(no subject)
Somewhere in there, time passes.
Sickbay. A blur of drugs and nervous energy. Frantic explanations and calls in the middle of the night. Angels in the wall, on his bed. In his head. Reality wavers.
More time passes.
People don't bother listening to him. They don't bother to consider the possibility of the Nexus, of a route to Earth not played out in the stars or swimming around in the head of some great leader. No one gives in to him. No one but a young, blond woman with blue eyes, standing tall in her high heels with a microphone in her hands. A reporter.
Credit isn't given where credit is due, but she listens to him, and that's what matters. With a wave of her hand, she can clear his image, and she does. With a wave of his hand, he can lead her to Earth.
And he does.
He doesn't know why he woke up in the base of the ship. He doesn't know why time had passed, somehow, between entering the portal and coming out of it. He was starving that day, stumbling in the dark. He doesn't know how long his stomach had been empty.
None of this matters, though, because the Nexus is still his. It still lets him in. It still provides food that isn't canned and booze that's free. Even if no one else believes him, he's still home. That isn't to say, however, he doesn't continue to live on the Galactica. Of course you're still there, says the voice in his head, cool and gentle. There's still work to be done.
There are days where he just wanders the Nexus, taking in the fresh air that he can't get anywhere else. Today is one of those days. He walks down the cobblestone path between his portal and the questions area, jacket folded in his arms.
Sickbay. A blur of drugs and nervous energy. Frantic explanations and calls in the middle of the night. Angels in the wall, on his bed. In his head. Reality wavers.
More time passes.
People don't bother listening to him. They don't bother to consider the possibility of the Nexus, of a route to Earth not played out in the stars or swimming around in the head of some great leader. No one gives in to him. No one but a young, blond woman with blue eyes, standing tall in her high heels with a microphone in her hands. A reporter.
Credit isn't given where credit is due, but she listens to him, and that's what matters. With a wave of her hand, she can clear his image, and she does. With a wave of his hand, he can lead her to Earth.
And he does.
He doesn't know why he woke up in the base of the ship. He doesn't know why time had passed, somehow, between entering the portal and coming out of it. He was starving that day, stumbling in the dark. He doesn't know how long his stomach had been empty.
None of this matters, though, because the Nexus is still his. It still lets him in. It still provides food that isn't canned and booze that's free. Even if no one else believes him, he's still home. That isn't to say, however, he doesn't continue to live on the Galactica. Of course you're still there, says the voice in his head, cool and gentle. There's still work to be done.
There are days where he just wanders the Nexus, taking in the fresh air that he can't get anywhere else. Today is one of those days. He walks down the cobblestone path between his portal and the questions area, jacket folded in his arms.