BSG ficlet: A Comforting Lie (Felix/Gaius, R)
Title: A Comforting Lie
Pairing: Felix/Gaius
Rating: R
Summary: Vague current canon time. A failed attempt at a prompt for the porn battle. This one's not porny enough. Probably because it involves too much frakking angst. Oh, well. 1000 words.
A Comforting Lie
He doesn't really understand how much Gaius has changed until the first time they frak after-after everything.
New Caprica, the weeks on the basestar, the trial. The Demetrius. That he's doing this at all is a testament. If Gaius really was the same man, he couldn't. But Felix really is doing this, despite how absurd it seems. He's pulling his shirt over his head and letting Gaius skate his hands up and down his ribs, dip his fingers below the waist of his pants.
Felix doesn't believe in Gaius's new religion. It's like a shiny new scientific theory that's too good and too improvable to be true. The worst are the bits about self love and perfection. He believes that Gaius believes it, but that's not enough to make Felix give in, wrap himself up in easy emotion and godsdamn circular logic. But just because Felix knows perfection is a comforting lie, it doesn't mean he doesn't crave it anyway, doesn't feel the pull to make things whole again. He just doubts that such perfection and wholeness can be made out of faults and weaknesses.
Not that he doesn't think about faults-and about fault, too, guilt and forgiveness. He didn't get any clarity when he lost his leg. He thought he should, but he didn't. It is simply time that has allowed him to separate sins better, pin just the right things on people or fate, for his own sanity as much as anything else. So his chest won't ache, so his heart won't burn. He's found, now that all is said and done, that none of the sins affixed to Gaius and what the two of them were to each other are unforgivable. He'd like them to be, maybe, but they aren't. If they were, he wouldn't be here.
The infuriating thing about looking into Gaius's eyes now is knowing he isn't seeking forgiveness. He believes absolution is already there for him. And for Felix. They exist in the after. Let me look at you, his eyes say. Let me look at all of you. Gaius wants to see what the world has done, the dark world they're both a part of, agents of; the world Gaius is trying to shed like an old, tough skin. He wants to see, and Felix doesn't know why, but he wants to show him.
Gaius Baltar was never a giving lover. Some things about him have not changed, and Felix takes a sick kind of comfort in that. Once they reach the unspoken decision to let this be what it's moving toward, Gaius just sits back and waits for Felix to take off his pants. Once he does, Gaius then motions somehow just with a flicker of his fingers for him to take off the prosthetic limb.
Something-he's not sure what-makes him want do it. He wants to say it's the desire to shock, but that's only because he can't think of an alternative. So he wordlessly complies, feeling exposed and a little panicked as he does, but he can't stop.
It's a relief, really. The leg doesn't fit quite well, having been originally crafted for someone else and retrofitted like everything else in their godforsaken lives. Even worse, the limb feels false. But the jagged red scar feels falser, like this is still not his life. But he remembers all too well: waiting and waiting and waiting and never knowing if...
His stomach goes over queasy, and the throbbing in his chest becomes almost unbearable, but he wills himself to turn it off they way he learned to turn off conscious terror and fear somewhere in those first few hours after the attacks, during the time of those endless jumps. Then, he was also waiting-for salvation. He thinks it might've been easier if he was the kind of person who could just accept easy release, even death, rather than fight and fight and fight, but he's never wanted the easy thing. Even now that his great heart full of hope has turned over and spilled everything out, leaving only a hollow of doubt, he presses on. Only there's no escaping knowing it now: the world is no longer whole, he is not who he was, and sometimes fighting is not enough. Sometimes, it's not even an option.
Gaius's fingers trail down his thigh, and Felix twitches, his heart beating up into his throat, rattling the inside of his ribs, throbbing down through his phantom limb that doesn't feel so much like a ghost but a shadow.
"Does it hurt?" Gaius asks.
"Not often anymore."
"Now?"
"No," Felix says without thinking. The answer is always 'no.'
For a moment, Gaius's fingers continue to stroke just above the scar. Felix wants to squirm, but he takes a perverse pleasure in staying still.
Then Gauis says, "So, do I need to pretend nothing's wrong?"
It's like a shock through his body. Still, he stays immobile.
"It's not wrong" Felix says.
"Of course not. You know what I mean."
But Felix doesn't, not entirely, because if he's really being as kind-as frakking aware-as he seems, it's too much. That's not what Felix came here for. But it's what he's getting, and it's maybe better.
"You don't need to, no," Felix says quietly. "If you even could."
"I can do anything," Gaius replies seriously, serenely, rolling over suddenly and pressing a kiss to the inside of either thigh, lingering on the disfigured leg. "If it's what you need. It's up to you."
Almost improbably, Felix feels arousal begin to seep into him, into his bones and muscles, maybe even his mind. But it doesn't hold in his heart, even if it keeps welling up there, reminding him of who he used to be. That's always the hardest part, the phantom pain of the man long gone.
"Let's act," Felix says, "like it doesn't matter."
Gaius doesn't even look up at him for confirmation, just swiftly takes him in his mouth, his hands still kneading Felix's thighs, one of Gaius's knees in the space where a leg should be.
