Battlestar Fic: "Grief for a Dead World" (Anders/Baltar, R)
This got brought up in a conversation with cynthia_arrow over in a thread at bsg_slashathon almost a month ago. She commanded me to do it. I am eternally seven, so I did.
I highly suspect she was kidding, and will not in fact declare me, quote, "Captain Awesomesauce, Queen of the Horny Bastards", unquote, and is far more likely to simply declare me frakkin' insane and call it a day. (Really, who could blame her?)
Also, I discovered if you rearrange the letters just so, you get "Antlers", a silly fact with which I am amused far more than I have any right to be.
Title: Grief for a Dead World
Genre: AU, Slash
Pairing: Sam Anders/Gaius Baltar
Rating: R for sex, language, drinking
Spoilers: Uh, AU starting from the mini, so heck no.
Length: 3,685 words
Disclaimer: Characters and series property of the SciFi Channel and Misters Ronald D. Moore and David Eick. By your command.
Summary: When you're trapped on a dying world, you cope whatever way you can; you make your own way to survive.
Stage one: Denial
Sam spotted it first, the lone figure stumbling across the tree-line at the far end of the hillside.
His first thought was skinjob, the dark-haired one with the bright suit jackets and cold friendly smiles, but then he got a look at the face beneath matted hair, realized the features were completely different.
“Stop! Hold your fire!” Sam lowered his rifle, twisting over his shoulder and waving his arm. “Hang on a second.”
The stranger had gotten close enough to see their guns and froze, like a startled animal, ready to turn and bolt for the safety of the trees.
“Hey, easy pal,” Sam called. “It’s okay. We’re the good guys.”
“Assuming that’s not another toaster we haven’t seen before,” Hillard muttered darkly. Sam didn’t bother replying: like the rest of the team, he kept a hand close to his trigger.
The stranger came forward, blinking dazedly in the light of the radiation-scorched sky.
“You have weapons.” His voice sounded hoarse from disuse. Long hair hung over his face in damp strands, dried blood caked to bruises and scratches, cheeks overgrown with stubble. A light jacket over clothing torn and stained with mud: he hugged himself, shivering. “Are you military?” Even the roughness of his voice wasn’t enough to hide the tone of hope.
Sam chuckled wryly. “Not even close. Samuel T. Anders of the Buccaneers. You may have heard of us.”
“Oh.” The stranger crumpled in disappointment, not seeming to catch Sam’s joke. “I see.”
“Hey, wait a minute.” Baroclay stepped out. She looked at his face, squinting. “Are you who I think you are?”
He shied back, panicked. “I don’t know anything about it!” he yelped. “Anything at all!”
“It’s okay, relax.” Sam raised a hand. Poor guy had been alone in the wilderness too long, gotten twitchy. “Everyone give him some space.”
“That’s Gaius frakking Baltar,” Baroclay said, disbelieving. “You know, the prize-winning science genius? The one on the news all the time?”
“Hey, yeah, it is.” Hillard frowned. “What’s a scientist doing all the way out here?”
“My house is outside Caprica City. After the first attack there was a crowd of survivors, trying to get to a military transport we’d seen land nearby. The mob knocked me down, I hit my head-” Baltar’s voice broke, growing feebler. “When I came to, it’d already left.”
He finished softly: “A short while later Centurions showed up, started firing…” He trailed off, shaking.
Sam shook his head, sympathetic. “Sounds like you missed the last flight off this rock.”
“Oh no, that can’t be,” Baltar disagreed. “The military is hardly going to abandon us to the Cylons. They’ll come back.”
Sam wondered who he was kidding; what he thought was keeping their rescue so busy that they hadn’t shown up yet. But instead of saying it, he just smiled grimly.
“Keep telling yourself that. If it’ll really make you feel better.”
____
Stage two: Anger
Baltar may have had rough luck escaping the planet, but someone was looking out for him: without training or supplies he’d survived, alone, escaping the Cylons, wandering with no idea where he was or where he was going, or even if he was going anywhere at all.
They’d found him in the nick of time. He was suffering from dehydration, exposure, hypothermia, and even a few more days and he’d have soaked up enough radiation to be too far gone to save. As it was, he was sick enough they’d had to start him on twice the meds he should’ve needed.
Sue-Shaun complained.
“The little twerp doesn’t even know how to hold a gun, Anders. And he won’t let us teach him.” She eyed him challengingly, hands on her hips. “He’s worse than useless, he’s dead weight. We’re wasting supplies by feeding him.”
“So, what?” Sam demanded. “We cut him loose? Leave him for the toasters to find?” Sue-Shaun turned away, not meeting his eyes. “It’s us versus the Cylons, ‘us’ being the human race. We don’t get to pick and choose who survives.”
“Yeah, well, maybe we should,” she retorted. Sam ignored her.
“Besides, he’s some kind of genius, right? Who knows, maybe that’ll come in handy eventually.”
Sue-Shaun rolled her eyes. “Yeah: maybe he can think us a way out of this.”
As much as Sam defended him, he was starting to lose patience too. Their band was made of survivalists, athletes: Baltar was the only one that was pure civilian. City-bred. Soft.
