fic: bsg: bend it like the space/time continuum
Title: bend it like the space/time continuum
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Pairing: Kara/Sam
Rating: R
Disclaimers: Spoilers through the end. This isn't for profit. All characters & situations belong to RDM, David Eick, Sci-Fi, NBC Universal and their various subsidiaries.
A/N: AU. I post this piece in honor of amidala_thrace, our brave multishipper, who passed away earlier this week. Liz, I meant to finish this for you long, long ago as a get-well-soon present, but to my dismay, that was not the way of things. In your memory, I post it now, with thanks to the following people for reading and hand-holding and encouragement: dashakay, nazkey, and leiascully.
The score at the end of the match is 2-1, and it's a close win, but they're going to the finals, and that's all that matters. Kara hits a nearby bar by herself after the game, too tired of her teammates to celebrate with them and too fucking pissed about getting carded to care about getting wasted alone in an unfamiliar city.
She's halfway through her third Oktoberfest when a tall guy in a white button-up and a black vest squeezes into a seat next to her at the bar. Kara is determined not to pay attention to him, because she just wants to be left alone, but then someone a few rows over falls off his barstool, and one quick domino effect of drunk bar patrons knocks the tall guy into her, his elbow catching her in the ribs.
"Fuck!" she swears, nearly knocking her beer over. "Watch it!"
"I'm really sorry," he says, and his blue eyes are so earnest behind his glasses that she has to believe him. He looks familiar, or he feels familiar, and she squints at him through a haze of ache and alcohol, trying to pin him down. His brows crease together suddenly, and his eyes widen a little. "Hey, you're Thrace, right? The midfielder?"
"Yeah," she says, rolling her eyes. "And you are?"
"Name's Sam," he tells her. He doesn't seem the least bit put off by how angry she's pretending to be, he just tugs off his glasses and slips them in his pocket, still smiling. She can't explain it, when she looks in his eyes she feels comfortable, at ease. "Sam Anders," he continues, extending a hand to her.
"Okay," she says, gripping his hand with her own. "Never heard of you, sorry."
"That's all right," he grins. His fingers are warm against hers as he shakes her hand. "There's not too much fame in mathematics."
Kara raises an eyebrow at him as she pulls her hand back, her fingers curling protectively against her palm like she's trying to keep the memory of him against her skin for a few more minutes. It surprises her, this feeling of connection to a total stranger, and she tries to push it away, replace it with conversation, with beer, with anything. "Math, huh?" She lets her eyes wander from his bright blue eyes to the sleeves of his shirt, where she can see the outline of a very toned bicep. "Sorry, Sammy, but you don't look like you belong in the Geek Squad," she says.
Sam blushes a little and tries to hide it behind the head on the full glass of beer that the bartender pushes at him. "You looked good out there tonight," he says, after a long sip of beer. "Should be a pretty amazing final, if you can manage not to get carded," he teases.
"That was fucking off-sides," she grumbles, turning her attention back to her own drink. "Fucking ref's had it in for me since we played Germany two fucking years ago." She drains her glass and waves at the bartender for another. "He's a fucking drunk, too. Shouldn't even be on the field."
It is Sam's turn to raise an eyebrow as she starts in on her next pint. "You might want to take it easy on that stuff," he advises.
"I didn't ask for your fucking approval, Sammy," Kara snarls, and she can see the tiniest hint of hurt in his eyes before he covers it up and looks away. It's hotter than hell in this bar, but she shivers, suddenly, because there it is again, that flash of something familiar. She feels guilty, now, and she doesn't know why. She thinks it must be the beer, but that only makes her guzzle it down faster. She turns back to Sam suddenly. "You wanna get out of here?"
Ten minutes later, she's waiting, buzzed and impatient, for him to unlock the door of his flat. He nudges it open with his shoulder and tugs her inside.
"I don't usually do this," he begins, but she just pushes him down onto his couch and climbs onto his lap before he can speak again, her knees on either side of his thighs, hands on the clasp of his trousers, lips pressed against the side of his neck. The next few minutes are a blur of his hands and her hands as the alcohol and the post-game endorphins fight with an almost overwhelming need for another person, for this particular person. Minutes unravel into hours, the couch spins like the thoughts in her head until it's Sam's bed, and they're lying naked and sweaty, their hands their only point of contact to one another.
Kara picks up a notebook from the table by his bed. It is covered in scribbled equations, nonsense letters and numbers all over every page. She can't make sense of any of it. "So what the hell do you do, anyway?"
"Math," he grins, and she punches his arm. "Okay, okay." He sits up, tugging his body away from hers with an effort.
"Why do you do it?"
"Why do you?"
"What, play?"
He nods.
"First time someone handed me a ball, my feet just knew what to do. It felt right. So I kept doing it." She grins. "And I like kicking ass and taking names."
