The Grass is Always Greener, for Lyssie
Title: The Grass is Always Greener
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1300+
Spoilers: Post-Daybreak
Summary: What happens after Sam flies into the sun. Featuring reincarnation of the cracky and philosophically-dodgy kind, in what was supposed to be fulfilling a "anthropomorphic crack!fic" prompt.
Perfection. Sam didn't have a frakking clue what it looked like, but he was sure he could recognize it once he got there.
This...wasn't it.
If there was a god, his or her sense of humor was morbid and perverse. One moment Sam was a hybrid and the Sun was boiling around him; the next, he was a 1970s grey toaster.
He made toast. He was good at it. He was a better literal toaster than he had been a Cylon.
But if this was all the reincarnation he was to expect, he thought, viewing the blue and gold kitchen with sunny polkadot curtains, he'd rather just be dead.
"No, it gets better," said the blender next to him, the newest appliance. Except said wasn't the right word, just like see wasn't. Inanimacy was confusing, philosophically.
"Who are you?" Sam the toaster asked.
"Told you I'd see you on the other side."
"What the frak, Kara?"
"No frakking like this. It'd scratch your sides."
Sam was confused. That, at least, was par for the course. "So I'm like you?"
"No questions," ordered Kara the blender. "Be a good toaster, you won't be one long."
There wasn't much else to do, so he obeyed.
Sam's notes on toasterhood had about as much depth as the stain on his counter. He was. And when existence ended again, he blinked, and that was that.
-
Fur lifted at the back of his neck, letting in the chill of a winter breeze, the touch of an outside element. When he bared gums and teeth, the wolf could almost taste the blood of his prey.
It wasn't until he was ears deep in the elk carcass, muscles and bones snapping under the force of his jaws and hunger sated, that he remembered his name. Sam. He gorged on animal flesh.
And growled at Kara when she sauntered by later. She gave a toothy grin, golden eyes daring him to fight her for the meal, and ate until her rough tawny fur was darkly stained.
They mated in the bloodstained snow, and Sam ended up with a nip on his nose.
Next time, Kara led the pack. And Sam forgot his name again, following unspoken orders as they went for the kill. The time of ice had lasted longer than it should, but where the pack was strong they would find a way to stay warm.
-
Sam made a horrid birch tree, and was grateful for Kara's wandering vine. She smothered him from canopy to root, and the drought took them both away.
-
"Can I ask questions now?"
If a statue could roll its eyes, Kara did just that. "Yeah, sure, why not."
Locked in a lordly stance, one sculpted marble arm reaching for the stars, Sam spoke to his female partner across the courtyard. "What the frak is going on?"
"No frakking right now, you notice. The Athenians are taking it easy tonight."
"Kara."
"Sammy."
"Is this hell?"
"Is life hell?"
"Do you still get a kick out of tormenting me? No-wait-don't answer that."
"Is it really a torment to look so fine, Sam? Nudity looks good on you."
"Never mind. Just never mind."
"I really can't explain it." Kara's tone had dropped and found a bit of seriousness. "You have to make it to the end."
"Whatever."
Kara's statue seemed to smirk at him in a very un-Greek fashion.
-
Resurrection, that most golden of Cylon tropes, had never been so embodied in Samuel T. Anders.
"Godsfrakkit I'm a squirrel?"
Kara the chipmunk merely threw an acorn at his head.
-
Sam could have sworn that he was a screwdriver in one life and Kara was a bowtie.
"You're nuts," she said to that. "Seriously."
He didn't think it was all that weird, considering that they were mountains now.
The skies opened, year by year eroding him down. Men and women carved paths on his skin, dug ditches and holes, climbed through his caves and shaved the forests from his back.
At his feet, a town rose from nothing, and became nothing again when Kara's eruption buried everything in mud and lava.
"That's all this is," he said, in the silence of disaster. "Life leads to death, over and over and frakking over again. You're the angel of death, Kara."
"And what does that make you, Sam?"
He didn't have an answer for that.
Together they rose again into a new life, and he was.
-
"You think you're flashy, don't you." She winked a headlight, and zipped around a corner.
By the time he followed, her convertible roof was back. "You think you're reliable," he mocked, all sleek curves as he circled her, parking close.
"I'm gonna scratch that new red paint of yours," she purred, sun flashing off the Mustang emblem.
"You've got to be kidding, there's no way." Sam had a lot of pride in Kara, but the fact remained, he was an Italian racing car. "No frakking way, Kara."
"Eat gravel, Sam."
The road screamed beneath their tires, and somehow it felt better than all the sex in the world. Kara won-of course-with a few more dents in her chrome.
