[BSG fic] Fixation (Anders/Kara, Anders/Six)
Title: Fixation
Author: Sentra Aquila
Spoilers: Up to “The Farm”
Rating: R
Summary: “What can I say, I’m from Sagittaron. We like our guns.” Anders encounters trouble of the blonde variety.
Everyday, Samuel T. Anders watches the skyline, waiting. But the scene never changes, the sun radiates its warmth in the morning and bleeds into a sanguine sunset. Though he may have known Kara only a few short days, he knows enough that she won’t break a promise.
Sometimes one of the team joins him during his daily rituals, mainly out of pity or some need to talk sense into their broken leader. This afternoon, Morris Fink is the unlucky bastard and as he walks towards Anders stationed like an unyielding statue. Fink wishes his last hand in Triad was a bit stronger.
“Hey.”
No response. He tries again, but his words fall on deaf ears.
“Anders, she’s probably millions of miles away. Back on her ship, eating something better than the crap we serve here,” he weakly chuckles. “She’s not coming back.”
Anders doesn’t turn around. His unwavering gaze fixated on the horizon.
“She’ll come back. She promised.”
Fink spends another hour arguing his point. She could have been shot down by Cylons, the Fleet’s probably halfway to Earth, maybe she moved on.
Yet, nothing works and Morris Fink stomps off back to the base while Anders sighs and tries to block out the truth.
* * *
Two weeks after Kara’s departure, Anders and his squad are on a raid of the local hospitals. Anti-radiation meds are in short supply and Ten-point is developing signs of sickness. Desperate, Anders leads the way into Cylon territory and hopefully, towards a cache of drugs.
Eventually, their pursuit ends in the city of Cumae. The hospital looks fairly intact, save for smeared blood on the unhinged doors. He signals the group into positions, when suddenly a burst of blonde rips through the entrance, guns blazing.
She fires five times knocking down an equal amount of Cylons, but two are still on her tail. Anders raises his rifle into position, aims and-
She fires off her last and sixth round. The bullet assails the first Cylon with a resounding crack, before it ricochets into the second. Exhausted, she collapses on the ground.
“Kara!” screams Anders as he emerges from the crag in the wall. Tripping over the metal debris he turns over the woman’s body.
And disappointment floods his veins. Anders notices that she’s blonde like Kara, but she’s taller than her, more feminine.
Jo-man and Rally carry the disoriented woman back to base camp. She regales the team with her story of survival and offers her stash of anti-radiation meds. In return, they boisterously praise her firefight skills and nickname her ‘Six Shots.’
Even, Anders can’t remember a time when the great Starbuck could have pulled that off.
* * *
In the dark, he studies his new bunkmate. Her blonde curls cascade over the drab comforter. He catalogs her wardrobe in his mind, black pantsuit, until his suspicions voice themselves in the eerie silence.
“You don’t seem the type.” His tone suggests an accusation, rather than a statement.
The blonde rolls over to face him, moonlight enhancing her features. She purrs in that unintentionally, sexy sleep-filled voice, “Type?”
“You know, a survivalist. You’re more of a high maintenance supermodel type.”
“Maybe that’s because I am-, was a model,” she corrects herself; the worlds have changed and so has she. An acknowledged silence settles over them.
Then, she turns the tables, “What about you? A pyramid player who just happens to be in the woods for high altitude training?”
Anders smirks. “Well, that’s more plausible than a model who can hit toasters from 60 yards.”
“What can I say, I’m from Sagittaron. We like our guns.”
She rolls over on her cot, her back to him. He seems satisfied with her answers and relaxes in her presence. For the first time in days, he doesn’t dream of Kara.
* * *
A month later, Anders and Six Shots tumble into their quarters. An adrenalin high from the last raid fuels their actions. She tugs at his jacket and her lips assault the patch of skin beneath his jaw.
“I’m so hot, Sam. So hot.”
He takes this as her consent and rips off her tanks and pants. Driving himself into her, he matches her cries 'So warm. So alive.' with grunts of her real name, Shelley.
Only once does he bite his lip when a different name threatens to roll off his tongue.
After their first time, he never makes that mistake again.
* * *
Three months later, Anders awakens to the sounds of gunfire. Slowly, he pulls on his boots, muttering curses about a new trigger happy recruit they recently picked up.
Walking out of the main building, he blinks and rubs the sun from his eyes.
“Jo-man, tell Trigger to stop living up to his name.”
That’s when it hits him. Before him lies the strewn bodies of his comrades, mercilessly shot to pieces. His own feet standing in a coagulating pile of Jo-man’s blood.
Across the quad, a handful of his soldiers are being mowed down by metallic Cylons. Dying on the newly planted seed.
Anders hears his name being called from one of the artillery sheds, but he doesn’t react. He can’t. How did they find us? Why is there so much blood?
“Shelley?”
Conducting the second barrage on the main building is Six Shots, surrounded by a battalion of soldiers. She climbs the steps and caresses Anders’ cheek. A frown mars her beautiful face.
“It’s a shame you’re human. So fragile.”
With a snap of his neck, his existence fades to black.
* * *
Eight months to the day of parting, a Cylon craft lands in the decimated remnants of the human resistance. A blonde woman materializes from the hold and steps onto the Caprican earth. She surveys the decadence, walls crumbling, weeds poking through the pavement.
“Hello?”
Her salutation echoes in the emptiness. She explores the recesses of the high school, the garage, the armory...until she glimpses a sentinel monitoring the sky.
Her hand falls heavily on his shoulder.
“Fink?”
She walks around to his front and gasps. His arm is hanging haphazardly in a sling, an unrecognizable face no longer shelters eyes.
A low growl pierces the stillness.
“He said you’d come back. You promised.”
