BSG Drabbles
I love drabbles. Much fun is had.
Lee/Kara, wedding ring.
Roslin, cake.
Chief, fury.
Bill/Felix, drinking games.
For
jeebs83, Kara/Lee, wedding ring.
He hasn’t had a drink at Joe’s since he left Galactica.
On Colonial One it’s usually just a quick shot of something alone in his quarters, with no endless scuttlebutt, no bar games. His grandfather had always told him never trust a man who drinks alone, his mother proved that time and again, and yet he still finds himself guilty of it.
It’s different being here now. No dog tags against his chest, no sir or salutes, just a man a in a suit, sitting at a bar, looking far too out of place for one who used to fit in so deftly. He plays with the ring on his finger, twirling it around, when he feels the presence of someone taking a seat on his left. He doesn’t have to turn to look, so familiar with her just saddling up next to him whenever she felt like it. Some things change, some always stay the same.
“That thing isn’t cutting off your circulation by now?” She asks, alcohol accompanying the sarcasm. “I’m shocked Dee hasn’t hexed you with some Saggitaron revenge spell.”
He turns to look at her.
“I could say the same about yours,” he replies. “But somehow I don’t think Sam has it in him.”
She takes a sip of whatever it is she’s drinking.
“He’s more forgiving.”
“I suppose he is.”
He takes a sip.
“Seriously Lee.”
“I didn’t think that word was in your vocabulary.”
He’s almost surprised when there’s no comeback, for a second hating that she knows he’ll answer if she just sits there silent.
“I’m not hanging on to something,” he starts. “That probably was never there in the first place. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It was an idea.”
“Maybe I’m just not interested in dating yet,” he goes on. “It does tend to keep the ladies away.”
“Lee Adama, lady killer?” she scoffs into her glass, but with a smile on her face. “A player you’re not.”
He looks away, back down into his drink, seeing his own muddled reflection in the amber liquid.
“Maybe I keep it because to me, it means I’m waiting for someone else it will belong to.”
He’s not surprised when there is no comeback this time, just a hitch in her breath, serious words always throwing up some wall with her. He is surprised when he feels her hand on his, the soft whisper of his name falling from her lips in such a way that makes him believe he will keep the ring on forever if he has too.
He looks over to her, the idea of someday reflecting in both their eyes. She looks away first, clears her throat and takes another drink. When she looks back there’s the familiar mischief there.
“You think your skin’s too pretty for a tattoo?”
/\/\/\
For
alissabobissa. Roslin, cake.
The first thought that crosses her mind when he sets it in front of her, is how he found all the ingredients. They ran out of sugar lords’ know how long ago, eggs possibly even longer. And on top of leaping those hurdles, got someone in the kitchen to bake if for him.
The second thought that crosses her mind when he sets it in front of her, is that he is old enough, wise enough, not to put the appropriate amount of candles on it. There’s a certain age you stop reminding a woman just how long she’s been around, and she’d passed that long ago.
The third thought that crosses her mind when he sets it in front of her, is of the castle shaped one her mother made her when she was seven. Bright pink and white walls of sugar coated wonder complete with fairy princess in the window, prince waiting to rescue her down below.
The fourth thought that crosses her mind when he sets it in front of her, is that for an old war horse, he could be so incredibly sweet. His pleased smile behind the small orange glow of the candle causes her to mimic it. He doesn’t sit right away, waiting for her to blow out the flame, knife poised to cut. She lets it linger a bit, places her hand on his cheek, before murmuring a soft thank you.
“Happy Birthday Laura.”
/\/\/\
Also for
alissabobissa. Chief/fury.
His father was an angry man.
Little snap judgments left and right as long as he could remember, fear of the Gods’ almost as strong as belief, everything proper put in its proper place. He remembers how the volume always went up whenever he forgot to pray, when he didn’t put on those silly little robes and made a big fat spectacle of himself because he was more interested in how the toaster worked than the almighty Zeus tossing thunderbolts from his mythical mountain. How it was so frakking embarrassing for the high and mighty priest to have such an apathetic son.
There’s a saying about the apple not falling far from the tree, and he never once thought it applied to him, because Galen Tyrol was one of the few Gemenon born to reject the Gods’ from the day he realized they never answered your prayers. He was nothing like his father.
