Fic: Parade Rest | BSG | Kara/Cain | PG
Written for Round Two (Starbuck!) at getyourtoaster for tellitslant
Summary & Spoilers: Captain Thrace gets pins, booze and disillusionment all in quick succession. Set in the murky soup of ep 2x11
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Lieutenant Kara Thrace maintains the posture of attention until ordered to stand at ease. She executes the command with movements deliberate and smooth: slides her left foot ten inches away from her right, distributes her weight evenly on both knees, straightens her shoulders and crosses her palms at the small of her back. Her head and eyes kept forward, she focuses on the respectful nowhere of mid-space. And she is quiet; so very quiet, she imagines the woman standing opposite can hear the frenetic pounding of her heart.
Between them, carefully arranged on Admiral Helena Cain’s desk, are seven items: a half bottle of one-cask Jardanelle ambrosia, two glasses, two moist, handsome cigars, and two shining gold pins.
The prospects of fine liquor and aromatic hand-rolled tobacco are enough to make Kara’s mouth water, but her eyes keep returning to the pins. Two sharp chevrons over a diamond - captain’s insignia. Soon, they’ll be on her collar, their weight on her shoulders, and she imagines they are very heavy indeed.
“You worry too much, Captain,” says the observant Admiral.
Kara blinks, smiles a little. “I don’t believe anyone’s accused me of that before, sir.”
“Get used to it. With rank comes responsibility. A regular CAG posting factors down to ninety worries for every ten joys. With the challenges ahead, your ratio may prove more grim.”
A harsh truth that makes her stomach ache, but Kara gives back a clear, level, “Yes, sir,” striving for stoicism.
“Day to day, the job is what you make of it. Cole Taylor is a competent Raptor pilot, but as a commander, he’s a priggish, preening tight-ass.” Cain pauses, notes a flicker of amusement on the face of Stinger’s antithetical replacement. “I think my fliers will take to you like blue sky, Starbuck.”
At the affectionate use of her call sign, she deviates from protocol and meets the Admiral’s flinty eyes before responding. In these few moments of itchy quiet, it comes freshly apparent that this woman is not “Husker” Adama, the benevolent paternal Commander who indulges, rationalizes, forgives Kara’s transgressions; this is a soldier of terminal rank, accomplished, unscrupulous, and ferocious, who looks on her not as a precocious daughter, but an officer with command potential.
If she disappoints Helena Cain, there will be no hugs, no tearful reconciliation - there will be dark, irrevocable consequences. She is gambling with her life, and there is no way to fold out of the game. With this realization comes a tickling thrill, a whisper of exhilaration cooling along her tight, sweaty back.
Kara’s palms are also growing damp; she longs to wipe them on her trousers, but dares not break posture. The desire to impress this impressive woman, to display her own resurgent soldierly discipline, is an almost paralytic restraint.
“Sir, I appreciate your confidence, but… are you - ”
“Certain?” Cain interrupts. “Much as I can be. Colonel Deering - my academy adviser - said that every victory begins by putting your saddle on the right horse.”
Though her cheeks color a bit, Kara smirks and glances to the side. “I’m not always a smooth ride. Sir.”
Cain snickers softly. “I’m not looking to break you - I need you wild. Let me worry about keeping my seat.”
After a beat, Kara nods. “I’ll remember you said that.”
Cain waits quietly, raises an expectant eyebrow.
“Sir,” Kara belatedly, clumsily, adds. Her blush deepens. She swallows, and the gulp is clearly audible.
“Tsk-tsk-tsk. And you were doing so well, Thrace.” There is a strand of mischief in Cain’s velvet voice. Kara’s narrowed eyes ask whether the Admiral is having her off, and Cain’s half-smile leads into an answer. “That is the most rigid parade rest posture I’ve ever seen. You may have missed the whole point of ‘at ease,’ soldier.”
Kara’s shoulders slowly relax and she releases a breath of nervous laughter. “Another brand new accusation, sir.”
“I’ll bet. Catch,” is all the warning Cain gives before snatching up the captain’s insignia and tossing them right into Kara’s chest.
She gets her hands loose and up, makes the grab without much fumbling. As the Admiral cracks open the ambrosia, Kara examines the shiny pins with a mixture of wonder and suspicion.
