Ship of The Dead, written for bsg_remix 2009
Title: Ship of the Dead
Author: rebelliousrose, fanfic located at rebelliousrose2
Summary: Battlestar. Zombies. Angst.
Characters: Helo, Lee (in part), Dualla, Matthias, various enlisted and officers.
Pairings: Helo/Dualla
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: If zombies traumatize you, maybe skip this one.
Title, Author and URL of original story: Hungry Zombies, Led by Helo’s and Dee’s Love Child, Eat Lee Adama or Helo and Lee Have No Pants by sabaceanbabe
Beta Thanks: trovia, Pierre at Across The Salt
Author Notes: Getting sabaceanbabe as my bsg_remix assignment was both pleasing and terrifying- pleasing because she’s my friend and I love her and her work, and terrifying because, well, she’s sabaceanbabe! How can you improvise on perfection? It took me longer to find something I could remix than it did to actually remix it! (I really wanted to call it “Dee of the Dead” but I went for the pun instead.)
“Dee, come on!” The grenade boomed, clearing the hallway with a stench of rotting bodies, a shower of fleshy gobbets and a blinding flash
Helo in the hallway from the brig, still wearing his dress grays and holding a bouquet of wilted New Caprican foliage in one hand. His huge shoulders slumped, and his feet seemingly stuck to the deck, unable to go forward or back. She takes his hand, and he lets her lead him to his new quarters and undog the hatch and sit him down on the couch. She holds his hand again and watches him quietly with those beautiful eyes, and after a while she begins to talk idly about her life Before, and what she thought it would be, and how it will be now. No one’s life is how they thought it would be, and it seems that everyone is making do, taking what they can find, instead of what they want. Nothing will ever be simple, or perfect, again.
There are so many of Them, but they are mercifully slow and incredibly fragile. The worst part is seeing faces that she knows, or worse yet, loves. Once-elegant Felix Gaeta is crawling, missing a leg, dragging himself toward them with a single-minded determination that leaves a trail of smeared putrescence on the deck. She’s quivering against Helo’s broad back, not crying, but shaking as he finally has no choice, to kill a friend to save the three of them and his gun chatters
He’s so pale, even after standing in the hard sun that day, except for the reddened nose and redder eyes. His skin is milky and sleek and male, and her hands look almost saturated with color. She plays idle connect-the-dots with the freckles on his neck and he flinches. They both have so many memories of the times things were right, of the hands that played familiar games and touched familiar spots, that this is a minefield of precarious feeling. Every gentle touch can wound. Her mouth finds his, and the salt comes from both of them.
There is so much screaming, and cordite, and noise. The baby is sobbing, and Galactica’s halls are running with blood and worse. This virus, or whatever it is, is fast, and terrible. It began on Pegasus. She’s gone silent. The civilian ships are reporting clean. Galactica’s down in it, but she’s fighting hard, every step of retreat an agony. Adama’s holding the CIC, and the speakers are broadcasting instructions that no one has time to listen to, since the priority is to stay alive. Her boots squash through the broken remnants of…someone, and she shifts the baby to her free hand and grabs the downed weapon with the other, coming up in time to shoot by his hip and it flies into the wall, away from the door as they back into the hatch and he throws another grenade, the last
She’s on top of him. His eyes are intent, but she’s not sure he’s really seeing her. She’s never seen him so broken, this man who always does the right thing. His compass is more clear than any she’s ever known, but he’s lost the true north that guides him. She closes her eyes in a combination of pleasure and heartbreak. He’s touching things inside of her that she’s kept hidden for an eternity of running out of time, loving her with every touch, every movement. He does love her, and she loves him, and that’s what makes this even worse- they love each other but the real love, the hard, painful love, is for the ones who aren’t there. One in a cell, walled around with bars colder than iron, and one dancing light-footed around the truth under a starry sky.
One of the Marines tries to take the baby from her, but she holds on. They push him back, closing armored bodies around the three of them and laying down a coordinated suppressing fire. One of the soldiers is Matthias, and she’s grim, and competent. She’s always grim and competent. She’s relaying sitrep to Helo, and snatches of words are audible over the bullets and the smack of rending spongy flesh. “Holding’s secure, sir…CIC clear…venting port side, then starboard...airtight compartments…” her words cut off as one of Them drops on her from the gantryway above and Helo literally rips it off Matthias, tears off the torso and throws it away, still flailing and shrieking. One of the arms drops at Dee’s feet and she kicks at it as it grabs her foot. When she sees the commander’s piping
He holds her and she holds him up. Tenderness is more a part of them than passion. They’ve burned out passion on the coals of crushed hearts, and what’s left is a love that has no ups and downs, no doubts or difficulties. It just is, and it sustains them through the daily life. If he thinks about a time when he ran through forests, and she holds close and secret stolen moments, neither feel cheated. Memories define them, and what they’ve held on to is each other, and what they’ve made here alone together at the end of the world.