“Come on, doc. You have to join the raids sometime.”
“Certainly not,” he scoffed. “I might get shot.”
“So could any of us.” Sam eyed him dangerously. “We put our lives on the line every time we go out there. You think we should make exceptions for you, just because this isn’t what you’re used to?” He threw down the gauze he’d been wrapping his hand in, frustrated:
“Like any of us is used to fighting in a guerrilla war.”
“What I don’t see is why you even do this,” Baltar began, haughtily. “Why you feel the need to take unnecessary risks again and again, when we have a perfectly safe base and plenty of supplies. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Because we have to, that’s why,” Sam burst, jerking his head up violently. Baltar paled, ducking. “Because the Cylons came to our planet, our home: nuked the hell out of us!”
He almost hit Baltar, but reigned himself in and hit the wall instead. Scraped knuckles on concrete, messing his hand up worse, and he swore before dropping his shoulders.
“And damned if I’m gonna roll over and let them win,” he concluded, bone-weary. “Not without a fight.”
Baltar was silent, and Sam sat there with eyes closed, thinking he must have left. Which was why he jumped slightly, startled, when a hand brushed over his.
“It’s a hard life, ours.” Baltar eyed the damaged skin. His touch was steady, certain; surprisingly gentle as the softness of his palms slid against Sam’s calluses. “Trapped with the weight of a dying world on our shoulders. Each of us has to make our own little way to survive.” He picked up the discarded gauze, winding it smoothly around Sam’s fingers.
“You cling to sanity your chosen way, Samuel. And I’ll do it in mine.”
“It won’t work forever. Eventually just hanging onto what you’ve lost isn’t going to cut it anymore.” Sam tilted his head back, sighing.
“I just hope I can keep your ass alive long enough for you to realize that.”
____
Stage three: Bargaining
“We’re doomed as a species, empirically speaking,” Baltar muttered.
He shook his head dismally as he took another swig.
“The very foundation is entirely dependant on viable women who are willing to continue to propagate the genus. A willingness which I find our current stock to be completely lacking.”
Sam laughed, helping himself to the bottle. “You’re not interested in making babies. You just wanna get laid.”
Baltar stiffened. “Well, perhaps so,” he said, sourly. “But I don’t see how that’s so much to ask, either.” Sam laughed again.
Ever since joining them Baltar had given the women all his hopeful attention. But so far, nothing: Sue-Shaun couldn’t stand him, and Baroclay…well, he wouldn’t be her type without some major cosmetic surgery, leave it at that.
Maybe if things got more desperate he might stand a chance. But there was some choice still, and so far Baltar came up last pick among the ladies of the resistance every time.
“Don’t stress it too much, doc.” Sam took a slow drink, savoring it, before handing it back. “We’ve got nothing but time.” Baltar grimaced.
“Don’t remind me.” He groaned slightly, the distinct sound of deep sexual frustration. “It’s been so long. The pleasures of one’s own company really do begin to lose their charm after a point.”
Sam chortled, feeling the dizzy rush to his head. “Only you could find such a fancy way of saying ‘I’m getting sick of jerking myself off’.”
Baltar scowled. “Well. I am.” He passed the bottle to Sam, who held it, considering, as he slowly rolled it between his fingers. Eventually, Sam grinned.
“Come here.”
“What?” Baltar asked, distracted. His eyes quickly widened in alarm as Sam crawled over to him without waiting, hands to either side of him on the ground, leaning in. Baltar tensed. “Now, wait! Wait just a minute!”
Sam froze, inches from his face. The bonfire cast dancing shadows across Baltar’s features making his eyes seem inhumanly wide, the lines of his face even stiffer with shock. Sam drew back, sighing.
“Oh. You’re one of those.”
“One of what?” Baltar demanded, sounding equal parts confused and insulted. Sam shook his head. The warmth of his buzz was beginning to fade but he clung to it.
“Never mind.” He pulled back but with one hand reached in stroking a hard, certain line down Baltar’s fly. He felt instant reaction and the other man’s breathing grew shaky. “Just relax, okay?”
“But I-” Baltar wriggled uncertainly, like he didn’t know whether to run or stay.
“Gaius,” Sam tried, gently: “relax.” His given name sounded strange, almost foreign on Sam’s tongue, but it turned out to be the magic word. Baltar calmed, ever so slightly, and Sam unzipped him, reaching in to grab him by the shaft.
Sam did a few quick exploratory strokes with his thumb, getting a feel for the dick in his hand, before he tightened his palm, giving a quick squeeze as he moved down.
“Oh”, and “gods”, and “yes”, Baltar said. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Sam kept it up, rough but not too rough, just enough to get some friction. He paused at the base of the shaft and pressed hard, before jerking back down to the head. Baltar rewarded him with the most beautiful moan he’d ever heard.
By now he was moving under Sam’s grasp, thrusting into his hand as his chest rose and fell laboriously. Sam wanted to move closer, press against his body, but he knew better. He leaned in gradually until he felt the heat of Baltar’s breath across his cheek, the ends of his hair poking his skin. Then he bent down, catching the smoothness of Baltar’s neck in his mouth; sliding lips over soft skin, the bones at the hollow of his throat.
