How Much a Fabrication, bsg, anders/leoben, r
title: How Much a Fabrication
fandom, pairing, rating: bsg, anders/leoben, r
notes, wordcount: written for the bsg_slashathon here, 452 words
Also written for "questions" @ 12_stories
Samuel T. Anders was never really star material. But he showed promise at an early age, and he was destined for it, whether or not he was ready. Problem was, he was soft. The bright lights, the microscope of fame, and the harsh realities of fierce competition would break him, his pop had warned. "Toughen up," Sam remembers the old man's words. "Toughen up or you'll be crushed."
So he toughened up.
He wonders now, from a small rack someplace deep within the broken basestar, if his father somehow knew. He wonders even more if his father ever truly existed, if the family he remembers was never anything more than some constructed reality, memories implanted in his cylon brain. (How much of him is real? How much a fabrication?)
"You're thinking again," Leoben says from the doorway.
Sam tucks in his chin, a nervous smile on his lips. Caught again. "I am."
"D'Anna told me you'd come," Leoben says, kneeling before the bunk. "Did you change your mind?" He sounds hopeful, cautious even, an unusual tone for him.
"No," Sam says, reaching out and curling his fingers around the back of Leoben's neck, reassurance in his rejection, "I belong on Galactica."
"You don't know where you belong." Leoben's eyes glimmer with that look of knowing, and he grins in that way of his, and he suddenly sounds like himself again.
"My home is Galactica," Sam says, more forcefully this time, and drops his hand from Leoben's neck, turning on his side to face the wall.
"And yet you keep showing up." Leoben places a firm hand across the small of Sam's back and Sam closes his eyes, trying to ignore the pull in his stomach when Leoben slides his fingers to the hem of his shirt and brushes his fingers against his skin. "The alliance has changed things," he says, and Sam can feel Leoben's weight on the small mattress as he fills the space behind him. "You no longer have to choose. We're all colonial now."
Leoben runs his cool hand over Sam's stomach, and there's no ignoring the hard press of Sam's cock against his pants, especially not when Leoben reaches down for him.
Sam's mind races with questions, too many, but in truth he knows that Leoben doesn't have the answers. Not yet anyway. So he stifles them in a moan and he loses himself in the feel of Leoben's body wrapped around his back, his hand working slowly at his dick, his teeth scraping his neck, and his hardness pressed against him from behind.
"We'll figure it out together," Leoben says, as though he knows the questions on Sam's mind. "Together," he whispers again, and Sam believes him.
-fin
fandom, pairing, rating: bsg, anders/leoben, r
notes, wordcount: written for the bsg_slashathon here, 452 words
Also written for "questions" @ 12_stories
Samuel T. Anders was never really star material. But he showed promise at an early age, and he was destined for it, whether or not he was ready. Problem was, he was soft. The bright lights, the microscope of fame, and the harsh realities of fierce competition would break him, his pop had warned. "Toughen up," Sam remembers the old man's words. "Toughen up or you'll be crushed."
So he toughened up.
He wonders now, from a small rack someplace deep within the broken basestar, if his father somehow knew. He wonders even more if his father ever truly existed, if the family he remembers was never anything more than some constructed reality, memories implanted in his cylon brain. (How much of him is real? How much a fabrication?)
"You're thinking again," Leoben says from the doorway.
Sam tucks in his chin, a nervous smile on his lips. Caught again. "I am."
"D'Anna told me you'd come," Leoben says, kneeling before the bunk. "Did you change your mind?" He sounds hopeful, cautious even, an unusual tone for him.
"No," Sam says, reaching out and curling his fingers around the back of Leoben's neck, reassurance in his rejection, "I belong on Galactica."
"You don't know where you belong." Leoben's eyes glimmer with that look of knowing, and he grins in that way of his, and he suddenly sounds like himself again.
"My home is Galactica," Sam says, more forcefully this time, and drops his hand from Leoben's neck, turning on his side to face the wall.
"And yet you keep showing up." Leoben places a firm hand across the small of Sam's back and Sam closes his eyes, trying to ignore the pull in his stomach when Leoben slides his fingers to the hem of his shirt and brushes his fingers against his skin. "The alliance has changed things," he says, and Sam can feel Leoben's weight on the small mattress as he fills the space behind him. "You no longer have to choose. We're all colonial now."
Leoben runs his cool hand over Sam's stomach, and there's no ignoring the hard press of Sam's cock against his pants, especially not when Leoben reaches down for him.
Sam's mind races with questions, too many, but in truth he knows that Leoben doesn't have the answers. Not yet anyway. So he stifles them in a moan and he loses himself in the feel of Leoben's body wrapped around his back, his hand working slowly at his dick, his teeth scraping his neck, and his hardness pressed against him from behind.
"We'll figure it out together," Leoben says, as though he knows the questions on Sam's mind. "Together," he whispers again, and Sam believes him.
-fin