He’s got the baby, and her, and his strength is all that’s dragging her to what safety they can find. Hers is almost gone, but when she sees, under his shoulder, one of the Marines’ faces suddenly go slack, she can get the pistol out of his holster as fast as she needs to and the face explodes and the body drops. “Good job, sir,” Matthias calls, and the sergeant’s feet crunch over part of her command as they pass through the hatch, safe enough for now that she can rest, and then his side catches her eye, wetly red
The first time she can remember kissing him without anyone else there is when she finally told him what he’s already guessed. His hands have already found the new fullness, the tender spots, and he’s held her over the head and wiped cold sweat from her face, but he’s who he is, and he’ll wait. He’s good at waiting. Her mouth settles on his, and she savors the way he tastes, and feels, and smells. His hand hooks over her cheekbone like a thousand times before it, and this time is the first time. She lets herself sink in, and blend with him, and she’s coming home.
His teeth are clenched and his cheekbones are standing out in stark relief as she winds the bandages tightly around and around the long slash just above his hip. It needs stitches, but there’s no time, no supplies and no skills, so he’ll have to hold. Matthias has a Marine standing watching him with a round in the chamber. There will be time, if it happens, to keep them all safe. It’s incredibly cold in here, since the venting’s begun. They, the things, need oxygen to survive, and this is going to work, save Galactica. It was Gaeta’s idea. Of course it was. Helo’s watching her, and the baby, and smiling, his eyes incredibly clear. She’s never realized before that his eyes and hers are the same color, and she keeps her eyes on his even as his gun hand comes up
She’s drenched and sobbing and her mother’s comment about shitting a football is running through her mind every second, but his lips are pressed against her temple and his soft voice is steady and above all certain. She can do this because he knows she can, and because nature has left her no choice, the sadistic bitch goddess. Every time she bears down, his body’s around her, supporting her, and when she breaks and the warm gush between her legs becomes a thin wailing, she looks into his eyes and it’s only for her. He only sees her. He’s hers, and she’s his, and now theirs. It’s simple, and perfect. For as long as it lasts. The Gods hate perfection.
Author: rebelliousrose, fanfic located at rebelliousrose2
Summary: Battlestar. Zombies. Angst.
Characters: Helo, Lee (in part), Dualla, Matthias, various enlisted and officers.
Pairings: Helo/Dualla
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: If zombies traumatize you, maybe skip this one.
Title, Author and URL of original story: Hungry Zombies, Led by Helo’s and Dee’s Love Child, Eat Lee Adama or Helo and Lee Have No Pants by sabaceanbabe
Beta Thanks: trovia, Pierre at Across The Salt
Author Notes: Getting sabaceanbabe as my bsg_remix assignment was both pleasing and terrifying- pleasing because she’s my friend and I love her and her work, and terrifying because, well, she’s sabaceanbabe! How can you improvise on perfection? It took me longer to find something I could remix than it did to actually remix it! (I really wanted to call it “Dee of the Dead” but I went for the pun instead.)
“Dee, come on!” The grenade boomed, clearing the hallway with a stench of rotting bodies, a shower of fleshy gobbets and a blinding flash
Helo in the hallway from the brig, still wearing his dress grays and holding a bouquet of wilted New Caprican foliage in one hand. His huge shoulders slumped, and his feet seemingly stuck to the deck, unable to go forward or back. She takes his hand, and he lets her lead him to his new quarters and undog the hatch and sit him down on the couch. She holds his hand again and watches him quietly with those beautiful eyes, and after a while she begins to talk idly about her life Before, and what she thought it would be, and how it will be now. No one’s life is how they thought it would be, and it seems that everyone is making do, taking what they can find, instead of what they want. Nothing will ever be simple, or perfect, again.
There are so many of Them, but they are mercifully slow and incredibly fragile. The worst part is seeing faces that she knows, or worse yet, loves. Once-elegant Felix Gaeta is crawling, missing a leg, dragging himself toward them with a single-minded determination that leaves a trail of smeared putrescence on the deck. She’s quivering against Helo’s broad back, not crying, but shaking as he finally has no choice, to kill a friend to save the three of them and his gun chatters
He’s so pale, even after standing in the hard sun that day, except for the reddened nose and redder eyes. His skin is milky and sleek and male, and her hands look almost saturated with color. She plays idle connect-the-dots with the freckles on his neck and he flinches. They both have so many memories of the times things were right, of the hands that played familiar games and touched familiar spots, that this is a minefield of precarious feeling. Every gentle touch can wound. Her mouth finds his, and the salt comes from both of them.
