BSG Fic announcement: Fool's Gold 2/5
Title: Fool’s Gold
Author: Widget
Pairing: Kara/Anders; mentions of Lee/Dee, Helo/Sharon, Tyrol/Cally
Spoilers: LDYB pt 2, mild references to the webisodes, though nothing overtly spoilery
Summary: All she ever wanted was a bright shiny future of her own.
Two months after she arrives on planet, Kara falls ill for the first time. Except she’s not sick. Kara doesn’t get sick. That’s a simple, irrefutable fact. So when the stomach cramps start, she ignores them, writing them off as just another stomach ache brought on by her and Sam’s dubious culinary efforts. The diarrhea is a bit more worrying and not to mention unpleasant, but Kara’s always considered herself to be tough. She refuses to let frakkin’ diarrhea stop her.
It’s when she notices blood in her stool that she gets genuinely concerned. Sam is adamant that she see the doc and for once Kara feels no inclination to argue.
The medical tent is alive with activity when she arrives and she’s forced to wait until the harried medical staff can get to her. A passing nurse tells her to take a seat, but Kara declines. Sitting has become decidedly uncomfortable. So she stands and waits and starts to remember the Galacticas sickbay with something akin to fondness until Cottle waves her over at last.
“So what’s the problem, Thrace?”
She’s halfway through the list of symptoms before Cottle cuts her off.
“It’s dysentery,” he announces curtly.
“You sure?”
Cottle gives her a cool look as he tugs a cigarette out of his pack and jams it into his mouth. He doesn’t light it, she notices. Conservation of resources is SOP at all levels. “I know my business. Besides, you aren’t the first one to show up complaining about the running shits.” She’d almost smile at the crude term if she weren’t in so much discomfort. “It was only a matter of time before we got our first epidemic and given the lousy conditions we’re living in, dysentery was going to show up sooner or later.”
“How bad is it?” she asks, not entirely sure she wants to know.
“I figure about a third of the settlement’s got it. The number could get as high as half the population. Nothing to be done about it. Dysentery is highly contagious and we just don’t have the facilities to properly quarantine the camp.”
Kara goes silent at that sobering pronouncement. “So, can you give me something?”
“’Fraid not.”
Kara frowns. “Why not?”
“Because we don’t have enough antibiotics to treat the entire settlement. Dysentery might be unpleasant, but in adults it usually subsides on its own. Children are another matter. They get first dibs on medication.”
“So that’s it?”
Cottle shrugs, his cigarette dipping a little. “Not much more I can do, unless, of course, you happen to be sitting on a secret stash of antibiotics. I need to conserve medication so that those who need it get it. You’ll just have to ride it out like everybody else.”
“Swell.”
“Make sure you stay hydrated; dehydration is the biggest danger in adults. And make sure that husband of yours boils the water first since it’s the most likely source of the nasty little buggers that infected you in the first place. Other than that, there’s not much to be done.”
“Thanks,” she mutters before hopping off the diagnostic table. She heads towards the exit, all too aware of children crying and parents trying to soothe them but to no avail. You’re better off than them she reminds herself.
She continues to remind herself of this in the coming days as her stomach cramps and she spends what seems like hours squatting over their own personal hole in the ground that serves as a head. For the first time she regrets her decision to come planet side. She misses her bunk, she misses a real toilet. And most of all, she misses access to medicine that she’d always taken for granted on Galactica but which is spread thinly amongst the civilian population. She hadn’t realized how many privileges she’d had, how many small luxuries were readily available to her as a pilot until she became just another civilian.
Kara wishes she was back on Galactica so much she can barely breathe at times. But then there’s Sam, mopping her face and whispering soft endearments and words of encouragement. He makes sure she stays hydrated, teasing and cajoling her to drink even when she’s not sure she can keep water down. But she does, because Sam asks. Sam loves her and he’ll see her through. She might miss Galactica, but Sam is worth even this.
He’s worth everything.
[][][]
Kara shuffles impatiently amidst the crowd as she waits to retrieve her weekly food rations at the supply depot. It takes a frakking age before it’s her turn and she eyes her portion warily, wondering how she and Sam will make their rations stretch the entire week.
She’s stepping away from the counter when she feels something collide with her lower legs. Kara looks down to find a small child staring up at her with wide, dark eyes. Kara stares back.
“Nia! Nia! There you are!” a voice calls out, moving closer. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
Kara watches as a dark-haired woman scoops the child up into her arms and turns towards Kara. She looks familiar and it takes Kara a moment to place her. She works in the machine shop, Kara remembers. They only overlap a few shifts a week, but still she’s someone Kara knows, sort of. The woman gives her a small hesitant smile
“You’re Kara, right?” at Kara’s nod, the woman’s smile widens. “I’m Lynn. We work in the same shop.”
She shifts her body, hitching the child more comfortably on her hip before extending her hand. Kara shakes it.
“Right. Nice to meet you.”
“And I see you’ve met my daughter, Nia,” the woman says. Her entire face softens when she looks down at the girl nestled in her arms.
“Hi, Nia,” Kara says, trying to sound soothing. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nia.” Lynn’s voice is soft. “This is Kara. She’s a friend of mommy’s. Do you want to say hi?”
Nia shakes her head, dark curls bouncing, before burying her face in her mother’s shoulder.
Lynn smiles sheepishly. “Sorry ‘bout that. She’s shy around strangers.”
“It’s okay,” Kara assures her, uncertain of what else to say. The two women stand there awkwardly for a few moments. It’s Lynn who breaks the silence.
