fic: denial (battlestar galactica)
battlestar galactica character death ficathon
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: It's better than waking alone.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Kara/Lee
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
THANKS TO: hannasus for betaing. Much appreciated.
WORDS: 1,732
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; August 2006.
* * * * *
Denial by anr
* * * * *
Kara wakes you with whispered song. "Up all day with the rising sun..."
You groan. She's too bright, too cheery, too incessant. Not to mention the fact that it's too early -- you were up late last night.
But then you open your eyes, and look into her smile, and you remember that you don't mind. That you can't.
It's better than waking alone.
*
You run in slow, widening circles; an outward spiral of corridors and bulkheads. Beside you, Kara shadows your movements, her stride synchronising with yours. You smile.
You pass the brig just as the marines are changing shifts, and Kara punches you in the shoulder, sprinting ahead. "Race you!" she tosses over her shoulder before disappearing round the corner.
You laugh breathlessly and, ignoring the looks the marines send you, give chase.
You won't catch her -- you know that already -- but that's beside the point.
*
After breakfast, you have nuggets to train. Once Kara was their instructor, but now she sits in the second row and rolls her eyes as you break down level two manoeuvres.
"Once in the spiral, your first instinct will be to ease off on the throttle. Don't. Only by increasing your thrust will you gain the necessary speed to complete the manoeuvre."
You watch the recruits carefully as you speak, paying careful attention to who is listening and taking notes, and who isn't.
Kara yawns. "You forgot bottoming out," she says, slouching further into her seat.
You nod. "Right." The nuggets look up again. "To avoid a grav system failure, and successfully maintain the spiral formation, you will require approximately..."
*
Racetrack's waiting for you outside the ready room.
"We took out six Raiders during CAP." She hands you the post-flight briefing. "That's two less than yesterday."
"They're getting cautious," says Kara, reading over your shoulder. "We're running out of time."
She's right. "Our losses?"
Racetrack nods towards the report in your hands. "Snake's Viper sustained some heavy damage, but he's okay."
You nod, and dismiss her, already thinking forward. You have a meeting with your father in an hour -- hopefully this will be the final nudge he needs to approve the op. You start towards your office.
"He'd better," says Kara, falling in beside you. "We're not gonna get a better shot than this."
"I know."
*
The briefing is succinct. You've done this before, after all -- only the revisions, the timing, need approval.
"Ferris might need help," says Kara, leaning across the briefing table.
You nod, and move a model Viper to where she is pointing. "Rusty will provide backup here," you say.
Tigh and your father nod their agreements, and you have your approval.
Before he moves away to give the order, your father pauses. "It's a good plan," he says quietly, proudly.
You're watching Kara still, and the way she is studying the layout intently, not even sparing Tigh a glance when he brushes past her.
"It's Starbuck's," you answer, and your father's hand rests heavily on your shoulder.
*
Your father asks you to brief the President and you go reluctantly.
"It's your own fault," says Kara, as the marines assigned to guard duty open the hatch and announce your arrival. "I told you not to put it off."
You roll your eyes. What with all the double CAPs and nugget training of late, you barely have enough time each day for the rest of your CAG duties, let alone for finding a new presidential adviser.
"Of course, I still think you should have let Hot Dog stay on. He was frakking perfect." She grins.
Hot Dog's one and only day as Gaeta's replacement ended when he threw a decanter of water at the president's head. Afterwards, your father had had no choice but to sentence him to ten days in the brig. (The official charge was for wasting a primary resource.)
"Enter."
You step through the hatch, and nod in greeting. "Mr President."
"Commander Adama, please." Baltar smiles. "Have a seat."
*
Baltar doesn't like the plan; you don't care. It is a military decision, already made. Briefing him is nothing more than courtesy, and a strained one at that.
"I find it strange," he says, tapping a pen against the desktop. It's annoying, but no more so than the way Kara is cracking her knuckles. "That you would promote a repeat performance of something that had such a... significant... loss the last time."
"Oh, please," says Kara, rolling her eyes. You agree: Baltar's comment is pointed, but without basis. The last time the Galactica dogged a Basestar, methodically depleting its Raider population before attacking en force, the casualty rate was less than one percent of your personnel. And while you cannot consider any loss of life as insignificant, the mission itself was nevertheless an overwhelming success.
You choose not to respond.