There is so much screaming, and cordite, and noise. The baby is sobbing, and Galactica’s halls are running with blood and worse. This virus, or whatever it is, is fast, and terrible. It began on Pegasus. She’s gone silent. The civilian ships are reporting clean. Galactica’s down in it, but she’s fighting hard, every step of retreat an agony. Adama’s holding the CIC, and the speakers are broadcasting instructions that no one has time to listen to, since the priority is to stay alive. Her boots squash through the broken remnants of…someone, and she shifts the baby to her free hand and grabs the downed weapon with the other, coming up in time to shoot by his hip and it flies into the wall, away from the door as they back into the hatch and he throws another grenade, the last
She’s on top of him. His eyes are intent, but she’s not sure he’s really seeing her. She’s never seen him so broken, this man who always does the right thing. His compass is more clear than any she’s ever known, but he’s lost the true north that guides him. She closes her eyes in a combination of pleasure and heartbreak. He’s touching things inside of her that she’s kept hidden for an eternity of running out of time, loving her with every touch, every movement. He does love her, and she loves him, and that’s what makes this even worse- they love each other but the real love, the hard, painful love, is for the ones who aren’t there. One in a cell, walled around with bars colder than iron, and one dancing light-footed around the truth under a starry sky.
One of the Marines tries to take the baby from her, but she holds on. They push him back, closing armored bodies around the three of them and laying down a coordinated suppressing fire. One of the soldiers is Matthias, and she’s grim, and competent. She’s always grim and competent. She’s relaying sitrep to Helo, and snatches of words are audible over the bullets and the smack of rending spongy flesh. “Holding’s secure, sir…CIC clear…venting port side, then starboard...airtight compartments…” her words cut off as one of Them drops on her from the gantryway above and Helo literally rips it off Matthias, tears off the torso and throws it away, still flailing and shrieking. One of the arms drops at Dee’s feet and she kicks at it as it grabs her foot. When she sees the commander’s piping
He holds her and she holds him up. Tenderness is more a part of them than passion. They’ve burned out passion on the coals of crushed hearts, and what’s left is a love that has no ups and downs, no doubts or difficulties. It just is, and it sustains them through the daily life. If he thinks about a time when he ran through forests, and she holds close and secret stolen moments, neither feel cheated. Memories define them, and what they’ve held on to is each other, and what they’ve made here alone together at the end of the world.
He’s got the baby, and her, and his strength is all that’s dragging her to what safety they can find. Hers is almost gone, but when she sees, under his shoulder, one of the Marines’ faces suddenly go slack, she can get the pistol out of his holster as fast as she needs to and the face explodes and the body drops. “Good job, sir,” Matthias calls, and the sergeant’s feet crunch over part of her command as they pass through the hatch, safe enough for now that she can rest, and then his side catches her eye, wetly red
The first time she can remember kissing him without anyone else there is when she finally told him what he’s already guessed. His hands have already found the new fullness, the tender spots, and he’s held her over the head and wiped cold sweat from her face, but he’s who he is, and he’ll wait. He’s good at waiting. Her mouth settles on his, and she savors the way he tastes, and feels, and smells. His hand hooks over her cheekbone like a thousand times before it, and this time is the first time. She lets herself sink in, and blend with him, and she’s coming home.
His teeth are clenched and his cheekbones are standing out in stark relief as she winds the bandages tightly around and around the long slash just above his hip. It needs stitches, but there’s no time, no supplies and no skills, so he’ll have to hold. Matthias has a Marine standing watching him with a round in the chamber. There will be time, if it happens, to keep them all safe. It’s incredibly cold in here, since the venting’s begun. They, the things, need oxygen to survive, and this is going to work, save Galactica. It was Gaeta’s idea. Of course it was. Helo’s watching her, and the baby, and smiling, his eyes incredibly clear. She’s never realized before that his eyes and hers are the same color, and she keeps her eyes on his even as his gun hand comes up
She’s drenched and sobbing and her mother’s comment about shitting a football is running through her mind every second, but his lips are pressed against her temple and his soft voice is steady and above all certain. She can do this because he knows she can, and because nature has left her no choice, the sadistic bitch goddess. Every time she bears down, his body’s around her, supporting her, and when she breaks and the warm gush between her legs becomes a thin wailing, she looks into his eyes and it’s only for her. He only sees her. He’s hers, and she’s his, and now theirs. It’s simple, and perfect. For as long as it lasts. The Gods hate perfection.