If it’s not love / Then it's the bomb / Then it's the bomb / That will bring us together
Had you told me ten years ago that someday my favorite t.v. shows would turn out to be Battlestar Galactica, Stargate and Dr. Who, I probably would have looked at you funny and said, "Dude? What are you even talking about?" Of course, back then I also told my brother that nothing on earth could ever persuade me to read Lord of the Rings. I just keep crossing lines, man. :)
That being said, Dr. Who is the awesome. I have never actually wanted eat characters up with a metaphorical spoon before. I <3 them all, like, times 1 million. Dude, the love! This is especially ironic, considering that I tried to watch Dr. Who about five years ago (all for a boy, of course) and hated it. Granted, I think it was a crappy Americanized version, but still... I was bored and vaguely icked out. Now? So much love! I'm told this new series is fairly different from the originals, so I don't think I'm going to be going back and watching the past seasons. But, again. Love!
device55 thinks we're going through some sort of sci-fi renaissance, where cheesy old shows like BSG and Dr. Who come into their own, at last. That's probably true to some extent. It's also possible that the people who make genre shows simply got savvy and realized that if you make sci-fi sexy and sharp (and lose the brown polyester onesies, robot dogs and cape-wearing A-Team refugees) your show will have a far broader appeal.
And speaking of crossing lines, I've given in and started writing SG-1 fic. I can't seem to come up with a title for it, though, so I'm fully open to suggestions. Help, please? It's essentially Vala as Demeter and Persephone, which seems to fit nicely given the show's obsession with mythology. Needless to say, there are spoilers for the season finale and speculation for Season 10.
When she's old enough, the Priors let her choose her own name.
She's supposed to go out into the wilderness and fast for three days, then look into the flames of Origin and a name will be revealed to her.
Instead, she finds her name in one of the thick books her mother left behind.
Mirit, from the Hebrew. It's a beautiful language, and she secretly likes the poetry and the songs despite their obvious blasphemy. There's a notation underneath the name, written in a distracted hand that she knows instinctively didn't belong to Vala.
Literally: will of god; also associated, like many of the female names, with the idea of bitterness or loss...
The handwriting trails off there -- a man's handwriting, she realizes, and not her father's. The words are written in the still slightly unfamiliar symbols of the Unbelievers. The pencil mark drifts off the side of the page, as though the writer was called away suddenly or simply forgot what he meant to put down next.
When she looks into the fire, she sees nothing.
So instead she says the name from the book, swallowing down her fear that somehow the Priors will know she's lying.
They don't.
She's beyond them and their ability to know. That's the first moment she stops needing them, thinks maybe she doesn't have to blindly heed their words.
“Know your enemy,” is the only answer she gives them when they ask what the name means.
She is one hundred and seventy days old, daughter to the Great Mother and the Hero of the Battle of Sahal, born into fire, divinely conceived by the Ori themselves.
She isn’t afraid of anyone.
*
"Are you all right?"
It's Mitchell's date. Her name is Kimberley, or Jennifer, or Tiffany. Something. She’s standing in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, the other on the sink.
“Pull it together, Vala,” Mitchell snaps, walking into the bathroom as well.
Ah, tough love. How typical.
His date gives him a sharp look. “She’s upset.”
“And drunk.”
“And upset.”
“I know, Kim,” he begins, relenting a little, his forehead wrinkling. “It’s just- Well, it’s complicated.”
“My baby died,” Vala lies, and Kim looks stricken. Mitchell just narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. He doesn’t challenge the statement, though.
*
She wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, with a familiar body next to her.
He's still in the clothes he wore the night before, but he's barefoot and his glasses are on the nightstand. It makes him look younger, uncharacteristically vulnerable, a little naked. In another context it would be appealing.
"And how are we feeling this morning?" Daniel says, sounding mostly annoyed, but also (a little) genuinely concerned.
Her head is pounding and she feels like she has grains of sand trapped behind her eyelids, but there's no way she's going to admit it.
"Where are we?" she says instead. The ceiling is blue and the sheets are mismatched flannel.
"The general's guestroom, which is... weird." He grimaces, chagrined, and for a moment he's exactly the Daniel she remembers.
She swallows hard, but then shrugs and says as lightly as possible, "He should have come to expect my excesses by now."
"Yours? Maybe. I think mine, on the other hand, were something of a shock."