Kara mutters something further under her breath, the words unintelligible, and you glance at her sharply. Baltar's gaze narrows.
"Interesting," he says.
You can't help but take the bait. "What?"
"How very much alike I think we are," he says. Distaste coils inside you at the mere idea, but before you can think of a faux-respectful way to say as much, he qualifies his observation. "You would make an excellent politician, Commander. You're very... subtle."
You try to think of a way to respond that won't end up with you sharing a brig cell with Hot Dog, and fail. "The admiral has agreed to let you monitor the mission from the CIC," you say instead.
"How magnanimous of him," says Baltar, still smiling, and you decide that's your cue.
"Mr President," you say, and leave.
*
You launch two hours later, decimating two Raiders before you've even cleared Galactica's shadow.
It's a chaotic battle, choreographed only in the sense that you've done this before. When you cut through the still-exploding remains of a Raider, it occurs to you that you've lost count of how many times you've engaged the Cylons over the years.
Missiles streak across your wings and debris rains over your canopy. You bait a Cylon into chasing you, and then draw it into Rusty's path. His fire severs its port wing, spinning the doomed craft into yet another Raider. You've got Helo in one ear, relaying intel, and Hot Dog and Cat swearing loudly in the other with each kill and near miss.
When Kara laughs, you grin despite yourself.
*
Even after Galactica destroys the Basestar, it still takes another hour to chase down the remaining Raiders. You land on fumes, your starboard intake nacelle smoking, but you land and that's what matters most. You already know that the mission was a success, but Cally's bright grin when you push back your canopy makes it real somehow. You smile back.
Post-mission reports and briefings take up the rest of your evening. You've lost three pilots, four Vipers, and it will take the better part of a month to get the starboard flight pod pressurised again. (You're beginning to think that section of the ship has been cursed by the Gods.)
There's a triad game in full swing when you finally make your way back to quarters. Ferris sees you enter, and waves you over with a glass of ambrosia.
"Deal you in, Apollo?" he offers. "We could do with a fourth."
Moving to stand behind Kara and Racetrack, you shake your head. "No thanks." You glance down at her cards, and can't help but smile. "I didn't think it was possible to have that many colours in one hand," you say idly, just loud enough for them all to hear, and Snake immediately slams down his cards.
"Fold," he says, and they all groan.
Laughing, she takes the pot.
*
Most of your pilots are too buzzed to turn in, the thrill of victory still flowing in their veins (along with what you don't doubt is an unhealthy amount of alcohol). People come, and go, and you let them be for much longer than you normally would before finally putting your foot down. Some leave to keep on celebrating, but the majority thank you with quick smiles as they climb into their bunks and draw the curtains.
"You," says Kara, "are no fun sometimes."
You roll your eyes, and tug at your blanket, almost toppling her out of your bunk. When you're settled again, she straddles your hips and glares down at you.
"I'm lots of fun," you counter quietly, brushing your palms over her knees. "Just not when I need my pilots conscious for CAP in the morning."
"Hmph," she says, but her glare lessens. "You did good today."
It's not often she can surprise you anymore, but this does. You wonder where it's coming from. In response, however, you shrug. "We did what we had to do. What was necessary."
"Anything to keep going, right?" She smiles a little crookedly. "You're good at that too."
"I have to be."
Two bunks down, Ferris begins to snore. Kara grins wickedly, her hands finding your abdomen and skimming upwards; her touch light, teasing. "Wanna play?"
She's not very subtle, but you can't really mind. That's as much your fault as it is hers. You don't remember any better.
You shake your head. "CAP," you remind her, and capture her hands with yours.
"No. Fun."
"Sorry." Her palms flatten against your chest, fingers spreading over your heart, and you hold them there. "Don't go."
She smiles. "It's okay," she says, freeing one of her hands and brushing it across your forehead. It's a curiously gentle touch for her, and your eyes drift shut reluctantly. "Sleep."
You force them open again. "Stay." You don't care how desperate that makes you sound. Can't care. This is all that matters now. These moments.
"Not going anywhere," she says, and for a moment the hand on your heart is there, is real. "I'm right here."
"I know." You close your eyes again; clench your jaw and believe. "I know." And you do.
You have to.
(You tried acceptance, and dealing; tried so hard it almost broke you. This, in the end, was easier. Gave you the strength to keep breathing.)