“Oh, gods.” Baltar moaned again, more breathily this time, grinding desperately against Sam, one hand digging into his shoulder for support. “Frak.” Sam made his way patiently, licking and sucking across his collarbone, his shoulder; then up again one side of his throat, to one earlobe, down the edge of a sculpted cheekbone and, finally, to his lips. Eyes closed, he felt Baltar’s eyelashes flutter: he hesitated only fractionally at the press of Sam’s mouth before letting him in, and then Sam was tasting him, his tongue sliding over Baltar’s, their mouths locked together hungrily as the other man squirmed beneath him all the while.
Baltar still clung to him. His other hand raked up the length of Sam’s spine, the back of his neck, fingers curling into the short bristles of his hair. Sam leaned in, daring a quick feel along his ass and the line of one thigh before settling on the inside of his knee. He sped up his movements on his cock.
Releasing his hold on Baltar’s mouth he pulled his head back, opening his eyes. Baltar’s look was wide but dazed, blind, features caught somewhere between pain and ecstasy.
“Oh…” he made a sound both gasp and groan as he came, “Sam.”
He collapsed limply, boneless, and Sam carefully supported his weight as he lowered him to the ground, wiping his hand in the grass.
He never took his eyes off him. Baltar’s head lay to one side, dark hair making a halo, his mouth curled into a faint smile of pleasure and peace. Sam almost thought he was asleep, if not for the hand he felt on the buckle of his belt.
He batted it away. “No, it’s okay.”
“I’m supposed to reciprocate, aren’t I?” Baltar turned his head, opened his eyes; gradual, slow, as if with a great deal of effort. “Isn’t that the way this works?”
Sam smiled down at him, easy.
“Well. There’s always tomorrow night.”
____
Stage four: Depression
“There’s just no point in any of it, is there?”
Baltar lay curled on his side in the cot they shared, hair in tangles, the sheet tucked around him as if in afterthought.
“You kill them and they kill you, and for what? They just keep coming. And we keep dying. Nothing’s ever going to change, until there aren’t any of us left.”
His eyes shone with unshed tears, deep with grief and fear and hopelessness and the lines of too many sleepless nights. He’d gotten even thinner than when Sam met him, the bones of his face stretched tight against his skin, his ribs visible with every breath.
Sam sat beside him, reaching to lightly touch the back of his head.
“Come on. You’ve got to get up.”
Baltar didn’t seem to hear him.
“I survived my house being destroyed around me,” he rasped. “I’d lie awake, no warning but the sound they made when they walked, the slightest flicker of silver or white thru the trees.” His breath caught, he choked out: “Sometimes, I thought I saw…but there was nothing there. I drank rainwater and ate grass and slept on the ground, for days, weeks, and for what? For what? No one’s coming to rescue us. We’ve been left to die. There’s nothing left.”
“There’s us,” Sam said. “There’s the fight. So that’s what we do. We keep fighting.”
“Fighting?” Baltar laughed horribly. “What are you talking about? You can’t win. You can’t possibly. You’re out-numbered, out-gunned…it’s only a matter of time. What you’re fighting is the inevitable. Eventually, the Cylons will win.”
“Yeah. Probably.” Sam nodded, unhesitant. “But so what? We take out as many of them on the way down as we can.” Baltar lifted his head, propping himself on one elbow.
“And that’s it?” he demanded, clutching at desperation. “That’s all? That’s what keeps you going, what gives you the will to live?” Sam moved his hand, tenderly stroking his hair, the base of his head.
“It’s enough.”
“But, there’s no hope.”
“We’re alive, Gaius.” Sam met his eyes with full fierce sincerity. “As long as there’s that, there’s hope. Who knows what’ll happen tomorrow? We just have to stay alive today.”
Baltar said nothing. He stared down and at nothing at the same time. Sam tightened his fingers in his hair, slid closer.
“Hey,” he said, anxious, grasping at straws, “wanna hear something ironic?” When he didn’t get a response he kept talking anyway: “I was actually born on Picon.”
Baltar lifted his head at last, but only to look at him blankly. Sam blinked.
“You know? The rivalry between the Panthers and the C-Bucs?” he asked, disbelieving. “I know you’re not a sports fan, but come on.”
“Is that really something you’d just assume people know?” Baltar asked quizzically. Sam stared, certain he had to be joking. When his expression didn’t change, Sam finally started laughing.
“You know, that’s what I think I like about you the most.” He grinned, sliding beneath the sheet to lie behind him. “No matter how well I know you, I don’t think I could ever completely get you.”
Baltar flinched; tensing before Sam said “like” as if expecting him to say something else, relaxing again when he didn’t.
“Oh, so that’s what you find so attractive about me,” he murmured, wry: “That I’m an enigma.”
“Among other things.” Sam pressed his chest against his back, skin on skin. He wrapped one arm across Baltar’s upper body, tucking his head down to nuzzle the crook between shoulder and neck. Baltar sighed.
