BSG Snippets
There's a first time for everything.
Five BSG snippets within, all Adama/Roslin (or one or the other), none much more than PG. Spoilers for pretty much everything.
Titles and fast-writing inspiration are from Sam Phillips / Kate Bush / Portishead / Fleet Foxes / Tori Amos.
1.
What You Don’t Want to Hear
(s3)
Chamalla tastes bitter. She puts it in her tea like a murderess in an old movie.
It’s such a pretty word. A flower. Chamalla.
2.
The Song of Solomon
(New Caprica)
He has been accused of having a romantic streak a mile wide. Carolanne used to say it with a glint in her eyes and her teeth bared. She would cock her head at him as though she were seeing him for the first time.
“You don’t want anything more than what we have, do you?” Laura says.
“Is that your way of politely telling me to leave?”
“I’m giving you a compliment, Admiral Adama.”
“I’m a little rusty.”
“That was rusty?”
She smiles at him, that smile, gods help him, that smile, and she’s naked and her legs are so frakking long and they’re in her shitty bed on a shitty settlement on a piece of rock they’re calling New Caprica.
“I just meant you’re happy. With what we have.”
“I am.”
“I like that,” she says dreamily, running a hand down his arm. “It’s nice.”
3.
Only You
(s1, "Colonial Day")
She’s still figuring out what a President does and does not do in public.
She’s had two glasses, just barely, and she figures that’s okay. She’s not drunk. Not even close. But it’s warm and she’s enjoying the pleasantly fuzzy feeling; that ache in her limbs. So when the Commander offers her his hand, she takes it.
The Commander. She’s still not sure what to think of him. But she lets herself enjoy his hand splayed against her back. It’s good to know that she is alive, that other people are alive, that they are all alive together.
She grins coltishly, ducks her head, curves her hand across his shoulder blade.
4.
Tiger Mountain Peasant Song
(s2.0, "Home, Pt. 2")
He doesn’t believe in the gods. The destruction of the Colonies did not persuade him otherwise. Foxhole conversions are a myth. The gods do not exist. Then why is he willing to follow this woman and her book and her prophecies? He barely knows her, really, when you get right down to it.
That’s a lie. He knows her. She is, it seems, his foxhole conversion.
5.
Professional Widow
(s4.0, between "The Ties That Bind" and "Escape Velocity")
She stands in the head for a long time, looking at Bill’s razor.
“Vanity,” she whispers. “Frakking vanity.”
She throws the razor down and wipes the mirror. All the better to see your cowardice, my dear.
Bill’s standing there, his jacket hanging open, a glass in his hand. Probably not water. It’s a wonder they’ve all held it together this long. Getting frakked up on something clear and flammable from Saul Tigh’s stash sounds like a pretty good idea right now.
“What are you doing?” he says.
She runs her hand through her hair and it offers up an ugly, fuzzy clump. She holds it out and drops it on the floor.
“Laura.”
“Don’t, Bill. Just-don’t.”
He nods and sits down. The leather of the couch creaks.
“I need some scissors,” she says. If she doesn’t do this now, she never will. “Do you have scissors?”
He slings his drink down in one wincing gulp and stands. There are scissors in his desk.
She takes off her blouse and the cheap light makes her look sicker, smaller than she feels. Translucent. The shape of things to come, she thinks. Her future etched in the glass.
Bill sits on the closed toilet lid but she can’t look at him. There are tiny flecks of toothpaste on the mirror, finger marks left in shower steam.
She cuts her hair off in chunks and drops them in the wastebasket. She burns her sentimentality to the ground.
“Hold still,” he says.
She lightly grips the backs of his knees as he stands between her legs.
It feels good, leaning into his hands. He pulls the blade across her head in a stripe, forehead to nape.
It would all fall out. It would all fall out. Better she do this now. Frak.
“You okay?”
Fine, wonderful, marvelous. I am a warrior. Shave my head, smear clay on my face, hand me the golden arrow, please.
“It would be a little too late to say if I weren’t, wouldn’t it?”
Her head feels weightless and vulnerable. And cold, she thinks, very cold.
She looks at herself in the mirror and runs her hands over her head. She feels pared down, like a sun-bleached bone in the desert.