“Well, I better get going. I’ve got to put this little one down for a nap. Do you want to say goodbye, Nia?”
Another shake of her curly head. Lynn gives a small shrug. “Sorry.”
Kara shrugs in reply. “No biggie.”
“It was nice talking to you, Kara.”
“Yeah. I guess I’ll see you at work.”
Lynn flashes her a quick, but genuine smile before turning and making her way through the crowd, presumably towards her home. Kara watches her until she and the dark head cradled on her shoulder disappear from view.
She gives herself a shake and turns in the other direction towards home. Towards Sam.
[][][]
She sees Lynn at work the following day. When the other woman looks up and smiles, Kara makes a point of smiling back. When Lynn hands her a cup of tea during a rest break, Kara takes it gratefully, sighing as she wraps her hands around the mug, welcoming its warmth against her skin. And when Lynn sits next to her, Kara finds she doesn’t mind the company.
After a week of rest breaks, Kara learns a good deal about Lynn Albemarle, at least the basics. Lynn is - was - from Virgon. She’d been a secretary in a small tech firm before it all went to hell. Divorced from a dirt bag of a husband, one child, Nia, that her husband never visited and refused to pay child support on. She’d been coming home from a visit to her sister on Aerilon when the Cylons attacked which was how she made it out alive.
“I know it’s a shitty thing to say,” Lynn confides one day as they lean against the pre-fab metal walls of the machine shop during a rest break. “But I’m glad the bastard’s dead.” She accepts the cigarette Kara hands her, taking a long pull before handing it back, a plume of blue smoke issuing from her mouth. “He never did right by me or Nia. Unfaithful bastard, too. Could never keep it in his pants, y’know?”
Kara nods, exhales, watching the smoke curl upwards then dissipate. She misses the taste and smell of expensive Caprican cigars; hell, even those cheap cigarettes she used to smoke back in high school were better than these things, but this is all she has so she’ll make do. She hands the cigarette back to Lynn and shoves her hands into pockets, trying to warm them up. It’s too cold.
“Last I’d heard, he’d taken up with a waitress in some strip club. Classy,” Lynn sneers as she passes the cigarette back to Kara. “And now they’re both dead. Maybe the Gods do have a sense of humor after all.”
Kara never gets a chance to respond. She hears the bell sounding, calling them back to work. She flicks the cigarette butt to the muddy ground, grinding it beneath her foot before heading back inside to the too hot machine shop and the comforting sounds of metal and machines.
She spends the rest of her shift thanking the Gods that she has Sam. And that there are no strip clubs on New Caprica.
[][][]
Kara’s always had a freakishly regular cycle, a perfect twenty-eight days from start to end just like they described in the health class textbooks. The medic at the flight school who did the yearlies had once joked that Kara’s uterus was the only part of her that adhered to strict military discipline. Kara never doubted she was probably right.
Kara watches her cycle carefully. As a method of birth control she knows it’s crap, but her options are limited. Her shot wore off three months earlier and what birth control is to be had is now in short supply. Most of it is earmarked for the military for reasons Kara knows and understands and now thoroughly resents. When she’d been military, she’d thought it was fair; after all, there’s no room for a baby on a battlestar, and even less in a cockpit. But now that she’s a civvy, she hates it, fuming at the special treatment, the special favors accorded military personnel. Funny how your perceptions change once you’re standing on the other side of the fence.
Three days each cycle, she won’t let Sam touch her. She always finds some excuse: headache, indigestion, exhaustion - that one at least wasn’t a lie; she is tired, always tired - and if Sam notices he never lets on. But then, Kara isn’t the only one who’s tired and worn out.
Twenty-eight days, like clockwork. Until it isn’t.
Day twenty-six comes and goes without any sign of her regular period. Kara stares at her panties, the faded gray fabric unstained by blood, and worries her lip between her teeth. It’s the planet, she tells herself. The change in climate, in gravity, in diet, hell, even the frakking air they’re breathing, all of it’s new and unsettling. Her body is just acclimating itself, that’s all. That excuse is so logical she doesn’t even have to work hard to ignore the whisper of doubt.
On day twenty-seven when there’s no sign of her period, she tells herself it’s exhaustion. Exhaustion can throw internal systems out of whack, right? She ignores the voice that points out five days of living in thirty-three minute increments hadn’t affected her period in the slightest. It had arrived on day twenty-six, right on cue, impervious to such minor considerations as lack of sleep and the constant parade of launches and landings, completely unaffected by something as trivial as the end of the worlds.
On day twenty-eight when there’s no sign of her period, she shows up at Doc Cottle’s tent, pale and shaking. He takes one look at her, and draws her inside without a word.
“It’s going to take awhile to get the results,” he says, drawing blood while she shivers in her flimsy hospital gown from the cold, only from the cold. “I don’t have the equipment down here. I’ll need to send the tests up to the lab on Galactica.” Cottle labels the blood sample and sets it on a tray next to the urine sample she already gave him. “Two days at least.”
She nods. It’s not like she has a choice anyway. She spends the rest of the day walking around in a fog, the possibility she’s been trying so hard to ignore staring her in the face, mocking her no matter which way she turns. She’s quiet that night. Sam frowns at her across the dinner table, clearly worried, but he’s smart enough not to ask. He’s learned to let her talk in her own time.
