Twinkle, twinkle, little fic
BSG fascination galore. This is the brain-child of an idea I had for a while: wouldn't it serve Lee Adama right to actually *loose* Dee to the order of 'bringing Starbuck to Apollo'? [Yeah, as if the guy needed more angst as it is].
Besides, Lee Adama had, apparently, developed a notable drinking problem sometime after the events, transpired on the Algae Planet (BSG, season 3). Hence, this drabble is intended to suggest a groundwork for that, mingling an AUish dimension with 'actual' show narrative, to an extent. Set through the end of 'Rapture' and sometime before 'Taking a Break from All Your Worries'.
Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot-points, inherent to the show, belong to me.
Rating: T
Twinkle, twinkle…
Sam jumped off the Raptor, once Kara emerged on the deck. He could see them embrace fiercely and felt relief wash over. She'd be okay now. That was more than he could ever hope for. He wasn't that sure as to himself, but if the Gods, he never quite believed in, bothered to see to it that they made it off the cursed hot grime-ball of the planet in one piece, maybe, just maybe, there indeed was a chance for them all to be okay, somehow.
He set to plow steadily through the busy cheerful bustle, engulfing the hangar deck, to make it right up to Starbuck's Raptor hatch in time to help Dee off board. He'd have to debrief her and Fischer before the report to his father was due (which was to be fairly soon, seeing as the Admiral was already making his way towards them, eyeing him with appreciative concern).
He could imagine Dee might, quite probably, be not so thrilled to throw herself into his arms right away. Gods knew, he wouldn't be either, granted the circumstances. But Dee was a far better person, than he could ever aspire to be, he kept reminding himself, and a good soldier too. She'd figure out, eventually, he had no choice. Hades, she would have, no doubt, done the same damn thing, were she in charge - send him, or anyone else, out to attempt a rescue of a downed officer. What he persistently pushed to the outermost fringes of his mind, was an educated guess his wife would hardly have engaged in what preceded his order earlier that day.
In the meantime, he placated himself with trying to imagine her expression as he'd announce an official commendation to her and Sgt. Fischer for valorous performance. Truth be told, it was his call to file commendations for everybody involved in the Eye of Jupiter mission, military and civilians alike. He couldn't help an impish grin, picturing her, all prim in dress grays, shake hands with the Admiral in front of the entire Galactica crew and the President, maybe. She'd be beaming and proud, and beautiful. As ever. And, might be, if luck so had it, would even consider slacken contempt, readable in her gaze, whenever directed at him lately.
Distracted by ruminations along those lines, he failed to notice a man climb off the Raptor wing, he approached, till virtually bumping into the guy. Sgt. Fischer, notably pale under all the dust and slime, snapped to uneasy attention in front of him. He acknowledged the Sergeant with a brisk salute and a hearty pat on the upper arm, all the while glancing over the man's shoulder for his companion to make an exit. Gods, Dee must've been really pissed to stay brooding inside the Raptor, like that. Or… could it be - wounded? He stared back at Fischer urgently, an anxious inquiry spelled all over his countenance, only than detecting the Sarge had yet to look up, lips a tightly pursed tormented frown.
It was not until some hollow heartbeats later that he ventured to clasp his fingers around the sweat and filth covered metal object Fischer all but shoved into his open palm, the Sergeant's own hands shaking profoundly. He didn't have to make out the name on the dog-tags he was now holding. Fischer's tangled report on the sniper fire, permeated by semi-efficiently stifled sobs, trailed off into distance as he wandered a couple of wobbly steps away, shell-shocked.
That was not happening and yet, it was. His eyes darted, unseeing, over all the happy faces around, people embracing and chirping, glad to have their prayers answered, glad to have made it to safety. He wondered, instantly amused, which God he was supposed to praise for having his wish granted. Hadn't he contemplated divorce that very morning? And there he was, magically delivered of the strangling confines of the marriage he had been so weary of, free to pursue his 'heart's desire', wasn't he? He sent her out to her death and was issued a clean slate. How considerate of the Gods!
