Ficlets by Request -
More old requests:
For showmewrtr/jupiterinmo -
Battlestar Galactica
Sharon and Helo aren’t speaking. She won’t explain her fears to him, and he can’t understand the taking of another life without the real presence of a threat. Even then he has a hard time wrapping his mind around it, a hard time reconciling the woman he makes love to killing another in cold blood based on a dream. He’s killed to keep himself alive and he would kill to keep his wife and child safe, but something about this is chilling in a way he can’t describe, can’t explain. She won’t talk to him and he can’t talk about it, and so he stays away from her and she stays with Hera.
They scout Earth looking for signs or clues. There’s a small contingent of people who blame Kara for it, and others who blame Lee, more still who blame the Cyclons. They all walk across dirt and see visions fade into rubble. Whatever utopia they expected nothing more than crumbled remnants and empty echoes. Allegiances are formed as they work their way along the shores and borders, searching for something, anything, that can answer their questions instead of create more.
Lee is in a tent on the outskirts of their makeshift command center, working over a series of maps with Dee and Gaeta. Helo feels extremely uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot as he stands in the doorway and waits to be noticed. Dee spies him first and moves from where she had been standing to in front of Felix, blocking his view of Helo as she nods at Lee. Lee looks up and sees him and nods once. “I’ll be right back.” He moves toward Helo and the entrance to the tent while Dee keeps Felix’s attentions diverted. It’s little balm to either of them, but the gesture is really all any of them have left.
“Admiral said you wanted to see me, Mr. Adama.”
“Gods,” Lee laughs. “Call me Lee, Helo.” He claps Helo on the shoulder and starts walking. It would be easy to pass him by if Lee didn’t walk with so much purpose, and if Helo weren’t faltering, wondering about his own. “I have a mission for you.”
“A mission?”
“Yeah. You’ve heard of ‘em, right?” Lee laughs again, and Helo wonders what the frak has happened. Lee almost looks happy, and that doesn’t make a damn bit of sense to him, because everything’s gone frakked up and wrong since…well, four years ago when everything Helo thought he knew became a lie. “We want to send out a scouting party. Diplomat, pilot, military man, Cylon.”
“Sounds like a nursery rhyme.”
Lee laughs again, and Helo realizes that Lee is happy. Like he’s figured out his place in this world, even if they don’t know which world it actually is. “It sort of is. A fairy tale, anyway. You, me, Sharon, Racetrack. We load up a Raptor and do some recon. What do you say?”
“Sharon won’t leave Hera again.”
“Ah. Well.” Lee has the decency to blush and it doesn’t take long for Helo to realize why. “Not your Sharon. One of the Eights.”
“Why? Why not D’Anna or something?”
“I don’t think she trusts us completely, and I’m not sure she trusts the other Cyclons. Plus, she’d be outnumbered. I have a distinct feeling that D’Anna plays the odds.” Lee is dressed in fatigues, even though he’s no longer military, since they’re the only clothes actually suited to the dank, cold weather. “Can’t honestly say I blame her.”
“Why me?”
“They think you’re the most fair-minded of all of us. Plus, your wife and kid will be here so they have leverage.”
He nods, hating the logic of it all. Machines run on logic and people try to, but they always fail. “And you?”
“Powerful enough to have people listen to me, related to the Admiral and someone Laura trusts to tell her the truth.” Lee shrugs and stares out at the distance, and Helo wonders what he sees.
“And Racetrack?” Lee doesn’t say anything and Helo looks at him, surprised by Lee’s smile, surprised to find himself smiling too. “What?”
“Why do you think?” Lee laughs. “She volunteered.”
For shelley_stone -
Galahad/Gawain/Arthur/Lancelot
He follows Lancelot because he has no choice. He has given himself to his men for one night, following an ill-advised, drunken pact that, should they go to the church with him and listen to the word of God, he would go with them wherever they wished and hear them speak of their Gods. It is the way of the missionary, he knows, to hear the word of heathens before spreading that of God, to see their delusion before drowning it in the light.