On day twenty-nine she wakes up to find droplets of blood staining her panties. She nearly sobs with relief. She wipes her hand across her eyes, mildly surprised to find the skin damp. It isn’t until she hears from Cottle two days later, however - results negative - that she can breathe again
[][][]
When she wakes in the morning, her breath freezes in front of her, cold prickling at her exposed skin. She flexes her hands and grimaces at the low, dull ache in her joints. She’s lived too long in Galactica’s carefully modulated environment. She’s forgotten how the cold and damp burrow inside, taking up residence within long healed fractures. She’d forgotten how her fingers would throb, especially in the mornings, how her grip would falter and her usually dexterous fingers would go clumsy.
She glances down at Sam sleeping peacefully beside her. Dawn is still a good half hour away and his face is pale gray in the shadows. Kara wishes they had a space heater like the one she kept in her rat trap of an apartment back in Delphi. But space heaters, like everything else, are in short supply. What few they have are reserved for communal areas like the school and the hospital tent and of course the nursery where the seedlings are, tended with the zeal of a Geminon temple in anticipation of the spring planting. These days its blankets and body heat for the rest of them. Making do is the order of the day.
She rubs her hands together carefully, making the blood circulate while she tries to soothe away the worst of the pain. By the time the sun begins to rise, the ache in her joints is a low throb, bearable.
Just another day in paradise.
[][][]
“Frak!”
“I’d say that’s the best offer I’d had all day, but I get the impression you’re not talking to me.”
Kara looks up to find Sam standing just inside the tent, a soft smile playing around his lips.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, moving to stand beside the bed where she’s currently sitting.
“I’m trying to mend these stupid trousers, but I can’t get the frakkin’ needle threaded!” she complains. Glaring at the needle as if to demand compliance by force of will alone, she makes another attempt only to stab the tip of the needle into her thumb.
“Frak!” she hisses. A bead of blood is welling up to the surface and she raises it to her lips.
“Here,” Sam says softly as he sits on the bed beside her. “Let me.” Wrapping his hand gently around her wrist, he presses his lips to the pad of her thumb, his tongue lapping gently at the injury. She stares at his bent head, wondering how something so simple could be so erotic. Sam flicks his eyes up to meet hers and the heat in his gaze scorches her. Kara shifts on the bed, feeling the growing wetness between her legs. With a final flick of his tongue, Sam lowers her hand and gives her a smoldering look.
“Better?”
Eyes never leaving his, she nods.
His lips stretch into a lazy grin. “I think the mending can wait, don’t you?”
At Kara’s nod, Sam pulls the torn trousers from her slack grip and tosses them carelessly aside.
If anyone notices that Kara shows up for work the next day in torn trousers, they are smart enough not to comment.
[][][]
The Promenade is packed with people, as always, but it’s the sight of a pair of flight-suited figures that makes Kara stop in her tracks and stare. She catches glimpses amidst the shifting crowd, dark hair, broad shoulders encased in the slick, sleek folds of gray-green vinyl. And then there’s a gap in the flow of people and she recognizes Racetrack and Skulls. She feels a flash of disappointment thought she can’t say why and makes to turn away before she’s spotted.
“Starbuck?”
She turns back, her brightest smile plastered across her face. “Hey. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yeah.” Racetrack gives her a tentative smile, clearly uncertain of how to respond. They’d never exactly been what she’d call friends; adversaries might be closer to the mark. There’d always been a degree of friction between them, an unspoken animosity. It hadn’t been anything in particular, they just rubbed each other the wrong way.
Kara’s well accustomed to that reaction.
“So,” Kara asks, trying to sound nonchalant. “What’re you guys doing here?”
“Supply run,” Racetrack replies. She looks a little more at ease and Kara can see the way Skulls comes to stand beside her, his body adopting a casual slouch that only barely disguises the wariness of his body. Silent back-up, should she need it. “The Admiral asked us to shuttle down some stuff - spare parts, some sheet metal, tools - to help with the building project.”
Kara nods. That jives with what Sam had told her, what Lee had promised. Leave it to the Adamas to look after them. “That’s good.”
“The Admiral gave us the day off, told us to stretch our legs, take in the sights,” Racetrack continues with a shrug. “Is there someplace around here where a girl can get a drink?”
“Quite a few,” Kara replies, noticing the way Racetrack’s and Skulls’ eyes light up. “You want to go to Jake’s place. The Oasis,” she clarifies. “It’s at the far end of the Promenade, right hand side. You can’t miss it.”
Racetrack nods. Her gaze flickers towards Skulls and Kara catches a hint of a question. Skulls’ shoulders raise fractionally in response. “You wanna join us, Starbuck?”
Kara feels herself freeze. There was a time she would have leapt at the chance to have a drink with a fellow pilot, even one she didn’t particularly like. But she feels self-conscious, painfully aware of the contrast between Racetrack’s neat ponytail and her own tousled mop of hair. She impatiently pushes loose strands out of her eyes and tries not to think about how she must look standing there in the middle of the Promenade in her faded, hand-me-down civvy clothes, muddy and disheveled and a world away from the officer she’d once been. She’d never been one to fuss over appearances, but the contrast between the two of them is undeniable. It’s like some twisted before and after advertisement, only now Kara’s the terrible warning, not the glowing example of improved living.
Racetrack and Skulls look vaguely uncomfortable as well, as if they’d rather be anywhere but here talking to her. She can try and pretend it’s the because of the cold, but she knows better. For all that they’d known Starbuck, Kara is a virtual stranger, just another civilian settler. No, worse; she’s one of those people, the ones who left the Fleet, who turned their backs on duty and their shipmates. Loyalty is everything in the service and even if they never say a word, Kara can practically see the disappointment and disdain in their eyes.