~
Pairing: Felix/Gaius
Rating: R
Summary: Vague current canon time. A failed attempt at a prompt for the porn battle. This one's not porny enough. Probably because it involves too much frakking angst. Oh, well. 1000 words.
A Comforting Lie
He doesn't really understand how much Gaius has changed until the first time they frak after-after everything.
New Caprica, the weeks on the basestar, the trial. The Demetrius. That he's doing this at all is a testament. If Gaius really was the same man, he couldn't. But Felix really is doing this, despite how absurd it seems. He's pulling his shirt over his head and letting Gaius skate his hands up and down his ribs, dip his fingers below the waist of his pants.
Felix doesn't believe in Gaius's new religion. It's like a shiny new scientific theory that's too good and too improvable to be true. The worst are the bits about self love and perfection. He believes that Gaius believes it, but that's not enough to make Felix give in, wrap himself up in easy emotion and godsdamn circular logic. But just because Felix knows perfection is a comforting lie, it doesn't mean he doesn't crave it anyway, doesn't feel the pull to make things whole again. He just doubts that such perfection and wholeness can be made out of faults and weaknesses.
Not that he doesn't think about faults-and about fault, too, guilt and forgiveness. He didn't get any clarity when he lost his leg. He thought he should, but he didn't. It is simply time that has allowed him to separate sins better, pin just the right things on people or fate, for his own sanity as much as anything else. So his chest won't ache, so his heart won't burn. He's found, now that all is said and done, that none of the sins affixed to Gaius and what the two of them were to each other are unforgivable. He'd like them to be, maybe, but they aren't. If they were, he wouldn't be here.
The infuriating thing about looking into Gaius's eyes now is knowing he isn't seeking forgiveness. He believes absolution is already there for him. And for Felix. They exist in the after. Let me look at you, his eyes say. Let me look at all of you. Gaius wants to see what the world has done, the dark world they're both a part of, agents of; the world Gaius is trying to shed like an old, tough skin. He wants to see, and Felix doesn't know why, but he wants to show him.
Gaius Baltar was never a giving lover. Some things about him have not changed, and Felix takes a sick kind of comfort in that. Once they reach the unspoken decision to let this be what it's moving toward, Gaius just sits back and waits for Felix to take off his pants. Once he does, Gaius then motions somehow just with a flicker of his fingers for him to take off the prosthetic limb.
Something-he's not sure what-makes him want do it. He wants to say it's the desire to shock, but that's only because he can't think of an alternative. So he wordlessly complies, feeling exposed and a little panicked as he does, but he can't stop.
It's a relief, really. The leg doesn't fit quite well, having been originally crafted for someone else and retrofitted like everything else in their godforsaken lives. Even worse, the limb feels false. But the jagged red scar feels falser, like this is still not his life. But he remembers all too well: waiting and waiting and waiting and never knowing if...
His stomach goes over queasy, and the throbbing in his chest becomes almost unbearable, but he wills himself to turn it off they way he learned to turn off conscious terror and fear somewhere in those first few hours after the attacks, during the time of those endless jumps. Then, he was also waiting-for salvation. He thinks it might've been easier if he was the kind of person who could just accept easy release, even death, rather than fight and fight and fight, but he's never wanted the easy thing. Even now that his great heart full of hope has turned over and spilled everything out, leaving only a hollow of doubt, he presses on. Only there's no escaping knowing it now: the world is no longer whole, he is not who he was, and sometimes fighting is not enough. Sometimes, it's not even an option.
Gaius's fingers trail down his thigh, and Felix twitches, his heart beating up into his throat, rattling the inside of his ribs, throbbing down through his phantom limb that doesn't feel so much like a ghost but a shadow.
"Does it hurt?" Gaius asks.
"Not often anymore."
"Now?"
"No," Felix says without thinking. The answer is always 'no.'
For a moment, Gaius's fingers continue to stroke just above the scar. Felix wants to squirm, but he takes a perverse pleasure in staying still.
Then Gauis says, "So, do I need to pretend nothing's wrong?"
It's like a shock through his body. Still, he stays immobile.
"It's not wrong" Felix says.
"Of course not. You know what I mean."
But Felix doesn't, not entirely, because if he's really being as kind-as frakking aware-as he seems, it's too much. That's not what Felix came here for. But it's what he's getting, and it's maybe better.
"You don't need to, no," Felix says quietly. "If you even could."
"I can do anything," Gaius replies seriously, serenely, rolling over suddenly and pressing a kiss to the inside of either thigh, lingering on the disfigured leg. "If it's what you need. It's up to you."
Almost improbably, Felix feels arousal begin to seep into him, into his bones and muscles, maybe even his mind. But it doesn't hold in his heart, even if it keeps welling up there, reminding him of who he used to be. That's always the hardest part, the phantom pain of the man long gone.
"Let's act," Felix says, "like it doesn't matter."
Gaius doesn't even look up at him for confirmation, just swiftly takes him in his mouth, his hands still kneading Felix's thighs, one of Gaius's knees in the space where a leg should be.
~