BSG1k challenge entry...
Title: Don't Leave Me
Author: Leda13
Rating: PG, I'd guess. I'm not great at ratings.
Characters: Kara, Lee. (So sue me for falling for the UST)
Spoilers: nothing specific. Meant to fit around "33"
Summary: It's not easy to be a survivor, and a tired-to-death Kara needs a specific reason to keep going.
Length: 1k exactly. Stogie for Kara, who was more co-operative than I thought she'd be.
Archive: ask first, please.
Don't Leave Me
"Give me the gun, Kara."
It's the wrong tone, and I know it; making demands of Starbuck is never a good idea. She's either going to pull the trigger or beat the hell out of me, and I'm afraid it's the former. I can see the weapon: her normal side-arm. I can hear the click-snick of the magazine cycling.
"Frack off, Lee." There isn’t any bitterness in the tone, no venom, just the basic words. It doesn’t sound anything like her, not the Kara I've always known.
"No." It’s easy to say, but I can't think of anything else to add, just can't believe I might see this play out. It's too wrong, too unreal. Starbuck is not supposed to die, just disappear sometime in a shower of miniature suns, her laughter echoing over the com. We’re in a storeroom, and it’s dark, and there’s no laughter. Her face is a mask, all the animation and energy that's Kara is missing. “I can’t do that.”
She’s tucked up like a little girl, knees against her chest, blonde tendrils of hair sweeping down to blur her profile. The gun looks way too big for her hand. My throat is aching to talk as I lower myself to the floor a few feet away, but nothing comes out to break the silence. I hate it, but so does she, because it’s not our comfortable, companionable wordless repartee. It’s fear, crackling in the air like radiation. There’s so much I want to say but the words are all gone with terror.
"I can't sleep anymore" she says at last, and I know the feeling. "Too fracking scared I won't wake up."
"Yeah." It’s the same for me. Too hard to let go of consciousness in case death comes while you sleep… and then there’s the nightmares. Both of us have seen too many actinic flashes, too many dead faces, heard too many dead voices on the com. There’s too many phantoms on the edge of total exhaustion.
"At least when I'm up there, when it’s just me and the stars, it's all in my hands. It’s a chance, just for a little while, to forget how much has changed. I can fight back. I'm in control. But now..."
It's a raw nerve. It's been too long since either of us could really let the emptiness of space clear our heads and the heat of a Viper engine cauterize the pain. There’s too much to do, too many trainees to ride herd on, too many command decisions that end up riding the missiles. When so many are dead, how do you forgive yourself for living? Neither of us knows, and she's been trying to figure it out much longer than I have.
"Seems like it would just be... easier, you know?"
Yes, I know. I've felt the perverse relief of it being over, but she's always brought me back. "I know." What I don't know is why this, why now. It isn't like her: Kara doesn't ever give up. Not on anyone… not even herself. Never on me, never when she can still ball up a fist and fight to bring me back.
But now… now the fight’s all gone out of her; what’s left is reflex. Sass and perversity. If it had been anyone else, I’d be looking for the bottle they were drowning in, but Kara and alcohol are explosive. This is collapse, not conflict, and there’s none of the mercurial energy in her, no ambrosial glow. She just leans on the bulkhead in this empty storeroom, the dim light reflected across gunmetal panels to glance off the gun. It’s all I can do not to cry.
“No inspirational words, CAG?” More sass, no sarcasm. “Not going to talk your best pilot out of a bullet?”
“I want to know why,” I respond, letting my eyes lock on hers. Usually it slows time when that happens, because I never want to break it, but now it seems to speed up the whole ship. Time is slipping away from me and I don’t know how to stop it, because she doesn’t look away. Just stares as the barrel rises, parts the fall of her hair above her cheek.
“Because I don’t want to die piece by piece anymore,” she answers.
It makes sense. How much more can either of us bear to lose? We already have nothing tangible left… almost nothing; just a guilty, gut-wrenching desire which fills me with as much pain as hope, and she can’t acknowledge it anyway. More ghosts we won’t have time to exorcise.
"Don't do this," I ask. My voice is steady but it sounds like pleading.
"Do what?" The weapon rests just there, the firm, competent grip of one hand letting the barrel cast a shadow on her skin. "Make a mess of the bulkhead? Frack up my uniform? Screw up the flight rosters? Chicken out?" Its typical Starbuck, but there's a quaver in the voice that's not familiar. "Die?" she concludes, and I can't breathe.
"No," I answer, and find honesty is the only refuge. "Don't leave me."
Her face contorts. "Frack."
My hand comes up for the gun, but she isn't ready to let go yet, even if the business end has slipped away from her temple. It hovers there in the air between us, like so many unsaid vows. I can’t bear it. “Kara? Please?"
She lets it fall. I leave it there on the deck, a malevolent blotch on the shiny floor between us, and reach for her hand. It’s cold, but there’s a spark of heat in the touch all the same, and I meet her eyes to see the light coming back into them. She's alive again, the face pained, but hers, with tears spilling over.
"It's harder to live," she says, ignoring them, drying them against my neck as I pull her close. Somehow there’s absolution in this shared warmth. "But it would be impossible without you."