Feeling abashed and unaccountably guilty, Kara shakes her head and offers them a smile. “’Fraid not. I’ve got to get to work. It was good seeing you, though. Give my best to everyone, okay?”
Racetrack nods and Kara thinks she can see the relief that washes over the other woman’s features. “Sure. No problem. It was good seeing you, too, Starbuck.”
Racetracks’s voice almost sounds sincere.
Kara watches as Racetrack gives Skulls a playful shove in the direction Kara had indicated. She watches as they’re swallowed up by the ebb and flow of the crowd, their soft laughter floating back to her, the sound mocking to her ears. Hands curling to fists at her side, Kara turns and heads to the shop.
She refuses to look back.
[][][]
Four months after Kara Thrace became Kara Anders, she sees Lee Adama for the first time. It’s so unexpected that she doesn’t believe her eyes at first, despite the fact that she would know him anywhere, could pick him out of a crowd just by the way he carries himself.
It’s his uniform she sees first, a flash of duty blues glimpsed through the flux of the crowd in the market place. It’s enough to stop her in her tracks. No one on New Caprica wears blues - the uniforms were the first things left behind by the personnel when they departed Galactica and Pegasus - and members of the Fleet rarely come planet side. Shopping forgotten, she pushes through the crowd without thinking, drawn like a ship to a landing beacon.
He’s standing on the edge of the Promenade - a rather pompous name for the ugly stretch of muddy road that runs through the heart of the settlement- immersed in conversation with Gaeta. She feels an unexpected surge of disappointment though she can’t imagine why. Commander Adama is here on official business. Of course. The President probably requires regular reports and no doubt takes great delight in making the Adamas dance attendance upon him, arrogant prick that he is. Roslin would never have done that, but then Roslin never had to juggle the demands of office with such pressing and time consuming tasks as drinking and whoring. Kara knows that’s probably an uncharitable thought, but if half of the rumors are true, Baltar’s the biggest joke to ever take office. And that, she supposes, would make New Caprica the biggest punch line of all time.
She sees Lee nodding at something Gaeta says and then he turns his head and looks directly at her. Her breath freezes in her lungs as their eyes meet across the length of the Promenade. She’s sure he sees her - how could he not? - he sees her and then very slowly, very deliberately, he turns away.
She watches as Lee walks away, his back stiff, strides purposeful and brisk. She feels her face harden, her lips drawing into a thin line as her earlier disappointment gives way to an anger she knows she isn’t really entitled to feel. She told him to stay away, after all. She was the one to sever all ties. He’s only adhering to her wishes. She’d laid down the rules, and Lee, as always, followed them scrupulously and would continue to do so right up to the very gates of Hades.
It doesn’t matter, she tells herself. She doesn’t give a damn about anything Lee Adama does or says. He’s not her concern anymore. He’s no one to her. Nothing. She repeats this to herself over and over while she finishes her shopping. She repeats it throughout her shift at the machine shop. By the time she settles in to cook dinner she’s managed to block Lee Adama completely from her thoughts. She’s managed it so well, in fact, that she doesn’t even hear Sam come home. She doesn’t even realize he’s there until he slips his arms around her, making her jump.
“Hey,” he says. He pulls her hair away from her neck to drop a kiss on her nape. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s all right. I was just thinking.”
“’Bout what?” he asks.
“Nothing.” Which, of course, is true.
Sam nuzzles playfully behind her ear, making her squirm in his embrace.
Kara giggles then swats his arm. “Stop it, Sam! Unless you want your dinner on the floor.”
“Dunno, it might taste better.”
This time she whacks him with the spoon. She holds it up menacingly and Sam cowers almost comically in response. “Given the culinary masterpiece you served last night, I don’t think you’re in any position to critique my cooking, buster!”
He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I never claimed to be a chef. But at least I can boil water.”
Kara snorts in amusement. “It was only the once and I’ve gotten better since then.”
Sam’s expression softened. “Yeah, you have.” He leans in and kisses the tip of her nose and the last shreds of irritation fade.
“Idiot,” she growls, but her voice is tinged with fondness. “I’m almost finished, Why don’t you set the table?”
“Sure.”
Kara turns back to her pot, stirring in an anemic looking carrot and a handful of grains. She hears Sam puttering around behind her, the sounds as soothing as his presence. She smiles, still a little amazed after all these months at how much she enjoys these little moments of domestic bliss. A year ago, if anyone had predicted that she’d take pleasure in cooking a meal for her husband, she would have laughed at them, but things change. After all, change is the only constant in the universe. Change and death. Kara definitely prefers the former.
Sam’s voice breaks into her thoughts. “Hey, guess who I saw today?”
“Who?” Kara stares into the pot, wondering whether or not to add another pinch of salt from their dwindling store of spices.
“Commander Adama.”
Kara freezes, her hand clutching the spoon so tightly her knuckles turn white. She takes a deep breath and then another to steady herself before turning. “Oh?” she asks, hoping Sam can’t hear the agitation in her voice.
“Yep,” he says, smiling and Kara breathes a sigh of relief. “He came by the construction site, had a long talk with Tyrol. I guess our illustrious president,” Kara can’t help but smile at the note of sarcasm in her husband’s voice when he mentions Baltar, “told him about the labor problems he’s been having lately. He probably expected the poor guy to fix ‘em for him.”
“And did he?”
Sam shrugs, dropping into one of the chairs. “Nothing he can do about a labor dispute, but he promised to see what he could do about sending down some more raw materials, maybe even some more tools. Anything would be a help.”