"Gods I still love you," Sam said, as the cruised down the empty road together.
"Funny, that's the first time you've said that in over a thousand years."
And she was right.
-
Another thousand years where time was nothing but a mess, a tangled ball of string bouncing across the floor, and Sam never forgot his name once.
The last time he soared through the air between sun and water, feathers catching the updraft and carrying him after Kara, he had no more questions.
Then it was childhood again.
The madness of birth, childhood's struggle, memories lost in the fight to conquer speech and walking again. His human heart beat frantically in his chest during the first day of school. It nearly stopped beating altogether when he caught sight of her across the ballroom floor.
Something about her teased him, from her coiffure of light hair to the oddly dark look of her green eyes. She sparkled in a way that dulled the gold jewelry about her neck, and something clicked in his mind. Old magic, he said to himself, but they were poor words for a timeless concept.
The man next to her, a statuesque blonde on his arm, introduced the two of them with a sigh of noblesse oblige.
"Lady Thrace." Sam smirked a little as he bowed.
"Lord Samuel," she answered, amusement making the words sound almost naughty.
He slipped to her side, offering her a little glass of punch. "I remember you."
"Finally, jackass," she mumbled, lips twisting in a smug smirk. "How many decades did it take?"
"Shut up." Everything was back now, as if he'd never forgotten it. He fought the urge to elbow her, but had a feeling she'd start a scene for the hell of it. The couple at her side, one in red and one in dangerously fashion-forward pinstripes, mingled into the ball and left them alone.
"You," Kara said, after taking a long sip of punch, "are going to ravish me in a carriage before tonight is done. Just don't smother me in petticoats."
"Is that what we're supposed to do in this cycle?" Sam had to ask, casting a responsible look in her direction.
Kara grinned, looking even more scandalous in her blue and silver dress. "Lighten up a bit, we're not observing the end of the world yet."
"When is that supposed to come anyway?"
"Frak, Sam, trust your instinct. It's not now, that's all that matters."
"Right." Sam settled into his stance a little, and nodded slightly. He was an angel, he really should stop asking questions about his existence. "So does the carriage have to come first, or are you up for a quickie in a closet?"
"That's my boy." Kara grinned a grin that had followed him through countless ages, through myriads of forms and times and consciousnesses.
He'd loved it before and he would love it again. And again and again and again. That was how the universe worked, and Sam couldn't change it anymore than he wanted to.
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1300+
Spoilers: Post-Daybreak
Summary: What happens after Sam flies into the sun. Featuring reincarnation of the cracky and philosophically-dodgy kind, in what was supposed to be fulfilling a "anthropomorphic crack!fic" prompt.
Perfection. Sam didn't have a frakking clue what it looked like, but he was sure he could recognize it once he got there.
This...wasn't it.
If there was a god, his or her sense of humor was morbid and perverse. One moment Sam was a hybrid and the Sun was boiling around him; the next, he was a 1970s grey toaster.
He made toast. He was good at it. He was a better literal toaster than he had been a Cylon.
But if this was all the reincarnation he was to expect, he thought, viewing the blue and gold kitchen with sunny polkadot curtains, he'd rather just be dead.
"No, it gets better," said the blender next to him, the newest appliance. Except said wasn't the right word, just like see wasn't. Inanimacy was confusing, philosophically.
"Who are you?" Sam the toaster asked.
"Told you I'd see you on the other side."
"What the frak, Kara?"
"No frakking like this. It'd scratch your sides."
Sam was confused. That, at least, was par for the course. "So I'm like you?"
"No questions," ordered Kara the blender. "Be a good toaster, you won't be one long."
There wasn't much else to do, so he obeyed.
Sam's notes on toasterhood had about as much depth as the stain on his counter. He was. And when existence ended again, he blinked, and that was that.
-
Fur lifted at the back of his neck, letting in the chill of a winter breeze, the touch of an outside element. When he bared gums and teeth, the wolf could almost taste the blood of his prey.
It wasn't until he was ears deep in the elk carcass, muscles and bones snapping under the force of his jaws and hunger sated, that he remembered his name. Sam. He gorged on animal flesh.
And growled at Kara when she sauntered by later. She gave a toothy grin, golden eyes daring him to fight her for the meal, and ate until her rough tawny fur was darkly stained.
They mated in the bloodstained snow, and Sam ended up with a nip on his nose.
Next time, Kara led the pack. And Sam forgot his name again, following unspoken orders as they went for the kill. The time of ice had lasted longer than it should, but where the pack was strong they would find a way to stay warm.
-
Sam made a horrid birch tree, and was grateful for Kara's wandering vine. She smothered him from canopy to root, and the drought took them both away.