This is the body she will leave behind.
Five BSG snippets within, all Adama/Roslin (or one or the other), none much more than PG. Spoilers for pretty much everything.
Titles and fast-writing inspiration are from Sam Phillips / Kate Bush / Portishead / Fleet Foxes / Tori Amos.
1.
What You Don’t Want to Hear
(s3)
Chamalla tastes bitter. She puts it in her tea like a murderess in an old movie.
It’s such a pretty word. A flower. Chamalla.
2.
The Song of Solomon
(New Caprica)
He has been accused of having a romantic streak a mile wide. Carolanne used to say it with a glint in her eyes and her teeth bared. She would cock her head at him as though she were seeing him for the first time.
“You don’t want anything more than what we have, do you?” Laura says.
“Is that your way of politely telling me to leave?”
“I’m giving you a compliment, Admiral Adama.”
“I’m a little rusty.”
“That was rusty?”
She smiles at him, that smile, gods help him, that smile, and she’s naked and her legs are so frakking long and they’re in her shitty bed on a shitty settlement on a piece of rock they’re calling New Caprica.
“I just meant you’re happy. With what we have.”
“I am.”
“I like that,” she says dreamily, running a hand down his arm. “It’s nice.”
3.
Only You
(s1, "Colonial Day")
She’s still figuring out what a President does and does not do in public.
She’s had two glasses, just barely, and she figures that’s okay. She’s not drunk. Not even close. But it’s warm and she’s enjoying the pleasantly fuzzy feeling; that ache in her limbs. So when the Commander offers her his hand, she takes it.
The Commander. She’s still not sure what to think of him. But she lets herself enjoy his hand splayed against her back. It’s good to know that she is alive, that other people are alive, that they are all alive together.
She grins coltishly, ducks her head, curves her hand across his shoulder blade.
4.
Tiger Mountain Peasant Song
(s2.0, "Home, Pt. 2")
He doesn’t believe in the gods. The destruction of the Colonies did not persuade him otherwise. Foxhole conversions are a myth. The gods do not exist. Then why is he willing to follow this woman and her book and her prophecies? He barely knows her, really, when you get right down to it.
That’s a lie. He knows her. She is, it seems, his foxhole conversion.
5.
Professional Widow
(s4.0, between "The Ties That Bind" and "Escape Velocity")
She stands in the head for a long time, looking at Bill’s razor.
“Vanity,” she whispers. “Frakking vanity.”
She throws the razor down and wipes the mirror. All the better to see your cowardice, my dear.
Bill’s standing there, his jacket hanging open, a glass in his hand. Probably not water. It’s a wonder they’ve all held it together this long. Getting frakked up on something clear and flammable from Saul Tigh’s stash sounds like a pretty good idea right now.
“What are you doing?” he says.
She runs her hand through her hair and it offers up an ugly, fuzzy clump. She holds it out and drops it on the floor.
“Laura.”
“Don’t, Bill. Just-don’t.”
He nods and sits down. The leather of the couch creaks.
“I need some scissors,” she says. If she doesn’t do this now, she never will. “Do you have scissors?”
He slings his drink down in one wincing gulp and stands. There are scissors in his desk.
She takes off her blouse and the cheap light makes her look sicker, smaller than she feels. Translucent. The shape of things to come, she thinks. Her future etched in the glass.
Bill sits on the closed toilet lid but she can’t look at him. There are tiny flecks of toothpaste on the mirror, finger marks left in shower steam.
She cuts her hair off in chunks and drops them in the wastebasket. She burns her sentimentality to the ground.
“Hold still,” he says.
She lightly grips the backs of his knees as he stands between her legs.
It feels good, leaning into his hands. He pulls the blade across her head in a stripe, forehead to nape.
It would all fall out. It would all fall out. Better she do this now. Frak.
“You okay?”
Fine, wonderful, marvelous. I am a warrior. Shave my head, smear clay on my face, hand me the golden arrow, please.
“It would be a little too late to say if I weren’t, wouldn’t it?”
Her head feels weightless and vulnerable. And cold, she thinks, very cold.
She looks at herself in the mirror and runs her hands over her head. She feels pared down, like a sun-bleached bone in the desert.
This is the body she will leave behind.