“That was…nice of him,” she says, voice and face neutral.
“Yeah.” Sam nods. “He seems like a nice guy.”
It’s a simple observation, but Kara can almost hear the question underneath and she’s in no mood to discuss Lee Adama, not with Sam, not with anyone. Her complicated, messy and ultimately acrimonious relationship with Lee is one subject she’s never broached with Sam. It’s ancient history and history deserves to stay buried as far as she’s concerned.
She makes a non-committal sound as she turns back to the pot, gives the contents a cautious taste. Not exactly four star cuisine, but it’s edible, which is more than could be said for some of the swill she consumed back on Galactica.
“Soup’s on,” she says, putting an end to the conversation. Sam brings the dishes over and she ladles a helping of soup into each of them. They sit at the table and Kara focuses on the food before her with the grim determination of someone who is either famished or who is trying to avoid conversation by keeping her mouth and attention otherwise occupied. They eat in silence for a time, nothing by the clink of their spoons against the sides of the dishes and the usual sounds of activity outside their tent serving as the background.
“Ten Point and I were talking about setting up a pyramid court near the Promenade,” Sam says at last.
Kara raises her head cautiously and looks at her husband. His lips are curved into a hesitant smile and she can see the concern reflected in his eyes. He wants her to talk, but he won’t push, he never does and she’s grateful for it. She grabs at the change in topic like a lifeline. “A pyramid court, huh?” she gives him a wry look.
Sam’s smile stretches into something genuine. “Yep. We figured it might help. You know, provide a bit of a distraction, give people something to do with the free time.”
“Right, because we have so much of that.” Kara’s voice is thick with sarcasm, but she can’t help but smile a little.
Sam shrugs, setting his spoon back in his now empty dish. “It’s getting a little better now that we have a shift system in place. And people are more familiar at their jobs now. Half the guys on the construction crew had never used a power saw before in their lives. Yours truly included,” he added with a grin. “Now, I’m practically a pro.”
Kara shakes her head, smiling. “So…a pyramid court.”
“It’s not really civilization until you have one.”
Kara pushes her dish aside and leans forward, elbows resting on the table. Sam does the same. “So, I’ll be getting to kick your ass on a regular basis then.”
Sam sends her a lecherous grin across the table. “I love it when you kick my ass.”
She matches his grin with one of her own. “That’s good, since I do it on a daily basis.”
“Promises, promises.”
“You want a demonstration, Mr. Anders?”
“Show me what you got, Mrs. Anders.”
It was a long time before they got around to cleaning up the dinner dishes that night.
[][][]
She sees Lee twice more in the months that follow, once talking to Tyrol at the construction site when Kara is visiting Sam; once coming out of the school where former president Roslin now teaches. He makes no effort to seek her out on either occasion. She doesn’t bother to make her presence known to him. He has his life on Pegasus, she has hers here.
It’s for the best.
[][][]
Drifting on the cusp of slumber, Kara feels the mattress shift beneath her as Sam slides under the covers and molds his body to hers. She shivers as Sam’s cool fingers trace sleep warmed skin, smiling drowsily as he presses soft kisses along the back of her neck, his lips teasing at the edge of the collar of her sleep shirt.
“Sam,” she sighs into the darkness.
He slips one hand beneath the hem of her shirt and rests his palm briefly against her belly, the gesture tender yet proprietary. Mine it says, and Kara has no intention of arguing the point. His hand begins to move slowly, roaming lazily across her torso to skim the swell of her breast. Kara sighs, enjoying the gentle exploration, content to let her husband caress and touch like this. Soon enough, however, his touches become more urgent, his hands moving with undeniable purpose. She feels his fingertips tease along the elastic of her panties and she feels herself growing wet in anticipation. Kara imagines him slipping those clever fingers inside her and bringing her off before rolling her over and sliding his cock inside her, taking her in that slow, lazy rhythm he loves so much.
It would be so easy to let him continue. Gods knows she wants him to. But in the back of her mind the voice of reason is shrieking, reminding her of the date, reminding her of the consequences for indulging in a moment of weakness. No, she can’t risk it.
“Sam,” she says again, pitching her voice with an irritation that’s only half-feigned. “Not tonight. I’m exhausted.”
Sam’s fingers still just beneath the waistband of her panties. She can feel a harsh exhalation of breath on the back of her neck, can feel the hardness of his growing erection pressed against the curve of her ass. She waits, holding herself still, unable to breathe, until Sam removes his hand and pulls away.
Kara misses his warmth at once. The temptation to call him back, to offer herself is powerful, but it still pales in comparison with the fear.
Kara lies curled on her side and waits until she can hear the cadence of Sam’s breathing even out in sleep. Only then can she sleep as well.
[][][]
She has lunch with Laura Roslin every ten days or so as their schedules allow. It’s still a little strange to be sitting so comfortably next to the former President of the Twelve Colonies sharing a meager meal together. But then strange has become the norm these days.
Kara expected the move planet side to be particularly difficult for Roslin, the loss of position and power exacerbating what was already a difficult transition for most, but Roslin had surprised her. The former president is nothing if not resilient and she’s thrown herself into her new life with a determination and vigor that leaves Kara awed and more than a little envious. If she regrets her fall from power - and Kara knows she must - she gives no sign of it. She makes no complaint, never rails against the injustice of it all, never attempts to undermine Baltar’s increasingly ineffectual administration. Instead she focuses all her energy into creating a school, devoting herself entirely to the education of the settlement’s children.