So he thought until the nightmares began to haunt him. Until they reached so far into his mind he could no longer see the line between dream and reality, and his fist struck outward, busting bone and ligament across a wide-eyed face. Regret came instantly, much like the memories of his own father’s apologies, the guilt slowly eating away.
The nightmare of being a cylon replaced by the nightmare he’s just a monster.
Just like his father.
tyrol, n, from the Old Gemenese. anger, wrath, fury.
/\/\/\
For
lunar47. Bill/Felix, drinking games.
“Mr. Gaeta.”
The gruff voice shakes him awake, blurred black lines before him as his eyes try to clear, paper stuck to the side of his face. For a second he can’t remember where he is, what he’s doing, a heavy hand squeezing the top of his brain, slowing his movement.
There’s a glass in his hand, too small, he thinks. It shakes in unstable fingers, thankfully empty, he pulls it slowly toward him. His vision a little more clear, he sees the pictures on the wall, the squadron emblems. He’s in the rec room, okay, what’s he doing here? How long has he been here?
His head feels two sizes too big, like a frakking dagget sat on it, he rubs a hand on the back of his neck hoping to alleviate the pressure. He swallows, tasting harsh cheap whiskey on his tongue, the left over remnants of a cigarette he doesn’t remember smoking.
Laughter suddenly, loud and boisterous, surrounding him, pounding his ear drums.
He feels a hand on his left shoulder, then one on his right, he’s lifted from being facedown on the table. Eyes still trying to focus, he sees the faces of a few pilots smiling widely, smoke and alcohol thick in the air.
He tries to hold his head upright, the form of the Admiral sitting across from him coming into focus, making him think he’s hallucinating.
The Admiral is twirling a cubit between his fingers, a slow easy grin on his lips, he watches with a terrified stare.
Suddenly the cubit is bounced atop the table, he watches it in slow-motion as it arcs gracefully through the air, landing deftly into an empty glass perched before him.
The group of pilots’ cry out in applause.
He swallows audibly.
The Admiral speaks: “Your drink Felix.”
Lee/Kara, wedding ring.
Roslin, cake.
Chief, fury.
Bill/Felix, drinking games.
For
jeebs83, Kara/Lee, wedding ring.
He hasn’t had a drink at Joe’s since he left Galactica.
On Colonial One it’s usually just a quick shot of something alone in his quarters, with no endless scuttlebutt, no bar games. His grandfather had always told him never trust a man who drinks alone, his mother proved that time and again, and yet he still finds himself guilty of it.
It’s different being here now. No dog tags against his chest, no sir or salutes, just a man a in a suit, sitting at a bar, looking far too out of place for one who used to fit in so deftly. He plays with the ring on his finger, twirling it around, when he feels the presence of someone taking a seat on his left. He doesn’t have to turn to look, so familiar with her just saddling up next to him whenever she felt like it. Some things change, some always stay the same.
“That thing isn’t cutting off your circulation by now?” She asks, alcohol accompanying the sarcasm. “I’m shocked Dee hasn’t hexed you with some Saggitaron revenge spell.”
He turns to look at her.
“I could say the same about yours,” he replies. “But somehow I don’t think Sam has it in him.”
She takes a sip of whatever it is she’s drinking.
“He’s more forgiving.”
“I suppose he is.”
He takes a sip.
“Seriously Lee.”
“I didn’t think that word was in your vocabulary.”
He’s almost surprised when there’s no comeback, for a second hating that she knows he’ll answer if she just sits there silent.
“I’m not hanging on to something,” he starts. “That probably was never there in the first place. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It was an idea.”
“Maybe I’m just not interested in dating yet,” he goes on. “It does tend to keep the ladies away.”
“Lee Adama, lady killer?” she scoffs into her glass, but with a smile on her face. “A player you’re not.”
He looks away, back down into his drink, seeing his own muddled reflection in the amber liquid.
“Maybe I keep it because to me, it means I’m waiting for someone else it will belong to.”
He’s not surprised when there is no comeback this time, just a hitch in her breath, serious words always throwing up some wall with her. He is surprised when he feels her hand on his, the soft whisper of his name falling from her lips in such a way that makes him believe he will keep the ring on forever if he has too.
