Body Language
Title: Body Language
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Characters: Sam Anders/Jean Barolay.
Rating: PG-13? And some making out.
Notes: Anders feels overwhelmed with his leadership position on Cylon Occupied Caprica. Jean comes to his aid.
Sam had just been out picking up supplies. He hadn’t expected to find survivors. And he definitely hadn’t expected to get ambushed by the centurions, so close to home. He hadn’t expected to engage in a full-on attack with so many innocent, weaponless people under his responsibility, hanging on his every shot.
Now that adrenaline was quaking through his system, the initial attack washing off, leaving his senses nothing but rubble and debris, he pressed through into their home base, the old high school. His heart trembling in its rib cage, he nearly ran straight into Jean Barolay, who caught him. “Watch it, T.,” the redhead said, then quirked her eyebrows at him. “What’s the status of the survivors?”
“They’re fine,” Sam said, feeling a sweat break out over the back of his neck. “The doc’s looking at them…fixing them up…we lost one, maybe two, I don’t know-” She simply stared at him, confused, before he pressed, frantically, “The cylons are getting closer…one ambushed us right outside of camp, there could be more, probably more, we’ve got to get our people together, do a walk of the perimeter-tell your guys to get their guns-they’re frakking-they’re everywhere, Jean-”
Sam’s tongue was tripping over itself, words coming fast, but he couldn’t stop them, couldn’t slow them down. Jean’s eyes flashed with concern and she tried, “Anders…slow down…” Because Jean knew him. She read his body language before he said a word. It’s what made them so good as a team; they spoke through passes and looks and fake-outs. They knew each other’s moves by heart. And right now, his breath was coming quick, his movements were jerky, he wasn’t focusing (I’m in over my head).
Before he knew what he was doing, Sam’s mouth was on hers. Because he was suddenly just so grateful that she was alive, that she was here, and that he was here. And the words I’m alive, I’m alive, I’malive seemed to beat against his chest, as he pulled her in close, crushed her against the hallway wall, felt her tongue meld with his, her body warm and vibrant against his.
Jean yielded to him, meeting his kiss easily (I’m alive too), but his fingers gripped her sides too hard, his lips met hers too desperately and she broke the kiss, her hands at his shoulders, barring him from going any further, reminding him that he didn’t need this, not now (Slow down).
Instead, she just held him against her for a second longer, their bodies sharing the same lungs. Her fingers combed through his sweat-soaked hair, easing his pulse down.
“We’re okay,” she said, her tone firm, authoritative. It was times like these, he had to wonder why she wasn’t leading this resistance instead of him. Anyone would make a better leader than him. Anyone. He was the only one consistently falling apart at the seams.
But then she added, her voice hitched with a small shake in it now, “We need you.” And he believed it.
Finally, he peeled off of her. Palms planted on the wall instead. He felt his stomach turn to stone, let out a deep breath, steeling away his muscles and bones. Trapping and compressing his anxiety inside a hardened, impenetrable shell. “Okay,” he said, simply. “Okay.”
Jean lingered only a second longer, watching him, before she added, “You want me to tell the guys to walk the perimeter?”
“Yeah. Please.”
Wordlessly, Jean turned away from Sam and stepped back down the hall, towards the double doors. But before she left, he heard her pause.
“Hey, T.” He glanced up to see her standing at the doors. She smiled. “Game tonight?”
Sam let out a relieved breath of a laugh. “You say all the right things.”
She lifted her eyebrows (I know), and then gave one last grin (We’ll be okay) before slipping out of sight.
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Characters: Sam Anders/Jean Barolay.
Rating: PG-13? And some making out.
Notes: Anders feels overwhelmed with his leadership position on Cylon Occupied Caprica. Jean comes to his aid.
Sam had just been out picking up supplies. He hadn’t expected to find survivors. And he definitely hadn’t expected to get ambushed by the centurions, so close to home. He hadn’t expected to engage in a full-on attack with so many innocent, weaponless people under his responsibility, hanging on his every shot.
Now that adrenaline was quaking through his system, the initial attack washing off, leaving his senses nothing but rubble and debris, he pressed through into their home base, the old high school. His heart trembling in its rib cage, he nearly ran straight into Jean Barolay, who caught him. “Watch it, T.,” the redhead said, then quirked her eyebrows at him. “What’s the status of the survivors?”
“They’re fine,” Sam said, feeling a sweat break out over the back of his neck. “The doc’s looking at them…fixing them up…we lost one, maybe two, I don’t know-” She simply stared at him, confused, before he pressed, frantically, “The cylons are getting closer…one ambushed us right outside of camp, there could be more, probably more, we’ve got to get our people together, do a walk of the perimeter-tell your guys to get their guns-they’re frakking-they’re everywhere, Jean-”
Sam’s tongue was tripping over itself, words coming fast, but he couldn’t stop them, couldn’t slow them down. Jean’s eyes flashed with concern and she tried, “Anders…slow down…” Because Jean knew him. She read his body language before he said a word. It’s what made them so good as a team; they spoke through passes and looks and fake-outs. They knew each other’s moves by heart. And right now, his breath was coming quick, his movements were jerky, he wasn’t focusing (I’m in over my head).
Before he knew what he was doing, Sam’s mouth was on hers. Because he was suddenly just so grateful that she was alive, that she was here, and that he was here. And the words I’m alive, I’m alive, I’malive seemed to beat against his chest, as he pulled her in close, crushed her against the hallway wall, felt her tongue meld with his, her body warm and vibrant against his.
Jean yielded to him, meeting his kiss easily (I’m alive too), but his fingers gripped her sides too hard, his lips met hers too desperately and she broke the kiss, her hands at his shoulders, barring him from going any further, reminding him that he didn’t need this, not now (Slow down).
Instead, she just held him against her for a second longer, their bodies sharing the same lungs. Her fingers combed through his sweat-soaked hair, easing his pulse down.
“We’re okay,” she said, her tone firm, authoritative. It was times like these, he had to wonder why she wasn’t leading this resistance instead of him. Anyone would make a better leader than him. Anyone. He was the only one consistently falling apart at the seams.
But then she added, her voice hitched with a small shake in it now, “We need you.” And he believed it.
Finally, he peeled off of her. Palms planted on the wall instead. He felt his stomach turn to stone, let out a deep breath, steeling away his muscles and bones. Trapping and compressing his anxiety inside a hardened, impenetrable shell. “Okay,” he said, simply. “Okay.”
Jean lingered only a second longer, watching him, before she added, “You want me to tell the guys to walk the perimeter?”
“Yeah. Please.”
Wordlessly, Jean turned away from Sam and stepped back down the hall, towards the double doors. But before she left, he heard her pause.
“Hey, T.” He glanced up to see her standing at the doors. She smiled. “Game tonight?”
Sam let out a relieved breath of a laugh. “You say all the right things.”
She lifted her eyebrows (I know), and then gave one last grin (We’ll be okay) before slipping out of sight.