Kara had forgotten that Roslin had been a school teacher once upon a time, long before the apocalypse. Clearly she’d been a very good one, firm but kind, with a well of patience Kara could never have matched in a hundred years. At times it’s difficult to reconcile the woman she’d been - the shrewd and sometimes ruthless politician who could order a Cylon thrown out an airlock, or an admiral assassinated without a qualm - with the woman Kara knows now, the teacher who gently coaxes her students through their lessons, the woman who smiles at Kara across the table as they talk about life in the settlement, sharing bits of news and gossip.
They’re sitting at the table in the small tent Roslin shares with Maya and her baby. Maya is feeding Isis, or at least trying to since more food seems to end up on smeared across the baby’s face or spattered on her bib than in her mouth. Isis giggles and slaps her pudgy hands happily on the tabletop while Maya wheedles and teases and Roslin looks on, her mouth curved in an indulgent smile. It’s a charming scene, but it leaves Kara feeling faintly ill at ease. When Roslin turns to look at her, Kara offers her a weak smile before returning her full attention to her meal.
It’s then that Roslin decides to drop her bombshell.
“Commander Adama is getting married.”
Kara’s spoon stops inches from mouth. Her eyes drop to the bowl in front of her, unseeing, and she draws a steadying breath. When she raises her eyes again, she finds Roslin watching her thoughtfully.
“Really?” Kara’s proud at how steady her voice sounds, hoping it’s enough to fool Roslin, knowing it’s not. “I hadn’t heard.”
“They saw no point in making an announcement to the settlement,” Roslin replies with an elegant shrug of her shoulders. “Most people on New Caprica would prefer to ignore the military and the ships still in orbit over the planet. Their very existence is a painful reminder of things most would rather forget.”
Roslin’s words take Kara by surprise; it’s rare for the woman to speak so candidly and so critically about the decision to settle and the almost willful amnesia practiced by most of the colonists. Kara’s heard the grumbling. Baltar has been pushing to dismantle the military entirely, considering them an unnecessary drain of resources and Kara knows he’s not alone in that sentiment. Roslin’s condemnation is a general one, but Kara suspects it’s aimed at her as well. After all, isn’t she guilty of doing the same?
Kara shoots her a wary look, but Roslin’s answering gaze is placid, benign and Kara thinks that perhaps it’s her own guilty conscience perceiving censure where none was given.
“So…no big blowout then?” Kara asks, unable to help herself, remembering her own wedding and all the people that attended. And those who didn’t.
Roslin shakes her head. “No. I‘ve been told they’re planning a private ceremony on Galactica. Just family and friends.”
And that does sting because Kara knows she doesn’t really qualify as either anymore and by her own choice. Adama might have proclaimed her his daughter, but she harbors no illusions that Lee would welcome her back with open arms. Kara burned that bridge so well she could still taste ash on her tongue for days afterwards.
She’s always had a knack for destruction.
Kara nods absently, a strange numbness creeping through her. She looks up, startled, when she feels the gentle pressure of Roslin’s hand upon hers. Roslin meets her gaze with eyes that see too much and a sad, sympathetic smile that lays Kara bare. She almost pulls her hand away, but Roslin’s grip tightens, holding on, warm and reassuring and Kara closes her eyes, not wanting to see the look of pity on the other woman’s face. Kara can feel the prick of tears behind her eyelids and she ruthlessly wills them away. She has nothing to cry about. She got exactly what she wanted: Lee has finally moved on. Nothing but bright shiny futures all around.
[][][]
A week later, there’s an envelope sitting on the bed, small and very white against the gray military issue blankets. She picks it up, frowning at the salutation Mr. and Mrs. S. Anders, before she peers inside. She pulls out the slip of paper, eyes widening as she realizes what it is: the announcement of the upcoming nuptials of Commander Lee Adama and Lieutenant Anastasia Dualla.
Kara drops to the bed and stares at the neatly typed invitation clutched in her hands. Her heart is pounding and she feels herself swinging wildly between sadness and relief and not a little shock. She’d never expected…never dared to hope. But perhaps…
She peers more closely, noticing something written on the other side. She turns it over and recognizes Lee’s neat handwriting at once. She sucks in a breath and feels her stomach drop when she reads his message:
The Admiral would like you to attend.
It’s signed Commander Adama and the chilly formality is more off-putting than the implied message, as if the invitation was tendered out of a sense of obligation rather than from any genuine sentiment. As if Kara is a total stranger, not someone who had once been considered family. She’d thought it had hurt to receive the news of his upcoming wedding second hand, but this is worse. But worse still is the knowledge that he’s only returning the favor.
Tit for tat. You reap what you sow. It’s cosmic justice on an all too personal scale and it hurts so much she can barely breathe.
She crumples the invitation, envelope and all, and uses it as kindling for the camp stove. She watches the paper catch fire, the smoke curling up towards the canvas roof before it dissipates. When Sam comes home that evening, tired and worn, she drags him to bed and fraks him until they’re both too exhausted to move or even think.
Sam drifts off and Kara lies beside him staring at the canvas above and tries not to think about might have been and never was and the gaping space between.
[][][]
For the first time in her life, Kara begins to understand what the phrase “pyramid widow” means. Even if her husband is abandoning her for a court, rather than the game.
