In Some Universe, I Know (Battlestar Galactica)
Pairing: Gaeta/Baltar
Rating: R
Spoilers: through second season
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
Summary: Felix watches the occupation like an outsider.
- - -
These days, Felix counts his lucky stars just to be alive every morning.
It’s not what he imagined an occupation would be. If he ever dared to let himself imagine such a thing. No, on the surface, it’s all rules - curfew, order, business as usual. The people look like prisoners, heads down, shoulders hunched. But, under the surface - that’s where the real differences lie.
It’s chaos; utter chaos. Felix can’t understand how those seven completely different people (people, now, not Cylons, that’s how Felix has changed) can manage to govern themselves, let alone humanity. From what little he can see, they have goals. They want to bring humanity out of the dark ages. They want to bring peace to the galaxy. They want to bring God to this world. But they argue, they bicker. They have petty rivalries, same as humans, and they hurt and react and live, the same as humans do. They’re not machines, like Felix thought they would be.
They see him. He knows they see him. His job doesn’t include the ability to turn invisible. But somehow, for now, they’ve decided that he’s not a threat. And that will have to be enough.
~*~
Felix watches them like an outsider.
There, a little girl - she can’t be more than two or three years old - is picked up, hoisted by her father, ushered back inside a tent. There, a Centurion clanks indifferently beneath the skeleton of a wood structure. There, a woman pauses, the Centurion catching her eye. Her jaw stiffens, and for a moment, it seems almost that she might attack -
Felix notices this dispassionately, and wonders if he should be more concerned. None of it seems real. None of it feels like it’s actually happening.
Maybe it isn’t. Maybe everything since the defeat of the Colonies was a dream. Maybe Felix is in a coma, strapped to a machine somewhere, his muscles wasting away in his body.
Felix can’t decide if that would be an improvement over his current situation.
He clenches his fists inside his jacket; the material is stiff, chafing, but it keeps the bite of cold away, and that’s all that’s really important.
~*~
In the Academy, Felix had a friend who worked as a secretary at a law firm, to pay her way through. He never understood how she could take the work - hours of mindless typing, filing papers, alphabetizing. She told him she could lose herself in it. That, for a little while, it didn’t matter that she had a test the next day, that she didn’t understand course material, that her salary was low. For just then, she could forget her life, and just work.
He still didn’t understand. He never had that detachment - everything he worked on, he worked on. He believed in the Colonial military, he believed in the concrete detail of technical specs, mathematical formulas. He believed.
~*~
There are fourteen points of business this morning. Protests, from those still politically active enough to try and change the world. Reports from those too cynical, too weak to fight the invasion.
Both of them make Felix sick, in an odd, detached sort of way.
“Anything special?” Gaius Baltar slumps into his chair, elbow on the table, chin in his hand. “No, let me guess. More of the same.” He flicks the papers onto the floor; they swish outwards, scattering on the carpet.
One month of occupation, and it’s already like this.
Felix doesn’t bother to pick them up; doesn’t bother to respond. Just moves to his own desk, in the corner of the room, and leaves Baltar to fight his own battles.
~*~
Baltar is awake near the end of the day, wide red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands. Felix, by then, is bone-marrow exhausted. He doesn’t know how he can make it back to his tent, how he’ll have enough energy to collapse into bed.
“What are they thinking?” Baltar keeps asking himself. “What could they possibly be thinking?”
“Gaius,” says Felix. “I’m going home.”
Baltar looks up, and Felix is caught in his gaze, for a moment that stretches too long. “Don’t go,” whispers Baltar.
“Good night,” says Felix. He doesn’t look back.
~*~
He finds a Doral going through his belongings, in the darkness of the tent.
The Doral doesn’t spare any time for embarrassment, or apologies. He doesn’t even greet Felix, just gives him a lingering glance, continues his search.
It doesn’t matter. He won’t find anything. There’s nothing there to find.
Felix pulls off his coat, his suit jacket. Loosens the first two buttons on his shirt. Pours himself a glass of water, and sips, scanning through the day’s files. He’ll have to know them, have to remember them, if Baltar wants a real briefing tomorrow, the first day of the week.
For a while, they tried to stick to routine, but Felix doubts it will stick.
Eventually, the Doral leaves; he nods, once, before he slips out the entrance.