“Sometimes I can’t help thinking you’re getting the better bargain,” he said. “Me, I’m starting to feel a bit like a trophy wife: lying around, inventorying supplies and keeping house.”
Sam chortled lightly. Lazy fingers ran down the front of Baltar’s stomach, tracing the line of dark hair down to navel and further.
“If you want to do some heavy lifting, all you have to do is say the word.”
“I might just take you up that offer,” Baltar replied, “someday.” For now he was clearly in no hurry to go anywhere, closing his eyes with a contented murmur and leaning back against the muscles of Sam’s chest, rubbing his palm along the solid lines of the arm curled around him.
Sam rested his hand against the flat space just between navel and groin. He pressed his cheek, warm from the sun, against the coolness of Baltar’s. With his free hand he brushed against his ass, sliding just the tips of his fingers inside the crease. Baltar shivered; he hadn’t let Sam frak him yet, but they both knew it was only a matter of time.
Today, though, that wasn’t what Sam wanted. Right now, what he had in his arms was more than enough.
____
Stage five: Acceptance
Sam had to wonder what the chances were: that someone could survive a nuclear holocaust, only to miss escape by the slimmest of margins, but then wind up getting another shot. Not odds he’d want to take to any tournament with him, that was for damn sure.
“Remind me never to play pyramid with you around,” he said. “I don’t know whether you’d jinx me or end up being one hell of a lucky charm.”
Baltar rolled his eyes. “You know how I feel about superstitions,” he groused, but without much attention. He was practically vibrating with excitement, joy; rapture, even.
Sam couldn’t blame him. He was getting out. If only they all could be so blessed.
It’d been pretty unbelievable how it’d happened. A pilot from the military crawling all the way back to Caprica and managing to cross paths with their little band. The odds on that had to pretty spectacular, too.
“I really do think you must have some kind of role to play, Gaius. To have been thru everything you have and keep getting breaks like this…” Sam gazed at him with wonder. “Like the gods must be looking out for you or something.”
Baltar sighed, cupping a hand along the underside of Sam’s chin.
“This is going to be the last we’ll see of each other for awhile, Sam,” he chided. “Let’s not waste it on these ridiculous religious sentiments, shall we?”
Sam chuckled, amused as always by the scientific certitude of his atheism. He put his hand on top of his and smiled softly.
“Have fun in that fleet out there, huh? Sounds like one hell of a party.”
“If half of what Lieutenant Thrace has told me is true, I can only imagine.”
Baltar looked over his shoulder at the impatient woman waiting on the ramp to her stolen ship, short blond hair moving in the breeze, and Sam felt the slightest twinge of resentment. He could see the edge to his expression when he looked at the pilot; the same calculating eagerness with which he used to look at the women in the resistance.
Sam could get where he was coming from, a little. He’d played a friendly game with Thrace, waiting to score her ticket out of there. Brushing against the softness of her curves, watching the lean strength of her toned body, he’d definitely had some thoughts.
But then he remembered the lines of Baltar’s body that he knew as well as his own hand, the feel of his cock buried inside him. And, well, he’d never been all that great at multi-tasking.
“You’ll get them to come back for us, right?” Sam asked, fitting a hand into the small of his back. “First chance you get?”
“Of course. Honestly, you make it sound as if there’d be any choice in the matter.” Baltar snorted, disbelieving. “Like the military is going to hear that there are people still alive back here on the worlds and decide to just leave them.” Sam’s smile turned wry.
“If you say so.”
They looked wordlessly up at Thrace, recalling her eagerness to complete her mission and get out of there; her single-minded focus on the arrow.
“I’ll use every ounce of persuasion I have, Sam,” Baltar promised. “I won’t let them forget you.”
“Damn right,” Sam teased, running his fingers thru the other man’s hair. “I know exactly how persuasive you can be.”
“Are you two sweethearts done yet?” Thrace called sharply. “Or would you like to get one last ride in before I drag your genius ass off this gods-forsaken little wasteland?”
“Alright.” Baltar scowled at her momentarily, before turning back to Sam. His expression melted, the euphoria over his rescue breaking slightly. “I don’t understand why you won’t come too.”
“Can’t take everybody,” Sam reminded him. “Somebody has to stay behind to lead, until you get us rescued.”
“I am coming back,” Baltar insisted. “I promise.” Sam nodded. He pulled his fingers out of Baltar’s hair, gently prying the hand off his cheek.
He steadily brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back: a sweet, sentimental gesture he normally wouldn’t have dared to try, that Baltar never would have allowed him. But at this moment he couldn’t let it go undone. He heard Baltar’s breath catch painfully in his throat.
“Goodbye, Gaius.”
“Goodbye, Sam.” He pulled his hand from Sam’s and for a moment just stood there looking at him, awkwardly, before nodding. Then he turned around and hurried to the heavy raider, to Thrace, to escape.
To safety. To farewell.
Even though he couldn’t see the windows Sam knew Baltar was waving at him as they took off, and he raised an arm, waving back.
He stood there and watched the heavy raider vanish into the sky. He stayed there for a long time after it had gone, staring at the space where it had been.