Once he gets the idea in his head to build a pyramid court, Sam throws himself into the project whole heartedly. At first it’s just him and Ten Point, but soon others join in as well. Kara comes by and lends a hand sometimes, though her schedule doesn’t leave her much free time at the moment. About a quarter of the machine shop is down with a homegrown variety of the flu and one of the women is in the final stages of pregnancy and under strict orders from Cottle to stay on bed rest, so Kara is pulling a lot of doubles of late.
It really sucks to be in charge sometimes.
Each day, Sam dutifully pulls his regular shift at the construction site before heading to the spot they’ve selected for the pyramid court after. Kara brings food for him and his crew of dedicated madmen and she knows she should probably be appalled to find herself turning into such a devoted little wifey. Any irritation fades, however, when she sees Sam smiling at her and proclaiming to everyone within hearing range that he has the best wife on the planet. It’s stupid and it’s sappy and it never fails to make her grin.
She wishes Sam wasn’t gone so much, wishes he spent more time focused on her rather than his pet project, but when he returns to their tent each night, exhausted and sore but so genuinely happy, she can’t help but feel a little selfish. Sam gives so much and asks for so little in return, she decides that a little forbearance is a small price for her to pay.
A month after Sam first announced his plan, the pyramid court is completed. Inexplicably, President Baltar has latched on to the project and wants a formal inauguration. Officially, he claims to be a “huge” fan of the sport; privately Kara suspects he just wants a little good publicity.
“You did all the work,” Kara protests. “Now the slimy bastard wants to take all the credit.”
Sam shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not about him. It’s about building something for us. All of us.”
Kara smiles, leans in to kiss him. “I have the best husband on the planet.”
“In the galaxy,” he amends with a smirk.
Kara swats his arm. “Nice ego ya got there, buster. How come I’m only the best wife on the planet?”
He shrugs again, his expression innocent. “Maybe I figure you just need a little incentive to improve.”
“I’ll show you incentive,” she growls before tumbling him to the floor and straddling his hips. “I’m gonna frak you until your eyes cross, you smug bastard.”
Sam grins up at her. “And my plan works perfectly.”
Kara guffaws loudly then proceeds to follow his plan to the Tee.
Three days later, they hold the official inauguration. Baltar arrives in his neatly pressed suit, frowning when he see the mud spattered on his immaculately polished shoes. Kara smirks at the look on his face and wonders when he last stepped foot off Colonial One. She suspects never.
The remnants of the press corps huddle around him like bees to honey. Playa cozies up him, throwing him coy smiles in between gushing praise for his administration. He makes the obligatory responses, offering bland, empty smiles even as his gaze passes right by her as if she wasn’t there.
Baltar steps up to the microphone at last. “Thank you all for coming,” he starts but gets no further when before it whistles shrilly with feedback and he startles like a rabbit, sending a ripple of nervous laughter through the crowd. Baltar frowns but manages to give the rest of his speech without incident. Kara doesn’t listen; it’s all smoke and hot air and about as substantial. She applauds politely when he finishes and bites back the urge to make a snide comment under her breath. This is Sam’s day; she’ll behave for his sake.
The highlight of the inauguration is an exhibition match featuring the surviving members of the Caprica Buccaneers. Of the original ten members of the C-Bucks, only Sam, Ten Point and Riley are left. Riley won’t be playing, of course, thanks to severe burns he received during a raid on a Cylon stronghold near Delphi. At least he’s alive though. Kara tries not to think about the other members of Sam’s team, the other members of the Resistance that she’d met on Caprica who didn’t survive to join the Fleet. She tries especially hard not to think about Sue-Shaun and the way she died.
Sam had tried to coax her into playing, but Kara had refused. After much wheedling and cajoling she’d told him simply that “I want to have the pleasure of watching you play just once.”
Sam had frowned, but he’d accepted with good grace and just a little bit of playful teasing that had inevitably led them back to their still unmade bed.
When Sam takes to the court in full kit, she can’t help but smile, sure she made the right decision. He waves to the crowd, soaking in their cheers with the self-assurance of someone accustomed to adulation. But when he smiles, she knows it’s just for her. Her grin widens.
As exhibition matches go, it’s not very impressive. They’re all a little rusty, Sam and Ten Point included, but they’re still head and shoulders above their competition so they play down. It isn’t about winning; it’s about showing the crowd a good time. And Samuel T. Anders is a good athlete but he’s a great showman.
She watches Sam move across the court, all grace and coiled strength. He’s beautiful like this, utterly mesmerizing, so happy he’s practically glowing. This is it, for him. This is what he loves best, where he truly shines. This is for Sam what flying is - was - for her. She feels a sudden flare of envy, for the things she surrendered and can never have again and the things that are still within Sam’s grasp. The envy, however, is quickly followed by guilt. Her choice. Her sacrifice. She can’t blame Sam for the things she gave up when he never asked her to do it in the first place. Still, watching him like this, she can’t help but feel the loss that lingers even now and probably always will
After the match, a hot, sweaty Sam drags her back to their tent. High on adrenalin and the rush of the game, it’s a wild, frenzied frak that leaves her breathless and worn out. Sam is out like a light and Kara follows soon after.
She dreams of Vipers blazing through the sky overhead while she sinks slowly and inexorably into the ground below.
Part III
Author: Widget
Pairing: Kara/Anders; mentions of Lee/Dee, Helo/Sharon, Tyrol/Cally
Spoilers: LDYB pt 2, mild references to the webisodes, though nothing overtly spoilery
Summary: All she ever wanted was a bright shiny future of her own.