Obscurely grateful, Felix curls up on the bed and sleeps, immediately.
~*~
When Felix wakes up, he doesn’t move.
The gravity, the sheer inertia of his position on the bed, seems utterly overwhelming. As though the planet grew to twice the mass, overnight. He wonders if he’ll ever find the will to get up.
It seems like there’s something important - something important he’s supposed to do -
But he, somehow, can’t seem to move.
~*~
He arrives at Colonial One hours late. Finds Baltar near hysterics.
“Do you have any idea how worried I was?” Baltar runs a hand through his hair - the tangles almost prevent him from pulling his hand free.
They’ve all neglected themselves, Felix notes, with a touch of bitterness. The Cylons have even taken that from him
“Please,” says Baltar, “please don’t do that again.”
“I’m sorry,” says Felix, softly, and he’s surprised to discover that he actually is.
~*~
The Cylons leave, as they always do. Retreat to their fortress in the sky, for the night, at least.
Felix crouches in front of Baltar, catches the shaking hands in his own. “Gaius,” he murmurs.
“Time for you to go, I understand,” Gaius says, numb.
“No,” and the words catch in Felix’s throat.
“It feels like,” says Baltar - “like we’re alone. Like there’s no one on our side, for miles around.”
There isn’t. “You’ve given up.” It isn’t a question.
“There’s nothing I can do,” says Baltar. “They have all the power. They have the control. What can I possibly do?” He twists his hands free of Felix’s. “Tell me, Felix, what am I supposed to do?”
“Save us,” says Felix, simply.
~*~
In some universe, Felix knows, that would have changed everything. In some universe, Baltar would have let Felix’s faith carry him. In some universe, Baltar would have been able to change something.
Not in this one.
~*~
Baltar’s mouth is hungry against his, open, pressing in closer, biting, licking, like Baltar will never get enough of Felix, of Felix’s taste, of Felix’s body.
They fall, together, to Baltar’s bed, skin twisting against skin, hands and tongue and teeth.
“I need you,” Baltar breathes, desperately, “please,” and Felix surrenders.
~*~
It doesn’t matter, anymore. Baltar has had his chance.
Eventually, Felix will have his revenge, on behalf of the Twelve Colonies. In the meantime, he waits.
Rating: R
Spoilers: through second season
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
Summary: Felix watches the occupation like an outsider.
- - -
These days, Felix counts his lucky stars just to be alive every morning.
It’s not what he imagined an occupation would be. If he ever dared to let himself imagine such a thing. No, on the surface, it’s all rules - curfew, order, business as usual. The people look like prisoners, heads down, shoulders hunched. But, under the surface - that’s where the real differences lie.
It’s chaos; utter chaos. Felix can’t understand how those seven completely different people (people, now, not Cylons, that’s how Felix has changed) can manage to govern themselves, let alone humanity. From what little he can see, they have goals. They want to bring humanity out of the dark ages. They want to bring peace to the galaxy. They want to bring God to this world. But they argue, they bicker. They have petty rivalries, same as humans, and they hurt and react and live, the same as humans do. They’re not machines, like Felix thought they would be.
They see him. He knows they see him. His job doesn’t include the ability to turn invisible. But somehow, for now, they’ve decided that he’s not a threat. And that will have to be enough.
~*~
Felix watches them like an outsider.
There, a little girl - she can’t be more than two or three years old - is picked up, hoisted by her father, ushered back inside a tent. There, a Centurion clanks indifferently beneath the skeleton of a wood structure. There, a woman pauses, the Centurion catching her eye. Her jaw stiffens, and for a moment, it seems almost that she might attack -
Felix notices this dispassionately, and wonders if he should be more concerned. None of it seems real. None of it feels like it’s actually happening.
Maybe it isn’t. Maybe everything since the defeat of the Colonies was a dream. Maybe Felix is in a coma, strapped to a machine somewhere, his muscles wasting away in his body.
Felix can’t decide if that would be an improvement over his current situation.
He clenches his fists inside his jacket; the material is stiff, chafing, but it keeps the bite of cold away, and that’s all that’s really important.
~*~
In the Academy, Felix had a friend who worked as a secretary at a law firm, to pay her way through. He never understood how she could take the work - hours of mindless typing, filing papers, alphabetizing. She told him she could lose herself in it. That, for a little while, it didn’t matter that she had a test the next day, that she didn’t understand course material, that her salary was low. For just then, she could forget her life, and just work.