You just wish she'd had the strength to do the same.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: It's better than waking alone.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Kara/Lee
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
THANKS TO: hannasus for betaing. Much appreciated.
WORDS: 1,732
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; August 2006.
* * * * *
Denial by anr
* * * * *
Kara wakes you with whispered song. "Up all day with the rising sun..."
You groan. She's too bright, too cheery, too incessant. Not to mention the fact that it's too early -- you were up late last night.
But then you open your eyes, and look into her smile, and you remember that you don't mind. That you can't.
It's better than waking alone.
*
You run in slow, widening circles; an outward spiral of corridors and bulkheads. Beside you, Kara shadows your movements, her stride synchronising with yours. You smile.
You pass the brig just as the marines are changing shifts, and Kara punches you in the shoulder, sprinting ahead. "Race you!" she tosses over her shoulder before disappearing round the corner.
You laugh breathlessly and, ignoring the looks the marines send you, give chase.
You won't catch her -- you know that already -- but that's beside the point.
*
After breakfast, you have nuggets to train. Once Kara was their instructor, but now she sits in the second row and rolls her eyes as you break down level two manoeuvres.
"Once in the spiral, your first instinct will be to ease off on the throttle. Don't. Only by increasing your thrust will you gain the necessary speed to complete the manoeuvre."
You watch the recruits carefully as you speak, paying careful attention to who is listening and taking notes, and who isn't.
Kara yawns. "You forgot bottoming out," she says, slouching further into her seat.
You nod. "Right." The nuggets look up again. "To avoid a grav system failure, and successfully maintain the spiral formation, you will require approximately..."
*
Racetrack's waiting for you outside the ready room.
"We took out six Raiders during CAP." She hands you the post-flight briefing. "That's two less than yesterday."
"They're getting cautious," says Kara, reading over your shoulder. "We're running out of time."
She's right. "Our losses?"
Racetrack nods towards the report in your hands. "Snake's Viper sustained some heavy damage, but he's okay."
You nod, and dismiss her, already thinking forward. You have a meeting with your father in an hour -- hopefully this will be the final nudge he needs to approve the op. You start towards your office.
"He'd better," says Kara, falling in beside you. "We're not gonna get a better shot than this."
"I know."
*
The briefing is succinct. You've done this before, after all -- only the revisions, the timing, need approval.
"Ferris might need help," says Kara, leaning across the briefing table.
You nod, and move a model Viper to where she is pointing. "Rusty will provide backup here," you say.
Tigh and your father nod their agreements, and you have your approval.
Before he moves away to give the order, your father pauses. "It's a good plan," he says quietly, proudly.
You're watching Kara still, and the way she is studying the layout intently, not even sparing Tigh a glance when he brushes past her.
"It's Starbuck's," you answer, and your father's hand rests heavily on your shoulder.
*
Your father asks you to brief the President and you go reluctantly.
"It's your own fault," says Kara, as the marines assigned to guard duty open the hatch and announce your arrival. "I told you not to put it off."
You roll your eyes. What with all the double CAPs and nugget training of late, you barely have enough time each day for the rest of your CAG duties, let alone for finding a new presidential adviser.
"Of course, I still think you should have let Hot Dog stay on. He was frakking perfect." She grins.
Hot Dog's one and only day as Gaeta's replacement ended when he threw a decanter of water at the president's head. Afterwards, your father had had no choice but to sentence him to ten days in the brig. (The official charge was for wasting a primary resource.)
"Enter."
You step through the hatch, and nod in greeting. "Mr President."
"Commander Adama, please." Baltar smiles. "Have a seat."
*
Baltar doesn't like the plan; you don't care. It is a military decision, already made. Briefing him is nothing more than courtesy, and a strained one at that.
"I find it strange," he says, tapping a pen against the desktop. It's annoying, but no more so than the way Kara is cracking her knuckles. "That you would promote a repeat performance of something that had such a... significant... loss the last time."
"Oh, please," says Kara, rolling her eyes. You agree: Baltar's comment is pointed, but without basis. The last time the Galactica dogged a Basestar, methodically depleting its Raider population before attacking en force, the casualty rate was less than one percent of your personnel. And while you cannot consider any loss of life as insignificant, the mission itself was nevertheless an overwhelming success.
You choose not to respond.