Starbuck does not want them and Kara is proud to have them; Starbuck longs to fling them out an airlock and Kara wants to pin them to her clean, starched uniform and stand before her mother as Captain Thrace of the Colonial Fleet, Air Guard Commander of the Mercury Class Battlestar Pegasus - just to see the old bitch ball her impotent fists and bite her tongue in apoplectic rage.
“They only explode after you put them on,” Cain cannily advises.
She rounds the desk bearing two glasses quarter-filled with emerald bliss and offers one to her new CAG. They clink together in a silent, celebratory toast, and in two abrupt swallows, both are drained dry.
Admiral Cain watches the young woman’s eyes drift shut as she imbibes; she adds ‘thirst’ to the catalog of needs - an informal indexing of Kara Thrace she undertook after reading Commander Adama’s logbooks and soaking up lower deck gossip.
Daddy issues. Mommy issues. Violent temper. Sexual compulsions. Discipline vacuum. Dipsomania. She will ask Kara Thrace about one or all of these factors in days to come, see if Shame is a quality she possesses as well. Somehow, Cain doesn’t believe so.
A beautiful, self-destructive mass of potential, Helena Cain thinks. Starbuck… Lords, give me the time and I will spin this girl into a supernova.
“We’re going to wreak unqualified havoc together,” the Admiral pronounces.
A sentiment to which the newly minted captain says, “Hoo-rah, sir.”
Cain gives her a nod and snares her glass. “You can take the smokes with you, Captain Thrace. Find some friends and relax tonight. Tomorrow, we hit the ground running. Dismissed.”
A little startled by the abrupt discharge, Kara folds her palm around the new insignia pins and snaps to attention. She salutes, picks up the cigars, and crisply turns to exit the Admiral’s quarters. On the walk down the hall, she realizes that she doesn’t know exactly where she’s going.
Two perfectly good cigars and no one to share them with. All her friends are on Galactica, except for Lee, who is on duty and might not feel like celebrating this particular promotion, anyhow.
Well, not all my friends are on Galactica, she remembers.
Her feet follow her thoughts and soon, she stands outside the brig, flashing her new rank and explaining to the duty guard that she is here on Admiral Cain’s express orders. Throwing that name around gets results and within moments, she is in the cell and off the ground, enveloped in Helo’s bearish embrace. Tyrol is a bit more subdued, but he is still ridiculously happy to see her.
They note her newly shiny collar and gape, gape further when she reveals who promoted her and why.
“She admires my moxie,” Starbuck explains.
The two men look to each other, their faces grave, and their heads shaking.
“What? This is a good thing. You guys have an in, now,” she says. “After we blast that toast factory into a million little crumbs, we’re gonna get you out of here.”
“I believe you, Kara,” Helo tells her, “and I know the old man won’t forget about us. It’s just…” His voice drops to a whisper. “The guards talk. We’ve heard things about Cain and that Cylon prisoner - ”
Kara’s jaw twitches; unaccountably, the ancient breaks in her fingers begin to tighten and sting. “What things?”
Helo’s mouth practically implodes in a quiet display of disgust. His silence speaks volumes; she squints and snorts in disbelief. “Oh. No. No way.”
Tyrol notes her mounting distress and steps in, puts a hand on her stony shoulder. “Look, true or not, you should keep it in mind. We know you can look out for yourself, Cap’m. Just… watch your moxie around her, okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, somewhat absently, “I will, Chief. I - uh - I should go. Big, fun day tomorrow.”
She hugs them both and they wish her luck, then the cell is open and she walks out and walks on, blind eyed and vaguely sick. Unsure where she is headed, she keeps moving through the maze of corridors, past salutes and glares, until her feet stop at the Admiral’s door.
Starbuck the rebel raises her hand to knock, to buzz the bell, to ask her new commander and benefactor if she is, in fact, a Cylon-frakking rapist.
Kara the soldier’s mended fingers hurt too much to follow through. She knows it’s possible, but needs to believe it isn’t true. She has a major attack to plan, and thousands of lives hang in the balance. This is not the time to question the moral authority of the Fleet Admiral.
Her hands fall to her sides and she stands there, trapped between her own instincts, pinned to the middle ground connecting arms-akimbo dissent and ten-hut obedience. In compromise, she relaxes her knees, crosses her palms at the small of her back, and walks toward her quarters.
On that trek, the quiet, sullen Captain Thrace is praying, asking the Lords of Kobol for the strength and restraint to hold at parade rest until circumstances force her to pick a posture and stand with it, come what may.