He smiles over at her, and she swears that it's just the alcohol and the post-sex endorphin rush, but her whole world is brighter when he looks at her that way. "I get that. I just feel like we're a part of something, you know? And I wanna know what that is. I wanna know where I fit in. The numbers do that for me. They feel right. It's like music, you know? When it all lines up, it's beautiful, it's right, it's... perfection. Maybe that's what I'm really looking for. My little piece of perfection." He shakes his head. "Sorry. Guess advanced mathematics isn't the best pillow talk."
"I asked," she drawls. Her phone rings again.
"You got a keeper?" Sam laughs at his own joke, and she just rolls her eyes.
"It's my coach," Kara says, rejecting the call with a flick of her finger, "and he can yell his fucking head off all he wants when I'm at practice. This is my time. If I wanna lay here and listen to some hot geek talk about numbers, I can do that."
"Who's a geek?" he asks, and she busts out laughing.
"You are," she answers, and he kisses her. She leans against him, or into a memory of him, of the two of them, but it's so far at the edges of her mind that it barely feels like it belongs to her, and she pulls away from him suddenly, away from the strangeness of this moment, of things she doesn't remember but seem more real than anything her life has ever been.
"Are you okay?" Sam asks, frowning at her.
"I should go," she says, though her heart's only half in it. "Coach'll be pissed enough."
"Thought you said this was your time," he reminds her, trailing one long finger down the length of her arm.
"I don't have a lot of time," she murmurs, then shakes her head. "To myself. I don't have a lot of time to myself."
"In that case," Sam says, sitting up and reaching over to brush stray hair out of her eyes, "I'm honored that you chose to spend some of it with me."
Kara grins at him and rolls her eyes. "You're a real sap, Sammy," she cracks, but the truth is, that smile of his makes her feel better. It's a strange peace, but it's peace, even with these strange half-memories, these flickers of somebody's else's life, and she flops back down onto the bed with a sigh. "Guess I'll stay awhile longer. Wouldn't want you to cry, if I leave."
"Generous of you," he rumbles, staring down at her.
"I'm a giver," she jokes, poking his chest. "But not tonight. Gotta save something for later."
"Glad you're staying," he says quietly. He settles back down into the bed, adjusting the blankets so they're both covered. "I would have cried myself to sleep."
"Like I said," she says, rolling over, her back to him so he can't see the smile on her face, "I'm a giver."
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Pairing: Kara/Sam
Rating: R
Disclaimers: Spoilers through the end. This isn't for profit. All characters & situations belong to RDM, David Eick, Sci-Fi, NBC Universal and their various subsidiaries.
A/N: AU. I post this piece in honor of amidala_thrace, our brave multishipper, who passed away earlier this week. Liz, I meant to finish this for you long, long ago as a get-well-soon present, but to my dismay, that was not the way of things. In your memory, I post it now, with thanks to the following people for reading and hand-holding and encouragement: dashakay, nazkey, and leiascully.
The score at the end of the match is 2-1, and it's a close win, but they're going to the finals, and that's all that matters. Kara hits a nearby bar by herself after the game, too tired of her teammates to celebrate with them and too fucking pissed about getting carded to care about getting wasted alone in an unfamiliar city.
She's halfway through her third Oktoberfest when a tall guy in a white button-up and a black vest squeezes into a seat next to her at the bar. Kara is determined not to pay attention to him, because she just wants to be left alone, but then someone a few rows over falls off his barstool, and one quick domino effect of drunk bar patrons knocks the tall guy into her, his elbow catching her in the ribs.
"Fuck!" she swears, nearly knocking her beer over. "Watch it!"
"I'm really sorry," he says, and his blue eyes are so earnest behind his glasses that she has to believe him. He looks familiar, or he feels familiar, and she squints at him through a haze of ache and alcohol, trying to pin him down. His brows crease together suddenly, and his eyes widen a little. "Hey, you're Thrace, right? The midfielder?"
"Yeah," she says, rolling her eyes. "And you are?"
"Name's Sam," he tells her. He doesn't seem the least bit put off by how angry she's pretending to be, he just tugs off his glasses and slips them in his pocket, still smiling. She can't explain it, when she looks in his eyes she feels comfortable, at ease. "Sam Anders," he continues, extending a hand to her.
"Okay," she says, gripping his hand with her own. "Never heard of you, sorry."
"That's all right," he grins. His fingers are warm against hers as he shakes her hand. "There's not too much fame in mathematics."
Kara raises an eyebrow at him as she pulls her hand back, her fingers curling protectively against her palm like she's trying to keep the memory of him against her skin for a few more minutes. It surprises her, this feeling of connection to a total stranger, and she tries to push it away, replace it with conversation, with beer, with anything. "Math, huh?" She lets her eyes wander from his bright blue eyes to the sleeves of his shirt, where she can see the outline of a very toned bicep. "Sorry, Sammy, but you don't look like you belong in the Geek Squad," she says.