He looks over to her, the idea of someday reflecting in both their eyes. She looks away first, clears her throat and takes another drink. When she looks back there’s the familiar mischief there.
“You think your skin’s too pretty for a tattoo?”
/\/\/\
For
alissabobissa. Roslin, cake.
The first thought that crosses her mind when he sets it in front of her, is how he found all the ingredients. They ran out of sugar lords’ know how long ago, eggs possibly even longer. And on top of leaping those hurdles, got someone in the kitchen to bake if for him.
The second thought that crosses her mind when he sets it in front of her, is that he is old enough, wise enough, not to put the appropriate amount of candles on it. There’s a certain age you stop reminding a woman just how long she’s been around, and she’d passed that long ago.
The third thought that crosses her mind when he sets it in front of her, is of the castle shaped one her mother made her when she was seven. Bright pink and white walls of sugar coated wonder complete with fairy princess in the window, prince waiting to rescue her down below.
The fourth thought that crosses her mind when he sets it in front of her, is that for an old war horse, he could be so incredibly sweet. His pleased smile behind the small orange glow of the candle causes her to mimic it. He doesn’t sit right away, waiting for her to blow out the flame, knife poised to cut. She lets it linger a bit, places her hand on his cheek, before murmuring a soft thank you.
“Happy Birthday Laura.”
/\/\/\
Also for
alissabobissa. Chief/fury.
His father was an angry man.
Little snap judgments left and right as long as he could remember, fear of the Gods’ almost as strong as belief, everything proper put in its proper place. He remembers how the volume always went up whenever he forgot to pray, when he didn’t put on those silly little robes and made a big fat spectacle of himself because he was more interested in how the toaster worked than the almighty Zeus tossing thunderbolts from his mythical mountain. How it was so frakking embarrassing for the high and mighty priest to have such an apathetic son.
There’s a saying about the apple not falling far from the tree, and he never once thought it applied to him, because Galen Tyrol was one of the few Gemenon born to reject the Gods’ from the day he realized they never answered your prayers. He was nothing like his father.
So he thought until the nightmares began to haunt him. Until they reached so far into his mind he could no longer see the line between dream and reality, and his fist struck outward, busting bone and ligament across a wide-eyed face. Regret came instantly, much like the memories of his own father’s apologies, the guilt slowly eating away.
The nightmare of being a cylon replaced by the nightmare he’s just a monster.
Just like his father.
tyrol, n, from the Old Gemenese. anger, wrath, fury.
/\/\/\
For
lunar47. Bill/Felix, drinking games.
“Mr. Gaeta.”
The gruff voice shakes him awake, blurred black lines before him as his eyes try to clear, paper stuck to the side of his face. For a second he can’t remember where he is, what he’s doing, a heavy hand squeezing the top of his brain, slowing his movement.
There’s a glass in his hand, too small, he thinks. It shakes in unstable fingers, thankfully empty, he pulls it slowly toward him. His vision a little more clear, he sees the pictures on the wall, the squadron emblems. He’s in the rec room, okay, what’s he doing here? How long has he been here?
His head feels two sizes too big, like a frakking dagget sat on it, he rubs a hand on the back of his neck hoping to alleviate the pressure. He swallows, tasting harsh cheap whiskey on his tongue, the left over remnants of a cigarette he doesn’t remember smoking.
Laughter suddenly, loud and boisterous, surrounding him, pounding his ear drums.
He feels a hand on his left shoulder, then one on his right, he’s lifted from being facedown on the table. Eyes still trying to focus, he sees the faces of a few pilots smiling widely, smoke and alcohol thick in the air.
He tries to hold his head upright, the form of the Admiral sitting across from him coming into focus, making him think he’s hallucinating.
The Admiral is twirling a cubit between his fingers, a slow easy grin on his lips, he watches with a terrified stare.
Suddenly the cubit is bounced atop the table, he watches it in slow-motion as it arcs gracefully through the air, landing deftly into an empty glass perched before him.
The group of pilots’ cry out in applause.
He swallows audibly.
The Admiral speaks: “Your drink Felix.”