(no subject)
"How do I know any of this is real?"
The scene is his bedroom. Clear skies. Warm air. He's in a firm, leather chair facing away from the balcony, the sun on the back of his head. He can feel the wind coming through the open door in bursts, parting his hair like tiny fingers. Or saw blades.
Soon enough, the fingers are real.
"Your brain receives and interprets signals from the world around you," the woman behind him croons, Her fingers crawling down the back of his neck. "Reality is what you make of it."
"I'm not trying to be philosophical," he says, but he is trying to ignore the fingers. (He's never been very good at that.) "Reality isn't a choice," he continues. "What I'm trying to determine is whether or not the Nexus is real. Whether I'm just-- whether it's something like this, and I'm dying in some hospital bed somewhere, or rambling and foaming at the mouth back on Colonial One. How do I know I'm actually there?"
"Is it important?" Now Her fingers are down at his shoulders, lifting his back from the chair just slightly. She reaches in and kneads his shoulders and neck in controlled, smooth circles. She kisses his ear. "If you were dying somewhere else, wouldn't you rather be here?"
"It's important," he says, but now his eyes are closed. Yes, he'd rather be here. Any day, he'd rather be here.
"It's real."
"Real like you're real, or real like I am?"
"There's no difference, Gaius."
"Certainly," he breathes. His sarcasm is losing weight now, under Her touch and the situation. "And I'm assuming the same applies for my near death experience?"
"You mean your death?" He can hear Her grin. It would've made him feel sick a few days ago, but he's already distancing himself from the whole event. Besides, everything is so nice out here.
"Something should be done about him," he says, opening his eyes again. "Dr. Grey."
"You don't really seem like the vengeful type. Not anything that would put yourself in danger all over again, at least. Besides. They need you on Galactica."
That's right. Galactica. If he's not dead or dying, he's away, and if he's away, everything could fall apart. Suspicion is the thread of their existence, he thinks. They thrive on it. A month long disappearance of the Vice President followed by a mysterious return will only raise questions. Full scale investigations. Arrest. Where have you been, Dr. Baltar? Have you been collaborating with the enemy, Dr. Baltar? It isn't like he could bring up the death match. The cursed drinks. The non-humans. The gods.
"Yes," he says slowly, furrowing his brow. "Yes, that's still something I need to work out."
"I'd hurry it up," Six says, entirely helpful, lifting Her fingers from his neck with a final kiss. "You don't have much time."
And he doesn't.
He wakes up because the sofa is rough on his back, and his arms dig into the buttons. At least he wasn't talking aloud this time.
The scene is his bedroom. Clear skies. Warm air. He's in a firm, leather chair facing away from the balcony, the sun on the back of his head. He can feel the wind coming through the open door in bursts, parting his hair like tiny fingers. Or saw blades.
Soon enough, the fingers are real.
"Your brain receives and interprets signals from the world around you," the woman behind him croons, Her fingers crawling down the back of his neck. "Reality is what you make of it."
"I'm not trying to be philosophical," he says, but he is trying to ignore the fingers. (He's never been very good at that.) "Reality isn't a choice," he continues. "What I'm trying to determine is whether or not the Nexus is real. Whether I'm just-- whether it's something like this, and I'm dying in some hospital bed somewhere, or rambling and foaming at the mouth back on Colonial One. How do I know I'm actually there?"
"Is it important?" Now Her fingers are down at his shoulders, lifting his back from the chair just slightly. She reaches in and kneads his shoulders and neck in controlled, smooth circles. She kisses his ear. "If you were dying somewhere else, wouldn't you rather be here?"
"It's important," he says, but now his eyes are closed. Yes, he'd rather be here. Any day, he'd rather be here.
"It's real."
"Real like you're real, or real like I am?"
"There's no difference, Gaius."
"Certainly," he breathes. His sarcasm is losing weight now, under Her touch and the situation. "And I'm assuming the same applies for my near death experience?"
"You mean your death?" He can hear Her grin. It would've made him feel sick a few days ago, but he's already distancing himself from the whole event. Besides, everything is so nice out here.
"Something should be done about him," he says, opening his eyes again. "Dr. Grey."
"You don't really seem like the vengeful type. Not anything that would put yourself in danger all over again, at least. Besides. They need you on Galactica."
That's right. Galactica. If he's not dead or dying, he's away, and if he's away, everything could fall apart. Suspicion is the thread of their existence, he thinks. They thrive on it. A month long disappearance of the Vice President followed by a mysterious return will only raise questions. Full scale investigations. Arrest. Where have you been, Dr. Baltar? Have you been collaborating with the enemy, Dr. Baltar? It isn't like he could bring up the death match. The cursed drinks. The non-humans. The gods.
"Yes," he says slowly, furrowing his brow. "Yes, that's still something I need to work out."
"I'd hurry it up," Six says, entirely helpful, lifting Her fingers from his neck with a final kiss. "You don't have much time."
And he doesn't.
He wakes up because the sofa is rough on his back, and his arms dig into the buttons. At least he wasn't talking aloud this time.