Derserving [BSG fic, Kara/Lee]
Title: Deserving
Author: sentraaquila
Written For: Imraith
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Paring: Kara/Lee
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She punches him in the jaw. Maybe he deserved that.
For: The badcliche ficathon. Imraith requested “Character A and B are stuck on a planet waiting to be rescued.” Leave it to me to turn a comedic situation into an angst filled one.
Kara Thrace, the Fleet’s wild card, makes her way home minutes before deployment. Without being cleared by Doc Cottle or security, she rushes into the first free Raptor, which coincidently happens to be his only ride to Kobol. He wonders if he would have gotten on board if he didn’t have feel-, if he didn’t have to rescue the lost Raptor team. After all, her track record, one downed Viper and one lost raider on Caprica, isn’t a vote of confidence.
* * *
His dradis console can’t pick up a visual and she can’t see over the tree cover. In a miscalculated move, she pitches the Raptor forward too much and isn’t able to ease up on the stick fast enough. They’re sent hurtling into a brilliant smear of green.
When they finally recover from their minor injuries, he salvages some supplies. She stomps about the crash site frowning at the Raptor wedged in between two tree trunks and the control panel that is emitting a spiral of smoke. While surveying the wreck he comments, “Well all things considered, I think you and Crashdown should talk about switching call signs.”
She punches him in the jaw. Maybe he deserved that.
* * *
Fearing planetside Cylons, they trek further from the wreck and set up camp near a small pond. He rationalizes that while there might only be rocks for pillows at least they’ll have water.
Two hours later, he’s knows wrong.
The water is teeming with mosquitoes that seem to think he’s quite delicious. If only, Kara shared that opinion.
* * *
In the middle of the night, he listens to the body next to him toss and turn. A bout of restlessness. She claims the culprit is the humidity, sticky and wet. Slowly suffocating her. She complains that she feels as if she’s drowning in water.
He suspects it’s a concussion, but she refuses to let him inspect her head wound. What happens next forces him to contemplate the veracity of whether bad luck following him. His remark “I’m sure you’d let good ole Doctor Baltar give you beside attention” merits him a black eye.
He knows he deserved that one.
* * *
The silent treatment continues for the next few days.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sure you are.”
“Kara.”
She ignores him.
“I’m apologizing here.” Pause. “Stubborn ass.”
He stretches out an arm and grasps her shoulder. She recoils at his touch, but keeps her arms pinned at her sides. Not a typical Starbuck response. It’s evident now that he’s done something horribly wrong.
* * *
By the third night, he’s given up all forms of communication. He strains to hear the nonexistent sounds of Colonial fighters, silently wishing to pry himself from this hell.
In his head, he catalogues the remaining supplies: two guns, 8 explosive rounds, one med kit, and one pack of rations. He wonders how long will he survive, though convinced death won’t be of starvation.
* * *
He puts a last bowl of food next to her and withdraws his hand.
Suddenly, she grabs his wrist and delivers him from an agonizing death.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
I love how my inspirational and creative streaks emerge only minutes before the challege is officially closed. ;)
Author: sentraaquila
Written For: Imraith
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Paring: Kara/Lee
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She punches him in the jaw. Maybe he deserved that.
For: The badcliche ficathon. Imraith requested “Character A and B are stuck on a planet waiting to be rescued.” Leave it to me to turn a comedic situation into an angst filled one.
Kara Thrace, the Fleet’s wild card, makes her way home minutes before deployment. Without being cleared by Doc Cottle or security, she rushes into the first free Raptor, which coincidently happens to be his only ride to Kobol. He wonders if he would have gotten on board if he didn’t have feel-, if he didn’t have to rescue the lost Raptor team. After all, her track record, one downed Viper and one lost raider on Caprica, isn’t a vote of confidence.
* * *
His dradis console can’t pick up a visual and she can’t see over the tree cover. In a miscalculated move, she pitches the Raptor forward too much and isn’t able to ease up on the stick fast enough. They’re sent hurtling into a brilliant smear of green.
When they finally recover from their minor injuries, he salvages some supplies. She stomps about the crash site frowning at the Raptor wedged in between two tree trunks and the control panel that is emitting a spiral of smoke. While surveying the wreck he comments, “Well all things considered, I think you and Crashdown should talk about switching call signs.”
She punches him in the jaw. Maybe he deserved that.
* * *
Fearing planetside Cylons, they trek further from the wreck and set up camp near a small pond. He rationalizes that while there might only be rocks for pillows at least they’ll have water.
Two hours later, he’s knows wrong.
The water is teeming with mosquitoes that seem to think he’s quite delicious. If only, Kara shared that opinion.
* * *
In the middle of the night, he listens to the body next to him toss and turn. A bout of restlessness. She claims the culprit is the humidity, sticky and wet. Slowly suffocating her. She complains that she feels as if she’s drowning in water.
He suspects it’s a concussion, but she refuses to let him inspect her head wound. What happens next forces him to contemplate the veracity of whether bad luck following him. His remark “I’m sure you’d let good ole Doctor Baltar give you beside attention” merits him a black eye.
He knows he deserved that one.
* * *
The silent treatment continues for the next few days.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sure you are.”
“Kara.”
She ignores him.
“I’m apologizing here.” Pause. “Stubborn ass.”
He stretches out an arm and grasps her shoulder. She recoils at his touch, but keeps her arms pinned at her sides. Not a typical Starbuck response. It’s evident now that he’s done something horribly wrong.
* * *
By the third night, he’s given up all forms of communication. He strains to hear the nonexistent sounds of Colonial fighters, silently wishing to pry himself from this hell.
In his head, he catalogues the remaining supplies: two guns, 8 explosive rounds, one med kit, and one pack of rations. He wonders how long will he survive, though convinced death won’t be of starvation.
* * *
He puts a last bowl of food next to her and withdraws his hand.
Suddenly, she grabs his wrist and delivers him from an agonizing death.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
I love how my inspirational and creative streaks emerge only minutes before the challege is officially closed. ;)