Then Sam tucked his hands into his pockets and headed slowly back towards camp, trying to get used to the aching weight of this empty space in his chest.
I highly suspect she was kidding, and will not in fact declare me, quote, "Captain Awesomesauce, Queen of the Horny Bastards", unquote, and is far more likely to simply declare me frakkin' insane and call it a day. (Really, who could blame her?)
Also, I discovered if you rearrange the letters just so, you get "Antlers", a silly fact with which I am amused far more than I have any right to be.
Title: Grief for a Dead World
Genre: AU, Slash
Pairing: Sam Anders/Gaius Baltar
Rating: R for sex, language, drinking
Spoilers: Uh, AU starting from the mini, so heck no.
Length: 3,685 words
Disclaimer: Characters and series property of the SciFi Channel and Misters Ronald D. Moore and David Eick. By your command.
Summary: When you're trapped on a dying world, you cope whatever way you can; you make your own way to survive.
Stage one: Denial
Sam spotted it first, the lone figure stumbling across the tree-line at the far end of the hillside.
His first thought was skinjob, the dark-haired one with the bright suit jackets and cold friendly smiles, but then he got a look at the face beneath matted hair, realized the features were completely different.
“Stop! Hold your fire!” Sam lowered his rifle, twisting over his shoulder and waving his arm. “Hang on a second.”
The stranger had gotten close enough to see their guns and froze, like a startled animal, ready to turn and bolt for the safety of the trees.
“Hey, easy pal,” Sam called. “It’s okay. We’re the good guys.”
“Assuming that’s not another toaster we haven’t seen before,” Hillard muttered darkly. Sam didn’t bother replying: like the rest of the team, he kept a hand close to his trigger.
The stranger came forward, blinking dazedly in the light of the radiation-scorched sky.
“You have weapons.” His voice sounded hoarse from disuse. Long hair hung over his face in damp strands, dried blood caked to bruises and scratches, cheeks overgrown with stubble. A light jacket over clothing torn and stained with mud: he hugged himself, shivering. “Are you military?” Even the roughness of his voice wasn’t enough to hide the tone of hope.
Sam chuckled wryly. “Not even close. Samuel T. Anders of the Buccaneers. You may have heard of us.”
“Oh.” The stranger crumpled in disappointment, not seeming to catch Sam’s joke. “I see.”
“Hey, wait a minute.” Baroclay stepped out. She looked at his face, squinting. “Are you who I think you are?”
He shied back, panicked. “I don’t know anything about it!” he yelped. “Anything at all!”
“It’s okay, relax.” Sam raised a hand. Poor guy had been alone in the wilderness too long, gotten twitchy. “Everyone give him some space.”
“That’s Gaius frakking Baltar,” Baroclay said, disbelieving. “You know, the prize-winning science genius? The one on the news all the time?”
“Hey, yeah, it is.” Hillard frowned. “What’s a scientist doing all the way out here?”
“My house is outside Caprica City. After the first attack there was a crowd of survivors, trying to get to a military transport we’d seen land nearby. The mob knocked me down, I hit my head-” Baltar’s voice broke, growing feebler. “When I came to, it’d already left.”
He finished softly: “A short while later Centurions showed up, started firing…” He trailed off, shaking.
Sam shook his head, sympathetic. “Sounds like you missed the last flight off this rock.”
“Oh no, that can’t be,” Baltar disagreed. “The military is hardly going to abandon us to the Cylons. They’ll come back.”
Sam wondered who he was kidding; what he thought was keeping their rescue so busy that they hadn’t shown up yet. But instead of saying it, he just smiled grimly.
“Keep telling yourself that. If it’ll really make you feel better.”
____
Stage two: Anger
Baltar may have had rough luck escaping the planet, but someone was looking out for him: without training or supplies he’d survived, alone, escaping the Cylons, wandering with no idea where he was or where he was going, or even if he was going anywhere at all.
They’d found him in the nick of time. He was suffering from dehydration, exposure, hypothermia, and even a few more days and he’d have soaked up enough radiation to be too far gone to save. As it was, he was sick enough they’d had to start him on twice the meds he should’ve needed.
Sue-Shaun complained.
“The little twerp doesn’t even know how to hold a gun, Anders. And he won’t let us teach him.” She eyed him challengingly, hands on her hips. “He’s worse than useless, he’s dead weight. We’re wasting supplies by feeding him.”
“So, what?” Sam demanded. “We cut him loose? Leave him for the toasters to find?” Sue-Shaun turned away, not meeting his eyes. “It’s us versus the Cylons, ‘us’ being the human race. We don’t get to pick and choose who survives.”
“Yeah, well, maybe we should,” she retorted. Sam ignored her.
“Besides, he’s some kind of genius, right? Who knows, maybe that’ll come in handy eventually.”
Sue-Shaun rolled her eyes. “Yeah: maybe he can think us a way out of this.”
As much as Sam defended him, he was starting to lose patience too. Their band was made of survivalists, athletes: Baltar was the only one that was pure civilian. City-bred. Soft.
“Come on, doc. You have to join the raids sometime.”