Sam blushes a little and tries to hide it behind the head on the full glass of beer that the bartender pushes at him. "You looked good out there tonight," he says, after a long sip of beer. "Should be a pretty amazing final, if you can manage not to get carded," he teases.
"That was fucking off-sides," she grumbles, turning her attention back to her own drink. "Fucking ref's had it in for me since we played Germany two fucking years ago." She drains her glass and waves at the bartender for another. "He's a fucking drunk, too. Shouldn't even be on the field."
It is Sam's turn to raise an eyebrow as she starts in on her next pint. "You might want to take it easy on that stuff," he advises.
"I didn't ask for your fucking approval, Sammy," Kara snarls, and she can see the tiniest hint of hurt in his eyes before he covers it up and looks away. It's hotter than hell in this bar, but she shivers, suddenly, because there it is again, that flash of something familiar. She feels guilty, now, and she doesn't know why. She thinks it must be the beer, but that only makes her guzzle it down faster. She turns back to Sam suddenly. "You wanna get out of here?"
Ten minutes later, she's waiting, buzzed and impatient, for him to unlock the door of his flat. He nudges it open with his shoulder and tugs her inside.
"I don't usually do this," he begins, but she just pushes him down onto his couch and climbs onto his lap before he can speak again, her knees on either side of his thighs, hands on the clasp of his trousers, lips pressed against the side of his neck. The next few minutes are a blur of his hands and her hands as the alcohol and the post-game endorphins fight with an almost overwhelming need for another person, for this particular person. Minutes unravel into hours, the couch spins like the thoughts in her head until it's Sam's bed, and they're lying naked and sweaty, their hands their only point of contact to one another.
Kara picks up a notebook from the table by his bed. It is covered in scribbled equations, nonsense letters and numbers all over every page. She can't make sense of any of it. "So what the hell do you do, anyway?"
"Math," he grins, and she punches his arm. "Okay, okay." He sits up, tugging his body away from hers with an effort.
"Why do you do it?"
"Why do you?"
"What, play?"
He nods.
"First time someone handed me a ball, my feet just knew what to do. It felt right. So I kept doing it." She grins. "And I like kicking ass and taking names."
He smiles over at her, and she swears that it's just the alcohol and the post-sex endorphin rush, but her whole world is brighter when he looks at her that way. "I get that. I just feel like we're a part of something, you know? And I wanna know what that is. I wanna know where I fit in. The numbers do that for me. They feel right. It's like music, you know? When it all lines up, it's beautiful, it's right, it's... perfection. Maybe that's what I'm really looking for. My little piece of perfection." He shakes his head. "Sorry. Guess advanced mathematics isn't the best pillow talk."
"I asked," she drawls. Her phone rings again.
"You got a keeper?" Sam laughs at his own joke, and she just rolls her eyes.
"It's my coach," Kara says, rejecting the call with a flick of her finger, "and he can yell his fucking head off all he wants when I'm at practice. This is my time. If I wanna lay here and listen to some hot geek talk about numbers, I can do that."
"Who's a geek?" he asks, and she busts out laughing.
"You are," she answers, and he kisses her. She leans against him, or into a memory of him, of the two of them, but it's so far at the edges of her mind that it barely feels like it belongs to her, and she pulls away from him suddenly, away from the strangeness of this moment, of things she doesn't remember but seem more real than anything her life has ever been.
"Are you okay?" Sam asks, frowning at her.
"I should go," she says, though her heart's only half in it. "Coach'll be pissed enough."
"Thought you said this was your time," he reminds her, trailing one long finger down the length of her arm.
"I don't have a lot of time," she murmurs, then shakes her head. "To myself. I don't have a lot of time to myself."
"In that case," Sam says, sitting up and reaching over to brush stray hair out of her eyes, "I'm honored that you chose to spend some of it with me."
Kara grins at him and rolls her eyes. "You're a real sap, Sammy," she cracks, but the truth is, that smile of his makes her feel better. It's a strange peace, but it's peace, even with these strange half-memories, these flickers of somebody's else's life, and she flops back down onto the bed with a sigh. "Guess I'll stay awhile longer. Wouldn't want you to cry, if I leave."
"Generous of you," he rumbles, staring down at her.
"I'm a giver," she jokes, poking his chest. "But not tonight. Gotta save something for later."
"Glad you're staying," he says quietly. He settles back down into the bed, adjusting the blankets so they're both covered. "I would have cried myself to sleep."
"Like I said," she says, rolling over, her back to him so he can't see the smile on her face, "I'm a giver."