He can hear the laughter before they reach the clearing and recognizes the voices of Gawain and Galahad. Galahad is the youngest and rashest of his men, and Arthur thinks perhaps he is the most likely to accept the word of God, or would be were it not for the steadying influence of Gawain. To have Galahad follow, Gawain must lead, and Arthur has not yet figured the way to guide them both. Lancelot, his current guide, would be a lost cause, if Arthur believed in such things, but he cannot allow himself the luxury of it. To say Lancelot is irredeemable is to say that Arthur has not tried hard enough to redeem him.
There is thick, grey smoke rising from the large fire and the cold night air seems held at bay by the leaping flames. Trees mar his vision so he cannot seem more than the top of the blaze, but he can feel the warmth of it spreading like a blanket through the forest. He would question their safety here, but there is something magical about tonight, something that makes the rest of the world feel distant and ancient, as though there is something magical about this place, something sacred.
Lancelot stops outside the clearing and Arthur can see over his shoulder to the deep dug trench that houses the fire, the stack of logs that lies a short distance from it to keep its hungry maw fed. He cannot see Gawain or Galahad, though their voices still carry on the crisp air. Their tone is different now, softer though still tinged with laughter. Arthur opens his mouth to ask Lancelot a question, but is silenced by the soft touch of Lancelot’s calloused finger against his lips.
He is smiling, a sight that inspires a myriad of emotions in Arthur, not the least of which are anticipation and fear. He shakes his head, keeping Arthur silent, and walks backwards toward the fire, his whole being wreathed in shadows, his face a compelling combination of angel and demon. He reaches the edge of the fire and takes Arthur’s hand, grasping him tightly around the wrist for the endless moment before he vanishes in the flames.
Panic overwhelms Arthur until the roar and crackle are replaced with laughter and he looks around to find himself on the other side of the fire, the ground littered with pelts and blankets, emptied pitches and flagons of wine like wounded soldiers tipped drunkenly on their sides. He wants to say something but is stopped short once more, this time by the sight of Gawain, naked and stretched out on the largest of the blankets, his body covered with scars and bruises. He is like a sacrifice and Arthur loses his words again, watching as Galahad straddles Gawain and sinks down, taking him deep inside himself.
“This…” He begins, cut short by Lancelot’s hand clamped over his mouth. He shakes his head in protest, but it does nothing to remove the hard grip. Gawain and Galahad’s breathing is rough and loud and far too near for Arthur’s comfort, but he cannot help but cast his eyes toward them, cannot look away from the sight of their bodies moving together.
“This is worship, Arthur.” Lancelot whispers to him, removing his hand slowly. He steps back to the pile of blankets and begins to disrobe, stripping away all the trappings of Roman society, of his low station. Arthur has tried before to keep his gaze averted from Lancelot, and failed time and again, so he does not bother now, simply watches as he disrobes and moves over to Gawain and Galahad, stroking his fingers through the mass of Galahad’s curls to pull his head back, to kiss the parted and upturned lips. Lancelot lowers himself to his knees beside them and Gawain reaches to touch his skin, and Arthur catches his breath, too familiar with the hard muscles under Lancelot’s flesh to not feel a flare of jealousy at the sight.
“Come and join us, Arthur.” Gawain’s voice holds the thick slur of desire and mead, the heavy hint of laughter. “We promise not to hurt you.”
“Silence, Gawain,” Lancelot reprimands him softly. “He does not ask us to pray, only to listen.”
Arthur starts to protest, especially as Gawain’s hand slides from Lancelot’s hip to his buttocks, and the thought of what this is, what is before him sinks in. He needs to return to the fort and pray, ask God for forgiveness for them all. Instead, he finds himself with shaking hands, disrobing in the firelight and moving to the blankets. He sinks down behind Lancelot, Gawain’s hand between them, and rests his hand on the back of Galahad’s neck.