“Certainly not,” he scoffed. “I might get shot.”
“So could any of us.” Sam eyed him dangerously. “We put our lives on the line every time we go out there. You think we should make exceptions for you, just because this isn’t what you’re used to?” He threw down the gauze he’d been wrapping his hand in, frustrated:
“Like any of us is used to fighting in a guerrilla war.”
“What I don’t see is why you even do this,” Baltar began, haughtily. “Why you feel the need to take unnecessary risks again and again, when we have a perfectly safe base and plenty of supplies. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Because we have to, that’s why,” Sam burst, jerking his head up violently. Baltar paled, ducking. “Because the Cylons came to our planet, our home: nuked the hell out of us!”
He almost hit Baltar, but reigned himself in and hit the wall instead. Scraped knuckles on concrete, messing his hand up worse, and he swore before dropping his shoulders.
“And damned if I’m gonna roll over and let them win,” he concluded, bone-weary. “Not without a fight.”
Baltar was silent, and Sam sat there with eyes closed, thinking he must have left. Which was why he jumped slightly, startled, when a hand brushed over his.
“It’s a hard life, ours.” Baltar eyed the damaged skin. His touch was steady, certain; surprisingly gentle as the softness of his palms slid against Sam’s calluses. “Trapped with the weight of a dying world on our shoulders. Each of us has to make our own little way to survive.” He picked up the discarded gauze, winding it smoothly around Sam’s fingers.
“You cling to sanity your chosen way, Samuel. And I’ll do it in mine.”
“It won’t work forever. Eventually just hanging onto what you’ve lost isn’t going to cut it anymore.” Sam tilted his head back, sighing.
“I just hope I can keep your ass alive long enough for you to realize that.”
____
Stage three: Bargaining
“We’re doomed as a species, empirically speaking,” Baltar muttered.
He shook his head dismally as he took another swig.
“The very foundation is entirely dependant on viable women who are willing to continue to propagate the genus. A willingness which I find our current stock to be completely lacking.”
Sam laughed, helping himself to the bottle. “You’re not interested in making babies. You just wanna get laid.”
Baltar stiffened. “Well, perhaps so,” he said, sourly. “But I don’t see how that’s so much to ask, either.” Sam laughed again.
Ever since joining them Baltar had given the women all his hopeful attention. But so far, nothing: Sue-Shaun couldn’t stand him, and Baroclay…well, he wouldn’t be her type without some major cosmetic surgery, leave it at that.
Maybe if things got more desperate he might stand a chance. But there was some choice still, and so far Baltar came up last pick among the ladies of the resistance every time.
“Don’t stress it too much, doc.” Sam took a slow drink, savoring it, before handing it back. “We’ve got nothing but time.” Baltar grimaced.
“Don’t remind me.” He groaned slightly, the distinct sound of deep sexual frustration. “It’s been so long. The pleasures of one’s own company really do begin to lose their charm after a point.”
Sam chortled, feeling the dizzy rush to his head. “Only you could find such a fancy way of saying ‘I’m getting sick of jerking myself off’.”
Baltar scowled. “Well. I am.” He passed the bottle to Sam, who held it, considering, as he slowly rolled it between his fingers. Eventually, Sam grinned.
“Come here.”
“What?” Baltar asked, distracted. His eyes quickly widened in alarm as Sam crawled over to him without waiting, hands to either side of him on the ground, leaning in. Baltar tensed. “Now, wait! Wait just a minute!”
Sam froze, inches from his face. The bonfire cast dancing shadows across Baltar’s features making his eyes seem inhumanly wide, the lines of his face even stiffer with shock. Sam drew back, sighing.
“Oh. You’re one of those.”
“One of what?” Baltar demanded, sounding equal parts confused and insulted. Sam shook his head. The warmth of his buzz was beginning to fade but he clung to it.
“Never mind.” He pulled back but with one hand reached in stroking a hard, certain line down Baltar’s fly. He felt instant reaction and the other man’s breathing grew shaky. “Just relax, okay?”
“But I-” Baltar wriggled uncertainly, like he didn’t know whether to run or stay.
“Gaius,” Sam tried, gently: “relax.” His given name sounded strange, almost foreign on Sam’s tongue, but it turned out to be the magic word. Baltar calmed, ever so slightly, and Sam unzipped him, reaching in to grab him by the shaft.
Sam did a few quick exploratory strokes with his thumb, getting a feel for the dick in his hand, before he tightened his palm, giving a quick squeeze as he moved down.
“Oh”, and “gods”, and “yes”, Baltar said. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Sam kept it up, rough but not too rough, just enough to get some friction. He paused at the base of the shaft and pressed hard, before jerking back down to the head. Baltar rewarded him with the most beautiful moan he’d ever heard.
By now he was moving under Sam’s grasp, thrusting into his hand as his chest rose and fell laboriously. Sam wanted to move closer, press against his body, but he knew better. He leaned in gradually until he felt the heat of Baltar’s breath across his cheek, the ends of his hair poking his skin. Then he bent down, catching the smoothness of Baltar’s neck in his mouth; sliding lips over soft skin, the bones at the hollow of his throat.
