BSG FIC: The Quality of Mercy (1/1)
FIC: The Quality of Mercy
FANDOM: BSG 2003
SUMMARY: Gaius and Gina during Pegasus.
A/N: Written for 15minuteficlets and thus unbeated, un-fiddled with and generally quite small. prompt = open
*
If he was any decent kind of man, he wouldn't be thinking of her like this. The trouble is, Gaius was never particularly decent, possibly not even once in his entire life, and all he can think when he looks at her is, she's so open.
Well, yes. She's in the centre of the room, her shackles unlocked. Her coverings are loose and only vaguely resemble garments; less so when she moves in tiny, distressed motions. The clinical part of him is glad to see any emotion at all; the human part of him is - not. And, still, her hands, open, palms exposed as she reaches for a slice of fruit; slow, she moved, fingers trembling like a blind child learning a new face.
The bruises on her thighs are too numerous to make out, save for the deep thumbprints where they'd splayed her open, body and soul. Except, of course, that she didn't have a soul for them, and he wasn't sure that she ever had. This one had nothing left to her, certainly; her eyes - gradually regaining some life - followed his movements carefully. He does not meet her gaze, unwilling to see what was left of her.
He presses his thumbs against his temples, tiredly rubbing circles to ease the tension there, counting down the minutes and wondering what he's going to do when the time runs out. It's a simple enough equation, for all that it doesn't add up: no results, no more visits, no more her.
"I wish you were here," he murmurs eventually. "I know why you're not. I know why you - your other self - can't be. But I see you everywhere, and I - can't -"
What he cannot do goes unsaid, because he looks up and sees her watching him. Her lashes are startling white against the bruised skin of her cheeks. Gone, she is; all mottled blues and greens like too-young fruit, picked unduly. She whispers something, voice too hoarse for him to make it out and he shakes his head. "What?" He's careful not to move, or to give any indication of imminent movement; perfectly still, he holds himself, and waits. "I didn't hear you."
She presses her lips together tightly; they disappear beneath the pressure, too pale to be visible. She dips her head slightly, evidently too sore to make a more dramatic movement.
He nods in return, and folds his hands together. They wait.
The shackles lie on the ground, empty.
*
fin
FANDOM: BSG 2003
SUMMARY: Gaius and Gina during Pegasus.
A/N: Written for 15minuteficlets and thus unbeated, un-fiddled with and generally quite small. prompt = open
*
If he was any decent kind of man, he wouldn't be thinking of her like this. The trouble is, Gaius was never particularly decent, possibly not even once in his entire life, and all he can think when he looks at her is, she's so open.
Well, yes. She's in the centre of the room, her shackles unlocked. Her coverings are loose and only vaguely resemble garments; less so when she moves in tiny, distressed motions. The clinical part of him is glad to see any emotion at all; the human part of him is - not. And, still, her hands, open, palms exposed as she reaches for a slice of fruit; slow, she moved, fingers trembling like a blind child learning a new face.
The bruises on her thighs are too numerous to make out, save for the deep thumbprints where they'd splayed her open, body and soul. Except, of course, that she didn't have a soul for them, and he wasn't sure that she ever had. This one had nothing left to her, certainly; her eyes - gradually regaining some life - followed his movements carefully. He does not meet her gaze, unwilling to see what was left of her.
He presses his thumbs against his temples, tiredly rubbing circles to ease the tension there, counting down the minutes and wondering what he's going to do when the time runs out. It's a simple enough equation, for all that it doesn't add up: no results, no more visits, no more her.
"I wish you were here," he murmurs eventually. "I know why you're not. I know why you - your other self - can't be. But I see you everywhere, and I - can't -"
What he cannot do goes unsaid, because he looks up and sees her watching him. Her lashes are startling white against the bruised skin of her cheeks. Gone, she is; all mottled blues and greens like too-young fruit, picked unduly. She whispers something, voice too hoarse for him to make it out and he shakes his head. "What?" He's careful not to move, or to give any indication of imminent movement; perfectly still, he holds himself, and waits. "I didn't hear you."
She presses her lips together tightly; they disappear beneath the pressure, too pale to be visible. She dips her head slightly, evidently too sore to make a more dramatic movement.
He nods in return, and folds his hands together. They wait.
The shackles lie on the ground, empty.
*
fin