-
"Can I ask questions now?"
If a statue could roll its eyes, Kara did just that. "Yeah, sure, why not."
Locked in a lordly stance, one sculpted marble arm reaching for the stars, Sam spoke to his female partner across the courtyard. "What the frak is going on?"
"No frakking right now, you notice. The Athenians are taking it easy tonight."
"Kara."
"Sammy."
"Is this hell?"
"Is life hell?"
"Do you still get a kick out of tormenting me? No-wait-don't answer that."
"Is it really a torment to look so fine, Sam? Nudity looks good on you."
"Never mind. Just never mind."
"I really can't explain it." Kara's tone had dropped and found a bit of seriousness. "You have to make it to the end."
"Whatever."
Kara's statue seemed to smirk at him in a very un-Greek fashion.
-
Resurrection, that most golden of Cylon tropes, had never been so embodied in Samuel T. Anders.
"Godsfrakkit I'm a squirrel?"
Kara the chipmunk merely threw an acorn at his head.
-
Sam could have sworn that he was a screwdriver in one life and Kara was a bowtie.
"You're nuts," she said to that. "Seriously."
He didn't think it was all that weird, considering that they were mountains now.
The skies opened, year by year eroding him down. Men and women carved paths on his skin, dug ditches and holes, climbed through his caves and shaved the forests from his back.
At his feet, a town rose from nothing, and became nothing again when Kara's eruption buried everything in mud and lava.
"That's all this is," he said, in the silence of disaster. "Life leads to death, over and over and frakking over again. You're the angel of death, Kara."
"And what does that make you, Sam?"
He didn't have an answer for that.
Together they rose again into a new life, and he was.
-
"You think you're flashy, don't you." She winked a headlight, and zipped around a corner.
By the time he followed, her convertible roof was back. "You think you're reliable," he mocked, all sleek curves as he circled her, parking close.
"I'm gonna scratch that new red paint of yours," she purred, sun flashing off the Mustang emblem.
"You've got to be kidding, there's no way." Sam had a lot of pride in Kara, but the fact remained, he was an Italian racing car. "No frakking way, Kara."
"Eat gravel, Sam."
The road screamed beneath their tires, and somehow it felt better than all the sex in the world. Kara won-of course-with a few more dents in her chrome.
"Gods I still love you," Sam said, as the cruised down the empty road together.
"Funny, that's the first time you've said that in over a thousand years."
And she was right.
-
Another thousand years where time was nothing but a mess, a tangled ball of string bouncing across the floor, and Sam never forgot his name once.
The last time he soared through the air between sun and water, feathers catching the updraft and carrying him after Kara, he had no more questions.
Then it was childhood again.
The madness of birth, childhood's struggle, memories lost in the fight to conquer speech and walking again. His human heart beat frantically in his chest during the first day of school. It nearly stopped beating altogether when he caught sight of her across the ballroom floor.
Something about her teased him, from her coiffure of light hair to the oddly dark look of her green eyes. She sparkled in a way that dulled the gold jewelry about her neck, and something clicked in his mind. Old magic, he said to himself, but they were poor words for a timeless concept.
The man next to her, a statuesque blonde on his arm, introduced the two of them with a sigh of noblesse oblige.
"Lady Thrace." Sam smirked a little as he bowed.
"Lord Samuel," she answered, amusement making the words sound almost naughty.
He slipped to her side, offering her a little glass of punch. "I remember you."
"Finally, jackass," she mumbled, lips twisting in a smug smirk. "How many decades did it take?"
"Shut up." Everything was back now, as if he'd never forgotten it. He fought the urge to elbow her, but had a feeling she'd start a scene for the hell of it. The couple at her side, one in red and one in dangerously fashion-forward pinstripes, mingled into the ball and left them alone.
"You," Kara said, after taking a long sip of punch, "are going to ravish me in a carriage before tonight is done. Just don't smother me in petticoats."
"Is that what we're supposed to do in this cycle?" Sam had to ask, casting a responsible look in her direction.
Kara grinned, looking even more scandalous in her blue and silver dress. "Lighten up a bit, we're not observing the end of the world yet."
"When is that supposed to come anyway?"
"Frak, Sam, trust your instinct. It's not now, that's all that matters."
"Right." Sam settled into his stance a little, and nodded slightly. He was an angel, he really should stop asking questions about his existence. "So does the carriage have to come first, or are you up for a quickie in a closet?"
"That's my boy." Kara grinned a grin that had followed him through countless ages, through myriads of forms and times and consciousnesses.
He'd loved it before and he would love it again. And again and again and again. That was how the universe worked, and Sam couldn't change it anymore than he wanted to.