“Oh, gods.” Baltar moaned again, more breathily this time, grinding desperately against Sam, one hand digging into his shoulder for support. “Frak.” Sam made his way patiently, licking and sucking across his collarbone, his shoulder; then up again one side of his throat, to one earlobe, down the edge of a sculpted cheekbone and, finally, to his lips. Eyes closed, he felt Baltar’s eyelashes flutter: he hesitated only fractionally at the press of Sam’s mouth before letting him in, and then Sam was tasting him, his tongue sliding over Baltar’s, their mouths locked together hungrily as the other man squirmed beneath him all the while.
Baltar still clung to him. His other hand raked up the length of Sam’s spine, the back of his neck, fingers curling into the short bristles of his hair. Sam leaned in, daring a quick feel along his ass and the line of one thigh before settling on the inside of his knee. He sped up his movements on his cock.
Releasing his hold on Baltar’s mouth he pulled his head back, opening his eyes. Baltar’s look was wide but dazed, blind, features caught somewhere between pain and ecstasy.
“Oh…” he made a sound both gasp and groan as he came, “Sam.”
He collapsed limply, boneless, and Sam carefully supported his weight as he lowered him to the ground, wiping his hand in the grass.
He never took his eyes off him. Baltar’s head lay to one side, dark hair making a halo, his mouth curled into a faint smile of pleasure and peace. Sam almost thought he was asleep, if not for the hand he felt on the buckle of his belt.
He batted it away. “No, it’s okay.”
“I’m supposed to reciprocate, aren’t I?” Baltar turned his head, opened his eyes; gradual, slow, as if with a great deal of effort. “Isn’t that the way this works?”
Sam smiled down at him, easy.
“Well. There’s always tomorrow night.”
____
Stage four: Depression
“There’s just no point in any of it, is there?”
Baltar lay curled on his side in the cot they shared, hair in tangles, the sheet tucked around him as if in afterthought.
“You kill them and they kill you, and for what? They just keep coming. And we keep dying. Nothing’s ever going to change, until there aren’t any of us left.”
His eyes shone with unshed tears, deep with grief and fear and hopelessness and the lines of too many sleepless nights. He’d gotten even thinner than when Sam met him, the bones of his face stretched tight against his skin, his ribs visible with every breath.
Sam sat beside him, reaching to lightly touch the back of his head.
“Come on. You’ve got to get up.”
Baltar didn’t seem to hear him.
“I survived my house being destroyed around me,” he rasped. “I’d lie awake, no warning but the sound they made when they walked, the slightest flicker of silver or white thru the trees.” His breath caught, he choked out: “Sometimes, I thought I saw…but there was nothing there. I drank rainwater and ate grass and slept on the ground, for days, weeks, and for what? For what? No one’s coming to rescue us. We’ve been left to die. There’s nothing left.”
“There’s us,” Sam said. “There’s the fight. So that’s what we do. We keep fighting.”
“Fighting?” Baltar laughed horribly. “What are you talking about? You can’t win. You can’t possibly. You’re out-numbered, out-gunned…it’s only a matter of time. What you’re fighting is the inevitable. Eventually, the Cylons will win.”
“Yeah. Probably.” Sam nodded, unhesitant. “But so what? We take out as many of them on the way down as we can.” Baltar lifted his head, propping himself on one elbow.
“And that’s it?” he demanded, clutching at desperation. “That’s all? That’s what keeps you going, what gives you the will to live?” Sam moved his hand, tenderly stroking his hair, the base of his head.
“It’s enough.”
“But, there’s no hope.”
“We’re alive, Gaius.” Sam met his eyes with full fierce sincerity. “As long as there’s that, there’s hope. Who knows what’ll happen tomorrow? We just have to stay alive today.”
Baltar said nothing. He stared down and at nothing at the same time. Sam tightened his fingers in his hair, slid closer.
“Hey,” he said, anxious, grasping at straws, “wanna hear something ironic?” When he didn’t get a response he kept talking anyway: “I was actually born on Picon.”
Baltar lifted his head at last, but only to look at him blankly. Sam blinked.
“You know? The rivalry between the Panthers and the C-Bucs?” he asked, disbelieving. “I know you’re not a sports fan, but come on.”
“Is that really something you’d just assume people know?” Baltar asked quizzically. Sam stared, certain he had to be joking. When his expression didn’t change, Sam finally started laughing.
“You know, that’s what I think I like about you the most.” He grinned, sliding beneath the sheet to lie behind him. “No matter how well I know you, I don’t think I could ever completely get you.”
Baltar flinched; tensing before Sam said “like” as if expecting him to say something else, relaxing again when he didn’t.
“Oh, so that’s what you find so attractive about me,” he murmured, wry: “That I’m an enigma.”
“Among other things.” Sam pressed his chest against his back, skin on skin. He wrapped one arm across Baltar’s upper body, tucking his head down to nuzzle the crook between shoulder and neck. Baltar sighed.
“Sometimes I can’t help thinking you’re getting the better bargain,” he said. “Me, I’m starting to feel a bit like a trophy wife: lying around, inventorying supplies and keeping house.”