For lokei -
Reed & Ben
Reed’s fifteen years old the first time he meets Ben Grimm. Ben’s in college and Reed’s about to be, and Ben has been charged with showing some punk kid around the campus. He’s not happy about it, Reed can tell, but he’s doing it, which is more than Reed can say for the other five kids at the other five campuses he’s visited in the past two weeks.
“So, you’re, what? Like a genius?”
Reed looks up from the statue in front of them and shrugs. “The tests say that, yeah. Right now, I feel like I’m some sort of leper.”
“But you’re not. I see skin from here, and it appears to be staying on your body.”
“Yeah, but…” Reed sighs and shakes his head. “Have you ever felt like a complete outsider? Even though you’re just as capable as everyone else, you don’t get the benefit of the doubt?”
“Yeah, kid. We all feel like that sometimes. You’re not going to rush a fraternity or anything, are you?”
“No.”
“You know how to respect people’s privacy?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, kid.” Ben shrugs and leads the way back to the campus office. “You can room with me.”
**
“You know what you need?”
Two hours ago, Sue walked out of Reed’s life and, given that he tests off the charts, Reed’s pretty sure it’s a rhetorical question on Ben’s part. Of course, he’s been wrong before. Not often, but it’s happened. “What?”
“You need a beer.”
“You remember what happened the last time I had a beer?”
“Hey, at least I made sure she was cute.”
“I nearly got arrested, Ben.”
“You nearly got laid, Reed.”
“I don’t need a beer. I need Sue to not hate me. I need…” He sighs and looks at Ben, perched on the stupid papasan chair that Sue bought and hated, and so now belonged to Reed. “Okay. I need a beer.”
“You need to get laid.”
“How about…” Reed sighs again and stands up, deciding that fate needs tempting every once in a while. “How about I start with a beer?”
“Works for me.”
**
Alicia is good for Ben, and standing up against Victor helped as well, but Reed knows that Ben has problems with who he is and how he looks. It’s not just that he’s different, although Reed understands that aspect of it, but it’s as though, out of all of them, he’s not even human anymore. He’s relegated to being a “thing” - not a person, just some construct.
Sue’s been good about helping him find suits and other clothes that work for him, and Reed’s spent as much time as possible making and acquiring objects that can withstand Ben’s daily usage, but it doesn’t change the fact that Ben is what he is. A man of rock, even his internal organs petrified.
Still, he’s Reed’s best friend, so Reed knows he has to do something for him, he’s just at a loss as to what. If it were Johnny, he’d find him a hooker…not that Johnny actually needs help finding women, but Reed’s relatively certain that sex cures all of Johnny’s ills. If it were Sue, he’d buy her flowers and chocolates and beg for forgiveness, since most of what bothers Sue seems to stem directly from whatever it is that Reed’s done. But Ben is both more complicated and more simple than either of the other two, which means Reed doesn’t have a single idea of what to do to fix any of it.
Ben opens the door and looks at Reed as if he’s grown another head, which could very well be a side effect of the cosmic radiation they haven’t uncovered yet, so it’s a valid concern all the way around. Still, he refrains from feeling his shoulders for another neck stump. “Is there some sort of emergency, boss?”
“No.” Reed shakes his head. “And don’t call me that.”
“You’re the leader.”
“Yeah, well, so was Mickey Mouse. No one ever called him boss. Are you busy?” He’s relatively certain he shouldn’t have just admitted to watching The Mickey Mouse Club, but at least it was only to Ben.
“No. C’mon in. You want a beer?”
“Yes.”
Ben stops mid-stride, which is a pretty impressive sight. “What?”
“Sure. I’ll have a beer.”
“You hate beer.”
“I know.” Reed smiles. “But you like it, right?”
“Well…yeah.”
“So I’ll have a beer.” Reed grabs the remote, specially adapted for Ben’s large fingers. “Is there a game on?”
“Yeah. Cubs and the Mets.”
“Cool. Who are we voting for?”
“We’re…” Ben stops and smiles and nods. “We’re voting for the Mets. I’ll go get the beer.”
