Sweeney: Write me fic!
Becca: ....*wary* what sort of fic?
Gen: ...Ahaha River got a Nathan.
Becca: ....awwww. well, I can try! *giggles*
Sweeney: Well. Non-traumatizing meaning no mpreg.
Becca: Canonical traumatizing is fine. :D
Becca: :O would I mpreg Adama?
Sweeney: Yes. -- no, you wouldn't.
Sweeney: You'd mpreg Tigh and make Adama deal with it.
Becca: ......yeah, that I would do. *admits*
Becca: and now I want to write it and you won't let me. *grumpy*
Sweeney: ... *looks at Becca*
Gen: I think if Sweeney gave you the set-up...
Sweeney: You can do it.
Sweeney: But only if you put a log of this conversation in the post with it.
Gen: then you totally should not as that would be Wrong. *serene, probably also lying*
Becca: ..........I have no problems with that. *serene*
And that is why I wrote this. And I cannot be blamed for it.
“What the hell?”
It was loud, it was indiscreet, it echoed through the halls of the Battlestar. Nobody blinked an eye. Colonel Tigh generally found something to be bemused and disgusted at every few hours or so, and had never exactly been the strong silent type. The connoisseur of the Tigh-shout might note that there was a certain extra panic to it this time - but no one in the Fleet, with the possible exception of Bill Adama, who noticed everything, really had the time to be a connoisseur.
“It’s your own damn fault,” said Doc Cottle, when he gave him the news. “You mistake a vial of Cylon-baby blood for a glass of wine, what the hell do you think’s going to happen?”
“That it would cure my cancer?” snarled Tigh.
“You don’t have cancer,” snapped Cottle, who was torn between the desire to sit down and write up a monograph right now and the desire to take to his bed and never, ever get out. Dealing with Tigh did not factor into either of these. “Count your blessings.”
Bill Adama said nothing for a long time when Tigh, spluttering and incoherent, slammed his way into his quarters and announced the blessed news.
“You’re sober,” Adama said, and his face was expressionless and unreadable.
“You’re damn right I’m sober.” Tigh collapsed into a chair, and said, bitterly, “Don’t have much choice about it, do I?”
“One good thing,” rasped Adama and, without waiting for a response, called up Dualla and told her to arrange transport to Colonial One. “Stay here,” he said, to Tigh. “I don’t want this all over the Fleet.”
“How did you know I was here again?” said Tigh, blearily, still in Adama’s chair.
“Of course you’re here,” Ellen said scornfully. “You’re always here. You’d think you might at least tell your wife something like this first, but it’s always – goddamn – Bill Adama!” Her voice rose up into the higher registers; she looked ready to throw something.
“At a time like this you’re worried about me and Bill?” Tigh stared at her, surging out of his seat. “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”
“Nothing as bad as what’s wrong with you, you – Saul, how could you!” cried Ellen, and ran out of the room in a huff.
Roslin carefully took off her glasses, cleaned them, and put them back on her face. “You’re serious,” she said.
Adama looked at her through his glasses.
“This is really happening.”
Adama didn’t feel the need to agree again, so he stayed silent.
Roslin stared for a moment longer, and then heaved an exhausted sigh. “All right. Keep him under observation; call in Baltar - it’s probably best not to let the Cylon know.”
“You’re letting this continue,” said Adama.
“I don’t see what other choice we have,” said Roslin, turning away. “It’s an unknown factor; we have to at least see how it will play out a little longer before we make a decision.”
Adama’s deadpan expressed doubtfulness, combined with grudging acceptance. The light glinted off his glasses, and was reflected back in Roslin’s.
“Yes, Madam President.”
“You’re frakkin’ kidding me.”
“I am not. Ellen Tigh told me herself.”
“What’d the Old Man say?”
“He wasn’t there.”
“Always said the Old Man and Tigh were like an old married couple.”
“Shut up! The Old Man’s got nothing to do with this. It’s just Tigh, the frakking idiot.”
“He’s still your XO,” said Gaeta, quietly, and tried very hard not to smirk. He was, after all, still on duty.
Kara Thrace laughed and laughed and didn’t stop for a solid hour.
“I want you to figure out what that thing is inside him,” Adama said.
“Are you just going to let him call our baby a thing?” hissed Six, prowling around the two of them like an extremely angry soccer parent.
“What? – I mean, yes, sir,” said Gaius, glaring at Six. “Of course I’ll do my best. Um – sir, would you mind, I need to use the restroom,” and he shuffled hastily in. (Gaeta, who had been heading that way, saw Gaius enter the bathroom and left speedily for the one on the other end of the ship. Some people just had no bathroom etiquette.)
“I thought you said Boomer was having our child!” wailed Gaius, as soon as he was alone with the voice in his head.
“She is,” said Six, reasonably. “And so is Tigh.” She smiled, suddenly, bright and beautiful. “It’s all in God’s plan, Gaius.”
“How is male pregnancy in God’s plan?” Gaius stormed around, kicking at the tiles. “That – that drunkard will probably ensure that our child is born with fetal alcohol syndrome!”
“Calm down, Gaius.” Six pressed her hands to his arms, pinning them at his sides. “You should be happy. You’re going to be a father twice over.”
“I don’t want to be the father of Colonel Tigh’s baby!”
Outside, Dualla raised her eyebrows, and added another check to her tally of ‘Proof That the Vice-President is Batshit Insane.’
“Well,” said Tigh, roughly, to Adama, “what’d she say?”
“More time,” Adama answered, and sipped his water.
“More time?” Tigh stared down at his gently rounded belly. It was still all beergut, he thought. Without much hope: “Can I at least have a drink?”
“Damn it, Bill, a man in my position, the least you can allow me is a goddamn drink!”
Tigh lapsed into sulkiness. “Goddamn it, Bill,” he said, after a long moment, “if we go through with this, I’m naming the damn thing Bill the Bastard after you.”
Adama sipped his water, unperturbed. “You do that,” he said. (Roslin was just going to throw the thing out the airlock eventually; didn’t much matter what it was called.)
“Fine then,” snapped Tigh, and sipped his water. Mutinously.
Bill the Bastard it was going to be.