Sam chortled lightly. Lazy fingers ran down the front of Baltar’s stomach, tracing the line of dark hair down to navel and further.
“If you want to do some heavy lifting, all you have to do is say the word.”
“I might just take you up that offer,” Baltar replied, “someday.” For now he was clearly in no hurry to go anywhere, closing his eyes with a contented murmur and leaning back against the muscles of Sam’s chest, rubbing his palm along the solid lines of the arm curled around him.
Sam rested his hand against the flat space just between navel and groin. He pressed his cheek, warm from the sun, against the coolness of Baltar’s. With his free hand he brushed against his ass, sliding just the tips of his fingers inside the crease. Baltar shivered; he hadn’t let Sam frak him yet, but they both knew it was only a matter of time.
Today, though, that wasn’t what Sam wanted. Right now, what he had in his arms was more than enough.
____
Stage five: Acceptance
Sam had to wonder what the chances were: that someone could survive a nuclear holocaust, only to miss escape by the slimmest of margins, but then wind up getting another shot. Not odds he’d want to take to any tournament with him, that was for damn sure.
“Remind me never to play pyramid with you around,” he said. “I don’t know whether you’d jinx me or end up being one hell of a lucky charm.”
Baltar rolled his eyes. “You know how I feel about superstitions,” he groused, but without much attention. He was practically vibrating with excitement, joy; rapture, even.
Sam couldn’t blame him. He was getting out. If only they all could be so blessed.
It’d been pretty unbelievable how it’d happened. A pilot from the military crawling all the way back to Caprica and managing to cross paths with their little band. The odds on that had to pretty spectacular, too.
“I really do think you must have some kind of role to play, Gaius. To have been thru everything you have and keep getting breaks like this…” Sam gazed at him with wonder. “Like the gods must be looking out for you or something.”
Baltar sighed, cupping a hand along the underside of Sam’s chin.
“This is going to be the last we’ll see of each other for awhile, Sam,” he chided. “Let’s not waste it on these ridiculous religious sentiments, shall we?”
Sam chuckled, amused as always by the scientific certitude of his atheism. He put his hand on top of his and smiled softly.
“Have fun in that fleet out there, huh? Sounds like one hell of a party.”
“If half of what Lieutenant Thrace has told me is true, I can only imagine.”
Baltar looked over his shoulder at the impatient woman waiting on the ramp to her stolen ship, short blond hair moving in the breeze, and Sam felt the slightest twinge of resentment. He could see the edge to his expression when he looked at the pilot; the same calculating eagerness with which he used to look at the women in the resistance.
Sam could get where he was coming from, a little. He’d played a friendly game with Thrace, waiting to score her ticket out of there. Brushing against the softness of her curves, watching the lean strength of her toned body, he’d definitely had some thoughts.
But then he remembered the lines of Baltar’s body that he knew as well as his own hand, the feel of his cock buried inside him. And, well, he’d never been all that great at multi-tasking.
“You’ll get them to come back for us, right?” Sam asked, fitting a hand into the small of his back. “First chance you get?”
“Of course. Honestly, you make it sound as if there’d be any choice in the matter.” Baltar snorted, disbelieving. “Like the military is going to hear that there are people still alive back here on the worlds and decide to just leave them.” Sam’s smile turned wry.
“If you say so.”
They looked wordlessly up at Thrace, recalling her eagerness to complete her mission and get out of there; her single-minded focus on the arrow.
“I’ll use every ounce of persuasion I have, Sam,” Baltar promised. “I won’t let them forget you.”
“Damn right,” Sam teased, running his fingers thru the other man’s hair. “I know exactly how persuasive you can be.”
“Are you two sweethearts done yet?” Thrace called sharply. “Or would you like to get one last ride in before I drag your genius ass off this gods-forsaken little wasteland?”
“Alright.” Baltar scowled at her momentarily, before turning back to Sam. His expression melted, the euphoria over his rescue breaking slightly. “I don’t understand why you won’t come too.”
“Can’t take everybody,” Sam reminded him. “Somebody has to stay behind to lead, until you get us rescued.”
“I am coming back,” Baltar insisted. “I promise.” Sam nodded. He pulled his fingers out of Baltar’s hair, gently prying the hand off his cheek.
He steadily brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back: a sweet, sentimental gesture he normally wouldn’t have dared to try, that Baltar never would have allowed him. But at this moment he couldn’t let it go undone. He heard Baltar’s breath catch painfully in his throat.
“Goodbye, Gaius.”
“Goodbye, Sam.” He pulled his hand from Sam’s and for a moment just stood there looking at him, awkwardly, before nodding. Then he turned around and hurried to the heavy raider, to Thrace, to escape.
To safety. To farewell.
Even though he couldn’t see the windows Sam knew Baltar was waving at him as they took off, and he raised an arm, waving back.
He stood there and watched the heavy raider vanish into the sky. He stayed there for a long time after it had gone, staring at the space where it had been.
Then Sam tucked his hands into his pockets and headed slowly back towards camp, trying to get used to the aching weight of this empty space in his chest.