For showmewrtr/jupiterinmo -
Battlestar Galactica
Sharon and Helo aren’t speaking. She won’t explain her fears to him, and he can’t understand the taking of another life without the real presence of a threat. Even then he has a hard time wrapping his mind around it, a hard time reconciling the woman he makes love to killing another in cold blood based on a dream. He’s killed to keep himself alive and he would kill to keep his wife and child safe, but something about this is chilling in a way he can’t describe, can’t explain. She won’t talk to him and he can’t talk about it, and so he stays away from her and she stays with Hera.
They scout Earth looking for signs or clues. There’s a small contingent of people who blame Kara for it, and others who blame Lee, more still who blame the Cyclons. They all walk across dirt and see visions fade into rubble. Whatever utopia they expected nothing more than crumbled remnants and empty echoes. Allegiances are formed as they work their way along the shores and borders, searching for something, anything, that can answer their questions instead of create more.
Lee is in a tent on the outskirts of their makeshift command center, working over a series of maps with Dee and Gaeta. Helo feels extremely uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot as he stands in the doorway and waits to be noticed. Dee spies him first and moves from where she had been standing to in front of Felix, blocking his view of Helo as she nods at Lee. Lee looks up and sees him and nods once. “I’ll be right back.” He moves toward Helo and the entrance to the tent while Dee keeps Felix’s attentions diverted. It’s little balm to either of them, but the gesture is really all any of them have left.
“Admiral said you wanted to see me, Mr. Adama.”
“Gods,” Lee laughs. “Call me Lee, Helo.” He claps Helo on the shoulder and starts walking. It would be easy to pass him by if Lee didn’t walk with so much purpose, and if Helo weren’t faltering, wondering about his own. “I have a mission for you.”
“A mission?”
“Yeah. You’ve heard of ‘em, right?” Lee laughs again, and Helo wonders what the frak has happened. Lee almost looks happy, and that doesn’t make a damn bit of sense to him, because everything’s gone frakked up and wrong since…well, four years ago when everything Helo thought he knew became a lie. “We want to send out a scouting party. Diplomat, pilot, military man, Cylon.”
“Sounds like a nursery rhyme.”
Lee laughs again, and Helo realizes that Lee is happy. Like he’s figured out his place in this world, even if they don’t know which world it actually is. “It sort of is. A fairy tale, anyway. You, me, Sharon, Racetrack. We load up a Raptor and do some recon. What do you say?”
“Sharon won’t leave Hera again.”
“Ah. Well.” Lee has the decency to blush and it doesn’t take long for Helo to realize why. “Not your Sharon. One of the Eights.”
“Why? Why not D’Anna or something?”
“I don’t think she trusts us completely, and I’m not sure she trusts the other Cyclons. Plus, she’d be outnumbered. I have a distinct feeling that D’Anna plays the odds.” Lee is dressed in fatigues, even though he’s no longer military, since they’re the only clothes actually suited to the dank, cold weather. “Can’t honestly say I blame her.”
“Why me?”
“They think you’re the most fair-minded of all of us. Plus, your wife and kid will be here so they have leverage.”
He nods, hating the logic of it all. Machines run on logic and people try to, but they always fail. “And you?”
“Powerful enough to have people listen to me, related to the Admiral and someone Laura trusts to tell her the truth.” Lee shrugs and stares out at the distance, and Helo wonders what he sees.
“And Racetrack?” Lee doesn’t say anything and Helo looks at him, surprised by Lee’s smile, surprised to find himself smiling too. “What?”
“Why do you think?” Lee laughs. “She volunteered.”
For shelley_stone -
Galahad/Gawain/Arthur/Lancelot
He follows Lancelot because he has no choice. He has given himself to his men for one night, following an ill-advised, drunken pact that, should they go to the church with him and listen to the word of God, he would go with them wherever they wished and hear them speak of their Gods. It is the way of the missionary, he knows, to hear the word of heathens before spreading that of God, to see their delusion before drowning it in the light.