END
Summary & Spoilers: Captain Thrace gets pins, booze and disillusionment all in quick succession. Set in the murky soup of ep 2x11
+++++
Lieutenant Kara Thrace maintains the posture of attention until ordered to stand at ease. She executes the command with movements deliberate and smooth: slides her left foot ten inches away from her right, distributes her weight evenly on both knees, straightens her shoulders and crosses her palms at the small of her back. Her head and eyes kept forward, she focuses on the respectful nowhere of mid-space. And she is quiet; so very quiet, she imagines the woman standing opposite can hear the frenetic pounding of her heart.
Between them, carefully arranged on Admiral Helena Cain’s desk, are seven items: a half bottle of one-cask Jardanelle ambrosia, two glasses, two moist, handsome cigars, and two shining gold pins.
The prospects of fine liquor and aromatic hand-rolled tobacco are enough to make Kara’s mouth water, but her eyes keep returning to the pins. Two sharp chevrons over a diamond - captain’s insignia. Soon, they’ll be on her collar, their weight on her shoulders, and she imagines they are very heavy indeed.
“You worry too much, Captain,” says the observant Admiral.
Kara blinks, smiles a little. “I don’t believe anyone’s accused me of that before, sir.”
“Get used to it. With rank comes responsibility. A regular CAG posting factors down to ninety worries for every ten joys. With the challenges ahead, your ratio may prove more grim.”
A harsh truth that makes her stomach ache, but Kara gives back a clear, level, “Yes, sir,” striving for stoicism.
“Day to day, the job is what you make of it. Cole Taylor is a competent Raptor pilot, but as a commander, he’s a priggish, preening tight-ass.” Cain pauses, notes a flicker of amusement on the face of Stinger’s antithetical replacement. “I think my fliers will take to you like blue sky, Starbuck.”
At the affectionate use of her call sign, she deviates from protocol and meets the Admiral’s flinty eyes before responding. In these few moments of itchy quiet, it comes freshly apparent that this woman is not “Husker” Adama, the benevolent paternal Commander who indulges, rationalizes, forgives Kara’s transgressions; this is a soldier of terminal rank, accomplished, unscrupulous, and ferocious, who looks on her not as a precocious daughter, but an officer with command potential.
If she disappoints Helena Cain, there will be no hugs, no tearful reconciliation - there will be dark, irrevocable consequences. She is gambling with her life, and there is no way to fold out of the game. With this realization comes a tickling thrill, a whisper of exhilaration cooling along her tight, sweaty back.
Kara’s palms are also growing damp; she longs to wipe them on her trousers, but dares not break posture. The desire to impress this impressive woman, to display her own resurgent soldierly discipline, is an almost paralytic restraint.
“Sir, I appreciate your confidence, but… are you - ”
“Certain?” Cain interrupts. “Much as I can be. Colonel Deering - my academy adviser - said that every victory begins by putting your saddle on the right horse.”
Though her cheeks color a bit, Kara smirks and glances to the side. “I’m not always a smooth ride. Sir.”
Cain snickers softly. “I’m not looking to break you - I need you wild. Let me worry about keeping my seat.”
After a beat, Kara nods. “I’ll remember you said that.”
Cain waits quietly, raises an expectant eyebrow.
“Sir,” Kara belatedly, clumsily, adds. Her blush deepens. She swallows, and the gulp is clearly audible.
“Tsk-tsk-tsk. And you were doing so well, Thrace.” There is a strand of mischief in Cain’s velvet voice. Kara’s narrowed eyes ask whether the Admiral is having her off, and Cain’s half-smile leads into an answer. “That is the most rigid parade rest posture I’ve ever seen. You may have missed the whole point of ‘at ease,’ soldier.”
Kara’s shoulders slowly relax and she releases a breath of nervous laughter. “Another brand new accusation, sir.”
“I’ll bet. Catch,” is all the warning Cain gives before snatching up the captain’s insignia and tossing them right into Kara’s chest.
She gets her hands loose and up, makes the grab without much fumbling. As the Admiral cracks open the ambrosia, Kara examines the shiny pins with a mixture of wonder and suspicion.