Kara mutters something further under her breath, the words unintelligible, and you glance at her sharply. Baltar's gaze narrows.
"Interesting," he says.
You can't help but take the bait. "What?"
"How very much alike I think we are," he says. Distaste coils inside you at the mere idea, but before you can think of a faux-respectful way to say as much, he qualifies his observation. "You would make an excellent politician, Commander. You're very... subtle."
You try to think of a way to respond that won't end up with you sharing a brig cell with Hot Dog, and fail. "The admiral has agreed to let you monitor the mission from the CIC," you say instead.
"How magnanimous of him," says Baltar, still smiling, and you decide that's your cue.
"Mr President," you say, and leave.
*
You launch two hours later, decimating two Raiders before you've even cleared Galactica's shadow.
It's a chaotic battle, choreographed only in the sense that you've done this before. When you cut through the still-exploding remains of a Raider, it occurs to you that you've lost count of how many times you've engaged the Cylons over the years.
Missiles streak across your wings and debris rains over your canopy. You bait a Cylon into chasing you, and then draw it into Rusty's path. His fire severs its port wing, spinning the doomed craft into yet another Raider. You've got Helo in one ear, relaying intel, and Hot Dog and Cat swearing loudly in the other with each kill and near miss.
When Kara laughs, you grin despite yourself.
*
Even after Galactica destroys the Basestar, it still takes another hour to chase down the remaining Raiders. You land on fumes, your starboard intake nacelle smoking, but you land and that's what matters most. You already know that the mission was a success, but Cally's bright grin when you push back your canopy makes it real somehow. You smile back.
Post-mission reports and briefings take up the rest of your evening. You've lost three pilots, four Vipers, and it will take the better part of a month to get the starboard flight pod pressurised again. (You're beginning to think that section of the ship has been cursed by the Gods.)
There's a triad game in full swing when you finally make your way back to quarters. Ferris sees you enter, and waves you over with a glass of ambrosia.
"Deal you in, Apollo?" he offers. "We could do with a fourth."
Moving to stand behind Kara and Racetrack, you shake your head. "No thanks." You glance down at her cards, and can't help but smile. "I didn't think it was possible to have that many colours in one hand," you say idly, just loud enough for them all to hear, and Snake immediately slams down his cards.
"Fold," he says, and they all groan.
Laughing, she takes the pot.
*
Most of your pilots are too buzzed to turn in, the thrill of victory still flowing in their veins (along with what you don't doubt is an unhealthy amount of alcohol). People come, and go, and you let them be for much longer than you normally would before finally putting your foot down. Some leave to keep on celebrating, but the majority thank you with quick smiles as they climb into their bunks and draw the curtains.
"You," says Kara, "are no fun sometimes."
You roll your eyes, and tug at your blanket, almost toppling her out of your bunk. When you're settled again, she straddles your hips and glares down at you.
"I'm lots of fun," you counter quietly, brushing your palms over her knees. "Just not when I need my pilots conscious for CAP in the morning."
"Hmph," she says, but her glare lessens. "You did good today."
It's not often she can surprise you anymore, but this does. You wonder where it's coming from. In response, however, you shrug. "We did what we had to do. What was necessary."
"Anything to keep going, right?" She smiles a little crookedly. "You're good at that too."
"I have to be."
Two bunks down, Ferris begins to snore. Kara grins wickedly, her hands finding your abdomen and skimming upwards; her touch light, teasing. "Wanna play?"
She's not very subtle, but you can't really mind. That's as much your fault as it is hers. You don't remember any better.
You shake your head. "CAP," you remind her, and capture her hands with yours.
"No. Fun."
"Sorry." Her palms flatten against your chest, fingers spreading over your heart, and you hold them there. "Don't go."
She smiles. "It's okay," she says, freeing one of her hands and brushing it across your forehead. It's a curiously gentle touch for her, and your eyes drift shut reluctantly. "Sleep."
You force them open again. "Stay." You don't care how desperate that makes you sound. Can't care. This is all that matters now. These moments.
"Not going anywhere," she says, and for a moment the hand on your heart is there, is real. "I'm right here."
"I know." You close your eyes again; clench your jaw and believe. "I know." And you do.
You have to.
(You tried acceptance, and dealing; tried so hard it almost broke you. This, in the end, was easier. Gave you the strength to keep breathing.)
You just wish she'd had the strength to do the same.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*