He can hear the laughter before they reach the clearing and recognizes the voices of Gawain and Galahad. Galahad is the youngest and rashest of his men, and Arthur thinks perhaps he is the most likely to accept the word of God, or would be were it not for the steadying influence of Gawain. To have Galahad follow, Gawain must lead, and Arthur has not yet figured the way to guide them both. Lancelot, his current guide, would be a lost cause, if Arthur believed in such things, but he cannot allow himself the luxury of it. To say Lancelot is irredeemable is to say that Arthur has not tried hard enough to redeem him.
There is thick, grey smoke rising from the large fire and the cold night air seems held at bay by the leaping flames. Trees mar his vision so he cannot seem more than the top of the blaze, but he can feel the warmth of it spreading like a blanket through the forest. He would question their safety here, but there is something magical about tonight, something that makes the rest of the world feel distant and ancient, as though there is something magical about this place, something sacred.
Lancelot stops outside the clearing and Arthur can see over his shoulder to the deep dug trench that houses the fire, the stack of logs that lies a short distance from it to keep its hungry maw fed. He cannot see Gawain or Galahad, though their voices still carry on the crisp air. Their tone is different now, softer though still tinged with laughter. Arthur opens his mouth to ask Lancelot a question, but is silenced by the soft touch of Lancelot’s calloused finger against his lips.
He is smiling, a sight that inspires a myriad of emotions in Arthur, not the least of which are anticipation and fear. He shakes his head, keeping Arthur silent, and walks backwards toward the fire, his whole being wreathed in shadows, his face a compelling combination of angel and demon. He reaches the edge of the fire and takes Arthur’s hand, grasping him tightly around the wrist for the endless moment before he vanishes in the flames.
Panic overwhelms Arthur until the roar and crackle are replaced with laughter and he looks around to find himself on the other side of the fire, the ground littered with pelts and blankets, emptied pitches and flagons of wine like wounded soldiers tipped drunkenly on their sides. He wants to say something but is stopped short once more, this time by the sight of Gawain, naked and stretched out on the largest of the blankets, his body covered with scars and bruises. He is like a sacrifice and Arthur loses his words again, watching as Galahad straddles Gawain and sinks down, taking him deep inside himself.
“This…” He begins, cut short by Lancelot’s hand clamped over his mouth. He shakes his head in protest, but it does nothing to remove the hard grip. Gawain and Galahad’s breathing is rough and loud and far too near for Arthur’s comfort, but he cannot help but cast his eyes toward them, cannot look away from the sight of their bodies moving together.
“This is worship, Arthur.” Lancelot whispers to him, removing his hand slowly. He steps back to the pile of blankets and begins to disrobe, stripping away all the trappings of Roman society, of his low station. Arthur has tried before to keep his gaze averted from Lancelot, and failed time and again, so he does not bother now, simply watches as he disrobes and moves over to Gawain and Galahad, stroking his fingers through the mass of Galahad’s curls to pull his head back, to kiss the parted and upturned lips. Lancelot lowers himself to his knees beside them and Gawain reaches to touch his skin, and Arthur catches his breath, too familiar with the hard muscles under Lancelot’s flesh to not feel a flare of jealousy at the sight.
“Come and join us, Arthur.” Gawain’s voice holds the thick slur of desire and mead, the heavy hint of laughter. “We promise not to hurt you.”
“Silence, Gawain,” Lancelot reprimands him softly. “He does not ask us to pray, only to listen.”
Arthur starts to protest, especially as Gawain’s hand slides from Lancelot’s hip to his buttocks, and the thought of what this is, what is before him sinks in. He needs to return to the fort and pray, ask God for forgiveness for them all. Instead, he finds himself with shaking hands, disrobing in the firelight and moving to the blankets. He sinks down behind Lancelot, Gawain’s hand between them, and rests his hand on the back of Galahad’s neck.