The crowd, swarming the hangar deck, halted to a petrified stop as his laughter bubbled and rang, jamming all the hustling noise. He was down on his knees, by then, laughing his head off, a morbid scowl of a madman. Kara and Sam, Helo and Athena, Chief and Cally were frozen in place, regarding his shivering form with unabashed dread. Admiral Adama and Doc. Cottle, flanked by a couple of other medics, hastened to him with alarmed resolve. A hushed 'hysterics' whiffed around the hangar deck in a shuddering gasp.
The first medic to reach his side was flung to the floor with a thud, upon attempting to pry his hand, gripping her dog-tags convulsively, away from the chest. Those were his, no one was to touch them, the appalled crowd was informed by his guttural bellows, the laughter converted into. It took the Admiral's and Colonel Tigh's combined efforts to pin him down, still kicking, writhing and wailing as a man possessed, for Doc. Cottle to manage administer the sedative with a syringe huge enough to take out a whole Gods damned basestar, Raiders, Centurions et al…
***
He woke up panting from his own screams, covered in sticky, rapidly cooling sweat, heart pounding with blunt heavy toll. It took an excruciating moment to gather his bearings. Their quarters were dark and, apart from his woozy self, deserted. Fright was clawing eagerly all the way up to his throat when he spotted her paperwork from the afore evening, stacked neatly on the coffee-table. The cobwebs of the nightmare du jour, eventually, cleared to a point he succeeded to summon the memory she was, indeed, alright. Alive and uninjured, back on Galactica, that is. And out at the CIC on an extra late-night watch, despite his resentful grumblings, she opted to ignore quietly. They did it a lot lately - feigned ignorance over things said and done, but even more so, over the ones left unspoken. He made to push himself off the bunk with a grunt, arm muscles stiff from clutching fistfuls of the sheets through recently dreamt-up anguish, and shambled dizzily to the locker for his tunic. Sleep, apparently, not a remotely welcome option for the rest of the night, he could at least use a drink…
P.S. There has to be an heuristic hypothesis, apparently, to explain the preferred choice of nursery rhymes themes for AU fic titles...
Besides, Lee Adama had, apparently, developed a notable drinking problem sometime after the events, transpired on the Algae Planet (BSG, season 3). Hence, this drabble is intended to suggest a groundwork for that, mingling an AUish dimension with 'actual' show narrative, to an extent. Set through the end of 'Rapture' and sometime before 'Taking a Break from All Your Worries'.
Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot-points, inherent to the show, belong to me.
Rating: T
Twinkle, twinkle…
Sam jumped off the Raptor, once Kara emerged on the deck. He could see them embrace fiercely and felt relief wash over. She'd be okay now. That was more than he could ever hope for. He wasn't that sure as to himself, but if the Gods, he never quite believed in, bothered to see to it that they made it off the cursed hot grime-ball of the planet in one piece, maybe, just maybe, there indeed was a chance for them all to be okay, somehow.
He set to plow steadily through the busy cheerful bustle, engulfing the hangar deck, to make it right up to Starbuck's Raptor hatch in time to help Dee off board. He'd have to debrief her and Fischer before the report to his father was due (which was to be fairly soon, seeing as the Admiral was already making his way towards them, eyeing him with appreciative concern).
He could imagine Dee might, quite probably, be not so thrilled to throw herself into his arms right away. Gods knew, he wouldn't be either, granted the circumstances. But Dee was a far better person, than he could ever aspire to be, he kept reminding himself, and a good soldier too. She'd figure out, eventually, he had no choice. Hades, she would have, no doubt, done the same damn thing, were she in charge - send him, or anyone else, out to attempt a rescue of a downed officer. What he persistently pushed to the outermost fringes of his mind, was an educated guess his wife would hardly have engaged in what preceded his order earlier that day.