And here she'd thought he'd stayed to look after her.
He lays a hand on the flat of her belly. Their inconsistent intimacy confuses her. There are certain boundaries they never cross, things they never talk about. Right now, though, mostly it’s just nice to be touched.
That being said, Dr. Who is the awesome. I have never actually wanted eat characters up with a metaphorical spoon before. I <3 them all, like, times 1 million. Dude, the love! This is especially ironic, considering that I tried to watch Dr. Who about five years ago (all for a boy, of course) and hated it. Granted, I think it was a crappy Americanized version, but still... I was bored and vaguely icked out. Now? So much love! I'm told this new series is fairly different from the originals, so I don't think I'm going to be going back and watching the past seasons. But, again. Love!
device55 thinks we're going through some sort of sci-fi renaissance, where cheesy old shows like BSG and Dr. Who come into their own, at last. That's probably true to some extent. It's also possible that the people who make genre shows simply got savvy and realized that if you make sci-fi sexy and sharp (and lose the brown polyester onesies, robot dogs and cape-wearing A-Team refugees) your show will have a far broader appeal.
And speaking of crossing lines, I've given in and started writing SG-1 fic. I can't seem to come up with a title for it, though, so I'm fully open to suggestions. Help, please? It's essentially Vala as Demeter and Persephone, which seems to fit nicely given the show's obsession with mythology. Needless to say, there are spoilers for the season finale and speculation for Season 10.
When she's old enough, the Priors let her choose her own name.
She's supposed to go out into the wilderness and fast for three days, then look into the flames of Origin and a name will be revealed to her.
Instead, she finds her name in one of the thick books her mother left behind.
Mirit, from the Hebrew. It's a beautiful language, and she secretly likes the poetry and the songs despite their obvious blasphemy. There's a notation underneath the name, written in a distracted hand that she knows instinctively didn't belong to Vala.
Literally: will of god; also associated, like many of the female names, with the idea of bitterness or loss...
The handwriting trails off there -- a man's handwriting, she realizes, and not her father's. The words are written in the still slightly unfamiliar symbols of the Unbelievers. The pencil mark drifts off the side of the page, as though the writer was called away suddenly or simply forgot what he meant to put down next.
When she looks into the fire, she sees nothing.
So instead she says the name from the book, swallowing down her fear that somehow the Priors will know she's lying.
They don't.
She's beyond them and their ability to know. That's the first moment she stops needing them, thinks maybe she doesn't have to blindly heed their words.
“Know your enemy,” is the only answer she gives them when they ask what the name means.
She is one hundred and seventy days old, daughter to the Great Mother and the Hero of the Battle of Sahal, born into fire, divinely conceived by the Ori themselves.
She isn’t afraid of anyone.
*
"Are you all right?"
It's Mitchell's date. Her name is Kimberley, or Jennifer, or Tiffany. Something. She’s standing in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, the other on the sink.
“Pull it together, Vala,” Mitchell snaps, walking into the bathroom as well.
Ah, tough love. How typical.
His date gives him a sharp look. “She’s upset.”
“And drunk.”
“And upset.”
“I know, Kim,” he begins, relenting a little, his forehead wrinkling. “It’s just- Well, it’s complicated.”
“My baby died,” Vala lies, and Kim looks stricken. Mitchell just narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. He doesn’t challenge the statement, though.
*
She wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, with a familiar body next to her.
He's still in the clothes he wore the night before, but he's barefoot and his glasses are on the nightstand. It makes him look younger, uncharacteristically vulnerable, a little naked. In another context it would be appealing.
"And how are we feeling this morning?" Daniel says, sounding mostly annoyed, but also (a little) genuinely concerned.
Her head is pounding and she feels like she has grains of sand trapped behind her eyelids, but there's no way she's going to admit it.
"Where are we?" she says instead. The ceiling is blue and the sheets are mismatched flannel.
"The general's guestroom, which is... weird." He grimaces, chagrined, and for a moment he's exactly the Daniel she remembers.
She swallows hard, but then shrugs and says as lightly as possible, "He should have come to expect my excesses by now."
"Yours? Maybe. I think mine, on the other hand, were something of a shock."
And here she'd thought he'd stayed to look after her.
He lays a hand on the flat of her belly. Their inconsistent intimacy confuses her. There are certain boundaries they never cross, things they never talk about. Right now, though, mostly it’s just nice to be touched.