For lokei -
Reed & Ben
Reed’s fifteen years old the first time he meets Ben Grimm. Ben’s in college and Reed’s about to be, and Ben has been charged with showing some punk kid around the campus. He’s not happy about it, Reed can tell, but he’s doing it, which is more than Reed can say for the other five kids at the other five campuses he’s visited in the past two weeks.
“So, you’re, what? Like a genius?”
Reed looks up from the statue in front of them and shrugs. “The tests say that, yeah. Right now, I feel like I’m some sort of leper.”
“But you’re not. I see skin from here, and it appears to be staying on your body.”
“Yeah, but…” Reed sighs and shakes his head. “Have you ever felt like a complete outsider? Even though you’re just as capable as everyone else, you don’t get the benefit of the doubt?”
“Yeah, kid. We all feel like that sometimes. You’re not going to rush a fraternity or anything, are you?”
“No.”
“You know how to respect people’s privacy?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, kid.” Ben shrugs and leads the way back to the campus office. “You can room with me.”
**
“You know what you need?”
Two hours ago, Sue walked out of Reed’s life and, given that he tests off the charts, Reed’s pretty sure it’s a rhetorical question on Ben’s part. Of course, he’s been wrong before. Not often, but it’s happened. “What?”
“You need a beer.”
“You remember what happened the last time I had a beer?”
“Hey, at least I made sure she was cute.”
“I nearly got arrested, Ben.”
“You nearly got laid, Reed.”
“I don’t need a beer. I need Sue to not hate me. I need…” He sighs and looks at Ben, perched on the stupid papasan chair that Sue bought and hated, and so now belonged to Reed. “Okay. I need a beer.”
“You need to get laid.”
“How about…” Reed sighs again and stands up, deciding that fate needs tempting every once in a while. “How about I start with a beer?”
“Works for me.”
**
Alicia is good for Ben, and standing up against Victor helped as well, but Reed knows that Ben has problems with who he is and how he looks. It’s not just that he’s different, although Reed understands that aspect of it, but it’s as though, out of all of them, he’s not even human anymore. He’s relegated to being a “thing” - not a person, just some construct.
Sue’s been good about helping him find suits and other clothes that work for him, and Reed’s spent as much time as possible making and acquiring objects that can withstand Ben’s daily usage, but it doesn’t change the fact that Ben is what he is. A man of rock, even his internal organs petrified.
Still, he’s Reed’s best friend, so Reed knows he has to do something for him, he’s just at a loss as to what. If it were Johnny, he’d find him a hooker…not that Johnny actually needs help finding women, but Reed’s relatively certain that sex cures all of Johnny’s ills. If it were Sue, he’d buy her flowers and chocolates and beg for forgiveness, since most of what bothers Sue seems to stem directly from whatever it is that Reed’s done. But Ben is both more complicated and more simple than either of the other two, which means Reed doesn’t have a single idea of what to do to fix any of it.
Ben opens the door and looks at Reed as if he’s grown another head, which could very well be a side effect of the cosmic radiation they haven’t uncovered yet, so it’s a valid concern all the way around. Still, he refrains from feeling his shoulders for another neck stump. “Is there some sort of emergency, boss?”
“No.” Reed shakes his head. “And don’t call me that.”
“You’re the leader.”
“Yeah, well, so was Mickey Mouse. No one ever called him boss. Are you busy?” He’s relatively certain he shouldn’t have just admitted to watching The Mickey Mouse Club, but at least it was only to Ben.
“No. C’mon in. You want a beer?”
“Yes.”
Ben stops mid-stride, which is a pretty impressive sight. “What?”
“Sure. I’ll have a beer.”
“You hate beer.”
“I know.” Reed smiles. “But you like it, right?”
“Well…yeah.”
“So I’ll have a beer.” Reed grabs the remote, specially adapted for Ben’s large fingers. “Is there a game on?”
“Yeah. Cubs and the Mets.”
“Cool. Who are we voting for?”
“We’re…” Ben stops and smiles and nods. “We’re voting for the Mets. I’ll go get the beer.”