He still didn’t understand. He never had that detachment - everything he worked on, he worked on. He believed in the Colonial military, he believed in the concrete detail of technical specs, mathematical formulas. He believed.
~*~
There are fourteen points of business this morning. Protests, from those still politically active enough to try and change the world. Reports from those too cynical, too weak to fight the invasion.
Both of them make Felix sick, in an odd, detached sort of way.
“Anything special?” Gaius Baltar slumps into his chair, elbow on the table, chin in his hand. “No, let me guess. More of the same.” He flicks the papers onto the floor; they swish outwards, scattering on the carpet.
One month of occupation, and it’s already like this.
Felix doesn’t bother to pick them up; doesn’t bother to respond. Just moves to his own desk, in the corner of the room, and leaves Baltar to fight his own battles.
~*~
Baltar is awake near the end of the day, wide red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands. Felix, by then, is bone-marrow exhausted. He doesn’t know how he can make it back to his tent, how he’ll have enough energy to collapse into bed.
“What are they thinking?” Baltar keeps asking himself. “What could they possibly be thinking?”
“Gaius,” says Felix. “I’m going home.”
Baltar looks up, and Felix is caught in his gaze, for a moment that stretches too long. “Don’t go,” whispers Baltar.
“Good night,” says Felix. He doesn’t look back.
~*~
He finds a Doral going through his belongings, in the darkness of the tent.
The Doral doesn’t spare any time for embarrassment, or apologies. He doesn’t even greet Felix, just gives him a lingering glance, continues his search.
It doesn’t matter. He won’t find anything. There’s nothing there to find.
Felix pulls off his coat, his suit jacket. Loosens the first two buttons on his shirt. Pours himself a glass of water, and sips, scanning through the day’s files. He’ll have to know them, have to remember them, if Baltar wants a real briefing tomorrow, the first day of the week.
For a while, they tried to stick to routine, but Felix doubts it will stick.
Eventually, the Doral leaves; he nods, once, before he slips out the entrance.
Obscurely grateful, Felix curls up on the bed and sleeps, immediately.
~*~
When Felix wakes up, he doesn’t move.
The gravity, the sheer inertia of his position on the bed, seems utterly overwhelming. As though the planet grew to twice the mass, overnight. He wonders if he’ll ever find the will to get up.
It seems like there’s something important - something important he’s supposed to do -
But he, somehow, can’t seem to move.
~*~
He arrives at Colonial One hours late. Finds Baltar near hysterics.
“Do you have any idea how worried I was?” Baltar runs a hand through his hair - the tangles almost prevent him from pulling his hand free.
They’ve all neglected themselves, Felix notes, with a touch of bitterness. The Cylons have even taken that from him
“Please,” says Baltar, “please don’t do that again.”
“I’m sorry,” says Felix, softly, and he’s surprised to discover that he actually is.
~*~
The Cylons leave, as they always do. Retreat to their fortress in the sky, for the night, at least.
Felix crouches in front of Baltar, catches the shaking hands in his own. “Gaius,” he murmurs.
“Time for you to go, I understand,” Gaius says, numb.
“No,” and the words catch in Felix’s throat.
“It feels like,” says Baltar - “like we’re alone. Like there’s no one on our side, for miles around.”
There isn’t. “You’ve given up.” It isn’t a question.
“There’s nothing I can do,” says Baltar. “They have all the power. They have the control. What can I possibly do?” He twists his hands free of Felix’s. “Tell me, Felix, what am I supposed to do?”
“Save us,” says Felix, simply.
~*~
In some universe, Felix knows, that would have changed everything. In some universe, Baltar would have let Felix’s faith carry him. In some universe, Baltar would have been able to change something.
Not in this one.
~*~
Baltar’s mouth is hungry against his, open, pressing in closer, biting, licking, like Baltar will never get enough of Felix, of Felix’s taste, of Felix’s body.
They fall, together, to Baltar’s bed, skin twisting against skin, hands and tongue and teeth.
“I need you,” Baltar breathes, desperately, “please,” and Felix surrenders.
~*~
It doesn’t matter, anymore. Baltar has had his chance.
Eventually, Felix will have his revenge, on behalf of the Twelve Colonies. In the meantime, he waits.