asked. 
"Yes," he replied as if Starbuck had spoken.  "Do you feel up to taking
care of everything yourself?"  

Starbuck's nod was more certain this time.

"Okay.  I'll get your clothes out."  Apollo watched Starbuck shuffle
slowly into the turbo flush and hesitate before closing the door behind
him.  Apollo nearly called to him to leave it open, then thought better
of it.  He went about selecting easy to put on clothes with an ear
cocked.  The turbo flush flushed, then he could hear the water in the
sink and some splashing.  Salik could say all he liked about rote
programming, but Apollo believed - had to believe - that Starbuck was
consciously remembering how to do simple tasks.  'The way he hesitated
then closed the door for privacy, that had to be a memory,' Apollo told
himself.  'No one had taught him that; if anything, we all encourage him
to keep the door open so we can keep an eye on him.'

Starbuck came out, roughly groomed, but obviously clean.  Apollo handed
him his clothes and began to make the bed. 

An almost inaudible murmur made him turn in Starbuck's direction.  Boxey
insisted Starbuck spoke to him, but no one else had heard anything but an
occasional whimper of pain.  "Did you say something, Bucko?" Apollo
asked.

"Stupid," Starbuck replied, stopping what he was doing to speak clearly.

Apollo forced himself not to act excited.  "What's stupid?" he said as
casually as he could manage.

"Pants backwards," Starbuck replied, pulling them off, and turning them
around.  He carefully peered at the inside before putting them back on.

"Why's that stupid?" Apollo asked, more to keep Starbuck talking than
anything else.

"*I'm* stupid," Starbuck clarified, and now the frustration was clear in
his voice. "I put on my pants backwards," he said slowly after a pause in
which he clearly rehearsed the sentence mentally to ensure he included
all the words.

Apollo glanced at the drawstring pants.  "No you're not," he assured the
frustrated man.  "Those pants are easy to get backwards."

"Apollo," Starbuck said, startling the Captain, who had never been sure
Starbuck knew who any of his caretakers were.  "I'm stupid.  I know."

"Who told you that?" Apollo demanded, angry at whoever had hurt the
damaged man.

"No.  Nobody said it," Starbuck replied.  "I know."

"How?  What do you mean?"

Starbuck sighed and sat down on the bed.  He held up a hand, hoping
Apollo would understand he needed time to work out the words.  Finally he
nodded to himself.  "You feed me.  You dress me.  You wash me.  You put
me to bed and wake me up.  I'm dumb. Dumb still means stupid, doesn't
it?" he demanded.

"Yes, but you're not," Apollo replied hotly.  "If you heard someone call
you 'dumb', it probably was because - until today - you didn't talk. 
Obviously you're not dumb, or stupid.  You're making a hell of a lot of
sense, actually."

"Then why ..." Starbuck replied immediately, then paused briefly to
search for words.  "Why do you do everything for me?"

"I don't, not anymore.  I used to.  Now I just kind of guide you."

"Know many grown men who need to be 'guided'?" Starbuck asked
sarcastically and without any hesitation.

"Why weren't you talking until now?" Apollo demanded suddenly.  Starbuck
was becoming more fluent by the micron.

"I tried. For a while." Starbuck frowned.  "A long time ago," he said
slowly, as though working through a difficult problem.  "Yes.  A long
time, right?"  Apollo nodded but didn't interrupt the halting speech. 
"It got harder ... to put words together. Everyone ... finished for me." 
Starbuck shrugged.  "Easier to let them."  He frowned.  "How long,
Apollo?"

"A yahren," Apollo said reluctantly.

"Frak!  Didn't think it was *that* long.  It got easier, not so long ago,
to think the words.  I've been practicing on Boxey."

"That's what he told us.  Why only Boxey?"

"Still hard ... putting words together - so they make sense outside my
head - if that makes sense."

"It does."

"Boxey, he waits longer than the rest of you.  Waits for me to finish
doing or thinking or ... whatever ... by myself.  Mostly, if ... when ...
I start to slow down, you just take over  - whoever is ... with me." 
Starbuck looked apologetic.  "I don't mean to sound ... ungrateful.  A
lot of times I couldn't do ... what you wanted.  Easier to let you figure
it out than ... try to tell you." 

Starbuck looked up at Apollo, trying to tell whether he was angry.  To
his surprise, the Captain was grinning.  He pulled the blond up into a
hug.  "I am so glad to have you back, Bucko."

Starbuck returned the hug, then leaned back.  "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Take care of me.  I mean, I know ... people help, and I spend ... time
in ... Adult Care, but mostly you.  Why not Adult Care all the time?"

"It's what a wingleader does," Apollo replied.

"What?  Gives up his life to take care of a vegetable?"  

The sudden fluency surprised both of them. They blinked at each other,
suddenly aware each was in the other's personal space.  Apollo recovered
first, realizing Starbuck had comprehended more of what he heard during
the past yahren than anyone had thought. Keeping a firm hold on Starbuck
so he wouldn't pull away, he corrected him.  "No.  Protects his wingman."
He pulled Starbuck close again.

"Umm, Captain, you're doing it again," Starbuck said in a teasing tone,
his voice muffled against Apollo's shoulder.

"Doing what?"

"Hugging a junior officer."

"Which is only allowed if I mean it?" Apollo asked.

Starbuck nodded and tensed.

"I mean it.  By all the Lords of Kobol, Starbuck, I mean it."