In the meantime, he placated himself with trying to imagine her expression as he'd announce an official commendation to her and Sgt. Fischer for valorous performance. Truth be told, it was his call to file commendations for everybody involved in the Eye of Jupiter mission, military and civilians alike. He couldn't help an impish grin, picturing her, all prim in dress grays, shake hands with the Admiral in front of the entire Galactica crew and the President, maybe. She'd be beaming and proud, and beautiful. As ever. And, might be, if luck so had it, would even consider slacken contempt, readable in her gaze, whenever directed at him lately.
Distracted by ruminations along those lines, he failed to notice a man climb off the Raptor wing, he approached, till virtually bumping into the guy. Sgt. Fischer, notably pale under all the dust and slime, snapped to uneasy attention in front of him. He acknowledged the Sergeant with a brisk salute and a hearty pat on the upper arm, all the while glancing over the man's shoulder for his companion to make an exit. Gods, Dee must've been really pissed to stay brooding inside the Raptor, like that. Or… could it be - wounded? He stared back at Fischer urgently, an anxious inquiry spelled all over his countenance, only than detecting the Sarge had yet to look up, lips a tightly pursed tormented frown.
It was not until some hollow heartbeats later that he ventured to clasp his fingers around the sweat and filth covered metal object Fischer all but shoved into his open palm, the Sergeant's own hands shaking profoundly. He didn't have to make out the name on the dog-tags he was now holding. Fischer's tangled report on the sniper fire, permeated by semi-efficiently stifled sobs, trailed off into distance as he wandered a couple of wobbly steps away, shell-shocked.
That was not happening and yet, it was. His eyes darted, unseeing, over all the happy faces around, people embracing and chirping, glad to have their prayers answered, glad to have made it to safety. He wondered, instantly amused, which God he was supposed to praise for having his wish granted. Hadn't he contemplated divorce that very morning? And there he was, magically delivered of the strangling confines of the marriage he had been so weary of, free to pursue his 'heart's desire', wasn't he? He sent her out to her death and was issued a clean slate. How considerate of the Gods!
The crowd, swarming the hangar deck, halted to a petrified stop as his laughter bubbled and rang, jamming all the hustling noise. He was down on his knees, by then, laughing his head off, a morbid scowl of a madman. Kara and Sam, Helo and Athena, Chief and Cally were frozen in place, regarding his shivering form with unabashed dread. Admiral Adama and Doc. Cottle, flanked by a couple of other medics, hastened to him with alarmed resolve. A hushed 'hysterics' whiffed around the hangar deck in a shuddering gasp.
The first medic to reach his side was flung to the floor with a thud, upon attempting to pry his hand, gripping her dog-tags convulsively, away from the chest. Those were his, no one was to touch them, the appalled crowd was informed by his guttural bellows, the laughter converted into. It took the Admiral's and Colonel Tigh's combined efforts to pin him down, still kicking, writhing and wailing as a man possessed, for Doc. Cottle to manage administer the sedative with a syringe huge enough to take out a whole Gods damned basestar, Raiders, Centurions et al…
***
He woke up panting from his own screams, covered in sticky, rapidly cooling sweat, heart pounding with blunt heavy toll. It took an excruciating moment to gather his bearings. Their quarters were dark and, apart from his woozy self, deserted. Fright was clawing eagerly all the way up to his throat when he spotted her paperwork from the afore evening, stacked neatly on the coffee-table. The cobwebs of the nightmare du jour, eventually, cleared to a point he succeeded to summon the memory she was, indeed, alright. Alive and uninjured, back on Galactica, that is. And out at the CIC on an extra late-night watch, despite his resentful grumblings, she opted to ignore quietly. They did it a lot lately - feigned ignorance over things said and done, but even more so, over the ones left unspoken. He made to push himself off the bunk with a grunt, arm muscles stiff from clutching fistfuls of the sheets through recently dreamt-up anguish, and shambled dizzily to the locker for his tunic. Sleep, apparently, not a remotely welcome option for the rest of the night, he could at least use a drink…
P.S. There has to be an heuristic hypothesis, apparently, to explain the preferred choice of nursery rhymes themes for AU fic titles...