Author: Leda13
Rating: PG, I'd guess. I'm not great at ratings.
Characters: Kara, Lee. (So sue me for falling for the UST)
Spoilers: nothing specific. Meant to fit around "33"
Summary: It's not easy to be a survivor, and a tired-to-death Kara needs a specific reason to keep going.
Length: 1k exactly. Stogie for Kara, who was more co-operative than I thought she'd be.
Archive: ask first, please.
Don't Leave Me
"Give me the gun, Kara."
It's the wrong tone, and I know it; making demands of Starbuck is never a good idea. She's either going to pull the trigger or beat the hell out of me, and I'm afraid it's the former. I can see the weapon: her normal side-arm. I can hear the click-snick of the magazine cycling.
"Frack off, Lee." There isn’t any bitterness in the tone, no venom, just the basic words. It doesn’t sound anything like her, not the Kara I've always known.
"No." It’s easy to say, but I can't think of anything else to add, just can't believe I might see this play out. It's too wrong, too unreal. Starbuck is not supposed to die, just disappear sometime in a shower of miniature suns, her laughter echoing over the com. We’re in a storeroom, and it’s dark, and there’s no laughter. Her face is a mask, all the animation and energy that's Kara is missing. “I can’t do that.”
She’s tucked up like a little girl, knees against her chest, blonde tendrils of hair sweeping down to blur her profile. The gun looks way too big for her hand. My throat is aching to talk as I lower myself to the floor a few feet away, but nothing comes out to break the silence. I hate it, but so does she, because it’s not our comfortable, companionable wordless repartee. It’s fear, crackling in the air like radiation. There’s so much I want to say but the words are all gone with terror.
"I can't sleep anymore" she says at last, and I know the feeling. "Too fracking scared I won't wake up."
"Yeah." It’s the same for me. Too hard to let go of consciousness in case death comes while you sleep… and then there’s the nightmares. Both of us have seen too many actinic flashes, too many dead faces, heard too many dead voices on the com. There’s too many phantoms on the edge of total exhaustion.
"At least when I'm up there, when it’s just me and the stars, it's all in my hands. It’s a chance, just for a little while, to forget how much has changed. I can fight back. I'm in control. But now..."
It's a raw nerve. It's been too long since either of us could really let the emptiness of space clear our heads and the heat of a Viper engine cauterize the pain. There’s too much to do, too many trainees to ride herd on, too many command decisions that end up riding the missiles. When so many are dead, how do you forgive yourself for living? Neither of us knows, and she's been trying to figure it out much longer than I have.
"Seems like it would just be... easier, you know?"
Yes, I know. I've felt the perverse relief of it being over, but she's always brought me back. "I know." What I don't know is why this, why now. It isn't like her: Kara doesn't ever give up. Not on anyone… not even herself. Never on me, never when she can still ball up a fist and fight to bring me back.
But now… now the fight’s all gone out of her; what’s left is reflex. Sass and perversity. If it had been anyone else, I’d be looking for the bottle they were drowning in, but Kara and alcohol are explosive. This is collapse, not conflict, and there’s none of the mercurial energy in her, no ambrosial glow. She just leans on the bulkhead in this empty storeroom, the dim light reflected across gunmetal panels to glance off the gun. It’s all I can do not to cry.
“No inspirational words, CAG?” More sass, no sarcasm. “Not going to talk your best pilot out of a bullet?”
“I want to know why,” I respond, letting my eyes lock on hers. Usually it slows time when that happens, because I never want to break it, but now it seems to speed up the whole ship. Time is slipping away from me and I don’t know how to stop it, because she doesn’t look away. Just stares as the barrel rises, parts the fall of her hair above her cheek.
“Because I don’t want to die piece by piece anymore,” she answers.
It makes sense. How much more can either of us bear to lose? We already have nothing tangible left… almost nothing; just a guilty, gut-wrenching desire which fills me with as much pain as hope, and she can’t acknowledge it anyway. More ghosts we won’t have time to exorcise.
"Don't do this," I ask. My voice is steady but it sounds like pleading.
"Do what?" The weapon rests just there, the firm, competent grip of one hand letting the barrel cast a shadow on her skin. "Make a mess of the bulkhead? Frack up my uniform? Screw up the flight rosters? Chicken out?" Its typical Starbuck, but there's a quaver in the voice that's not familiar. "Die?" she concludes, and I can't breathe.
"No," I answer, and find honesty is the only refuge. "Don't leave me."
Her face contorts. "Frack."
My hand comes up for the gun, but she isn't ready to let go yet, even if the business end has slipped away from her temple. It hovers there in the air between us, like so many unsaid vows. I can’t bear it. “Kara? Please?"
She lets it fall. I leave it there on the deck, a malevolent blotch on the shiny floor between us, and reach for her hand. It’s cold, but there’s a spark of heat in the touch all the same, and I meet her eyes to see the light coming back into them. She's alive again, the face pained, but hers, with tears spilling over.
"It's harder to live," she says, ignoring them, drying them against my neck as I pull her close. Somehow there’s absolution in this shared warmth. "But it would be impossible without you."