Starbuck does not want them and Kara is proud to have them; Starbuck longs to fling them out an airlock and Kara wants to pin them to her clean, starched uniform and stand before her mother as Captain Thrace of the Colonial Fleet, Air Guard Commander of the Mercury Class Battlestar Pegasus - just to see the old bitch ball her impotent fists and bite her tongue in apoplectic rage.
“They only explode after you put them on,” Cain cannily advises.
She rounds the desk bearing two glasses quarter-filled with emerald bliss and offers one to her new CAG. They clink together in a silent, celebratory toast, and in two abrupt swallows, both are drained dry.
Admiral Cain watches the young woman’s eyes drift shut as she imbibes; she adds ‘thirst’ to the catalog of needs - an informal indexing of Kara Thrace she undertook after reading Commander Adama’s logbooks and soaking up lower deck gossip.
Daddy issues. Mommy issues. Violent temper. Sexual compulsions. Discipline vacuum. Dipsomania. She will ask Kara Thrace about one or all of these factors in days to come, see if Shame is a quality she possesses as well. Somehow, Cain doesn’t believe so.
A beautiful, self-destructive mass of potential, Helena Cain thinks. Starbuck… Lords, give me the time and I will spin this girl into a supernova.
“We’re going to wreak unqualified havoc together,” the Admiral pronounces.
A sentiment to which the newly minted captain says, “Hoo-rah, sir.”
Cain gives her a nod and snares her glass. “You can take the smokes with you, Captain Thrace. Find some friends and relax tonight. Tomorrow, we hit the ground running. Dismissed.”
A little startled by the abrupt discharge, Kara folds her palm around the new insignia pins and snaps to attention. She salutes, picks up the cigars, and crisply turns to exit the Admiral’s quarters. On the walk down the hall, she realizes that she doesn’t know exactly where she’s going.
Two perfectly good cigars and no one to share them with. All her friends are on Galactica, except for Lee, who is on duty and might not feel like celebrating this particular promotion, anyhow.
Well, not all my friends are on Galactica, she remembers.
Her feet follow her thoughts and soon, she stands outside the brig, flashing her new rank and explaining to the duty guard that she is here on Admiral Cain’s express orders. Throwing that name around gets results and within moments, she is in the cell and off the ground, enveloped in Helo’s bearish embrace. Tyrol is a bit more subdued, but he is still ridiculously happy to see her.
They note her newly shiny collar and gape, gape further when she reveals who promoted her and why.
“She admires my moxie,” Starbuck explains.
The two men look to each other, their faces grave, and their heads shaking.
“What? This is a good thing. You guys have an in, now,” she says. “After we blast that toast factory into a million little crumbs, we’re gonna get you out of here.”
“I believe you, Kara,” Helo tells her, “and I know the old man won’t forget about us. It’s just…” His voice drops to a whisper. “The guards talk. We’ve heard things about Cain and that Cylon prisoner - ”
Kara’s jaw twitches; unaccountably, the ancient breaks in her fingers begin to tighten and sting. “What things?”
Helo’s mouth practically implodes in a quiet display of disgust. His silence speaks volumes; she squints and snorts in disbelief. “Oh. No. No way.”
Tyrol notes her mounting distress and steps in, puts a hand on her stony shoulder. “Look, true or not, you should keep it in mind. We know you can look out for yourself, Cap’m. Just… watch your moxie around her, okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, somewhat absently, “I will, Chief. I - uh - I should go. Big, fun day tomorrow.”
She hugs them both and they wish her luck, then the cell is open and she walks out and walks on, blind eyed and vaguely sick. Unsure where she is headed, she keeps moving through the maze of corridors, past salutes and glares, until her feet stop at the Admiral’s door.
Starbuck the rebel raises her hand to knock, to buzz the bell, to ask her new commander and benefactor if she is, in fact, a Cylon-frakking rapist.
Kara the soldier’s mended fingers hurt too much to follow through. She knows it’s possible, but needs to believe it isn’t true. She has a major attack to plan, and thousands of lives hang in the balance. This is not the time to question the moral authority of the Fleet Admiral.
Her hands fall to her sides and she stands there, trapped between her own instincts, pinned to the middle ground connecting arms-akimbo dissent and ten-hut obedience. In compromise, she relaxes her knees, crosses her palms at the small of her back, and walks toward her quarters.
On that trek, the quiet, sullen Captain Thrace is praying, asking the Lords of Kobol for the strength and restraint to hold at parade rest until circumstances force her to pick a posture and stand with it, come what may.
END