In his mangled fist, a lone dogtag.
Author: Sentra Aquila
Spoilers: Up to “The Farm”
Rating: R
Summary: “What can I say, I’m from Sagittaron. We like our guns.” Anders encounters trouble of the blonde variety.
Everyday, Samuel T. Anders watches the skyline, waiting. But the scene never changes, the sun radiates its warmth in the morning and bleeds into a sanguine sunset. Though he may have known Kara only a few short days, he knows enough that she won’t break a promise.
Sometimes one of the team joins him during his daily rituals, mainly out of pity or some need to talk sense into their broken leader. This afternoon, Morris Fink is the unlucky bastard and as he walks towards Anders stationed like an unyielding statue. Fink wishes his last hand in Triad was a bit stronger.
“Hey.”
No response. He tries again, but his words fall on deaf ears.
“Anders, she’s probably millions of miles away. Back on her ship, eating something better than the crap we serve here,” he weakly chuckles. “She’s not coming back.”
Anders doesn’t turn around. His unwavering gaze fixated on the horizon.
“She’ll come back. She promised.”
Fink spends another hour arguing his point. She could have been shot down by Cylons, the Fleet’s probably halfway to Earth, maybe she moved on.
Yet, nothing works and Morris Fink stomps off back to the base while Anders sighs and tries to block out the truth.
* * *
Two weeks after Kara’s departure, Anders and his squad are on a raid of the local hospitals. Anti-radiation meds are in short supply and Ten-point is developing signs of sickness. Desperate, Anders leads the way into Cylon territory and hopefully, towards a cache of drugs.
Eventually, their pursuit ends in the city of Cumae. The hospital looks fairly intact, save for smeared blood on the unhinged doors. He signals the group into positions, when suddenly a burst of blonde rips through the entrance, guns blazing.
She fires five times knocking down an equal amount of Cylons, but two are still on her tail. Anders raises his rifle into position, aims and-
She fires off her last and sixth round. The bullet assails the first Cylon with a resounding crack, before it ricochets into the second. Exhausted, she collapses on the ground.
“Kara!” screams Anders as he emerges from the crag in the wall. Tripping over the metal debris he turns over the woman’s body.
And disappointment floods his veins. Anders notices that she’s blonde like Kara, but she’s taller than her, more feminine.
Jo-man and Rally carry the disoriented woman back to base camp. She regales the team with her story of survival and offers her stash of anti-radiation meds. In return, they boisterously praise her firefight skills and nickname her ‘Six Shots.’
Even, Anders can’t remember a time when the great Starbuck could have pulled that off.
* * *
In the dark, he studies his new bunkmate. Her blonde curls cascade over the drab comforter. He catalogs her wardrobe in his mind, black pantsuit, until his suspicions voice themselves in the eerie silence.
“You don’t seem the type.” His tone suggests an accusation, rather than a statement.
The blonde rolls over to face him, moonlight enhancing her features. She purrs in that unintentionally, sexy sleep-filled voice, “Type?”
“You know, a survivalist. You’re more of a high maintenance supermodel type.”
“Maybe that’s because I am-, was a model,” she corrects herself; the worlds have changed and so has she. An acknowledged silence settles over them.
Then, she turns the tables, “What about you? A pyramid player who just happens to be in the woods for high altitude training?”
Anders smirks. “Well, that’s more plausible than a model who can hit toasters from 60 yards.”
“What can I say, I’m from Sagittaron. We like our guns.”
She rolls over on her cot, her back to him. He seems satisfied with her answers and relaxes in her presence. For the first time in days, he doesn’t dream of Kara.
* * *
A month later, Anders and Six Shots tumble into their quarters. An adrenalin high from the last raid fuels their actions. She tugs at his jacket and her lips assault the patch of skin beneath his jaw.
“I’m so hot, Sam. So hot.”
He takes this as her consent and rips off her tanks and pants. Driving himself into her, he matches her cries 'So warm. So alive.' with grunts of her real name, Shelley.
Only once does he bite his lip when a different name threatens to roll off his tongue.
After their first time, he never makes that mistake again.
* * *
Three months later, Anders awakens to the sounds of gunfire. Slowly, he pulls on his boots, muttering curses about a new trigger happy recruit they recently picked up.
Walking out of the main building, he blinks and rubs the sun from his eyes.
“Jo-man, tell Trigger to stop living up to his name.”
That’s when it hits him. Before him lies the strewn bodies of his comrades, mercilessly shot to pieces. His own feet standing in a coagulating pile of Jo-man’s blood.
Across the quad, a handful of his soldiers are being mowed down by metallic Cylons. Dying on the newly planted seed.
Anders hears his name being called from one of the artillery sheds, but he doesn’t react. He can’t. How did they find us? Why is there so much blood?
“Shelley?”
Conducting the second barrage on the main building is Six Shots, surrounded by a battalion of soldiers. She climbs the steps and caresses Anders’ cheek. A frown mars her beautiful face.
“It’s a shame you’re human. So fragile.”
With a snap of his neck, his existence fades to black.
* * *
Eight months to the day of parting, a Cylon craft lands in the decimated remnants of the human resistance. A blonde woman materializes from the hold and steps onto the Caprican earth. She surveys the decadence, walls crumbling, weeds poking through the pavement.
“Hello?”
Her salutation echoes in the emptiness. She explores the recesses of the high school, the garage, the armory...until she glimpses a sentinel monitoring the sky.
Her hand falls heavily on his shoulder.
“Fink?”
She walks around to his front and gasps. His arm is hanging haphazardly in a sling, an unrecognizable face no longer shelters eyes.
A low growl pierces the stillness.
“He said you’d come back. You promised.”
In his mangled fist, a lone dogtag.