Two months after she arrives on planet, Kara falls ill for the first time. Except she’s not sick. Kara doesn’t get sick. That’s a simple, irrefutable fact. So when the stomach cramps start, she ignores them, writing them off as just another stomach ache brought on by her and Sam’s dubious culinary efforts. The diarrhea is a bit more worrying and not to mention unpleasant, but Kara’s always considered herself to be tough. She refuses to let frakkin’ diarrhea stop her.
It’s when she notices blood in her stool that she gets genuinely concerned. Sam is adamant that she see the doc and for once Kara feels no inclination to argue.
The medical tent is alive with activity when she arrives and she’s forced to wait until the harried medical staff can get to her. A passing nurse tells her to take a seat, but Kara declines. Sitting has become decidedly uncomfortable. So she stands and waits and starts to remember the Galacticas sickbay with something akin to fondness until Cottle waves her over at last.
“So what’s the problem, Thrace?”
She’s halfway through the list of symptoms before Cottle cuts her off.
“It’s dysentery,” he announces curtly.
“You sure?”
Cottle gives her a cool look as he tugs a cigarette out of his pack and jams it into his mouth. He doesn’t light it, she notices. Conservation of resources is SOP at all levels. “I know my business. Besides, you aren’t the first one to show up complaining about the running shits.” She’d almost smile at the crude term if she weren’t in so much discomfort. “It was only a matter of time before we got our first epidemic and given the lousy conditions we’re living in, dysentery was going to show up sooner or later.”
“How bad is it?” she asks, not entirely sure she wants to know.
“I figure about a third of the settlement’s got it. The number could get as high as half the population. Nothing to be done about it. Dysentery is highly contagious and we just don’t have the facilities to properly quarantine the camp.”
Kara goes silent at that sobering pronouncement. “So, can you give me something?”
“’Fraid not.”
Kara frowns. “Why not?”
“Because we don’t have enough antibiotics to treat the entire settlement. Dysentery might be unpleasant, but in adults it usually subsides on its own. Children are another matter. They get first dibs on medication.”
“So that’s it?”
Cottle shrugs, his cigarette dipping a little. “Not much more I can do, unless, of course, you happen to be sitting on a secret stash of antibiotics. I need to conserve medication so that those who need it get it. You’ll just have to ride it out like everybody else.”
“Swell.”
“Make sure you stay hydrated; dehydration is the biggest danger in adults. And make sure that husband of yours boils the water first since it’s the most likely source of the nasty little buggers that infected you in the first place. Other than that, there’s not much to be done.”
“Thanks,” she mutters before hopping off the diagnostic table. She heads towards the exit, all too aware of children crying and parents trying to soothe them but to no avail. You’re better off than them she reminds herself.
She continues to remind herself of this in the coming days as her stomach cramps and she spends what seems like hours squatting over their own personal hole in the ground that serves as a head. For the first time she regrets her decision to come planet side. She misses her bunk, she misses a real toilet. And most of all, she misses access to medicine that she’d always taken for granted on Galactica but which is spread thinly amongst the civilian population. She hadn’t realized how many privileges she’d had, how many small luxuries were readily available to her as a pilot until she became just another civilian.
Kara wishes she was back on Galactica so much she can barely breathe at times. But then there’s Sam, mopping her face and whispering soft endearments and words of encouragement. He makes sure she stays hydrated, teasing and cajoling her to drink even when she’s not sure she can keep water down. But she does, because Sam asks. Sam loves her and he’ll see her through. She might miss Galactica, but Sam is worth even this.
He’s worth everything.
[][][]
Kara shuffles impatiently amidst the crowd as she waits to retrieve her weekly food rations at the supply depot. It takes a frakking age before it’s her turn and she eyes her portion warily, wondering how she and Sam will make their rations stretch the entire week.
She’s stepping away from the counter when she feels something collide with her lower legs. Kara looks down to find a small child staring up at her with wide, dark eyes. Kara stares back.
“Nia! Nia! There you are!” a voice calls out, moving closer. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
Kara watches as a dark-haired woman scoops the child up into her arms and turns towards Kara. She looks familiar and it takes Kara a moment to place her. She works in the machine shop, Kara remembers. They only overlap a few shifts a week, but still she’s someone Kara knows, sort of. The woman gives her a small hesitant smile
“You’re Kara, right?” at Kara’s nod, the woman’s smile widens. “I’m Lynn. We work in the same shop.”
She shifts her body, hitching the child more comfortably on her hip before extending her hand. Kara shakes it.
“Right. Nice to meet you.”
“And I see you’ve met my daughter, Nia,” the woman says. Her entire face softens when she looks down at the girl nestled in her arms.
“Hi, Nia,” Kara says, trying to sound soothing. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nia.” Lynn’s voice is soft. “This is Kara. She’s a friend of mommy’s. Do you want to say hi?”
Nia shakes her head, dark curls bouncing, before burying her face in her mother’s shoulder.
Lynn smiles sheepishly. “Sorry ‘bout that. She’s shy around strangers.”
“It’s okay,” Kara assures her, uncertain of what else to say. The two women stand there awkwardly for a few moments. It’s Lynn who breaks the silence.
“Well, I better get going. I’ve got to put this little one down for a nap. Do you want to say goodbye, Nia?”
Another shake of her curly head. Lynn gives a small shrug. “Sorry.”
Kara shrugs in reply. “No biggie.”
“It was nice talking to you, Kara.”
“Yeah. I guess I’ll see you at work.”
Lynn flashes her a quick, but genuine smile before turning and making her way through the crowd, presumably towards her home. Kara watches her until she and the dark head cradled on her shoulder disappear from view.
She gives herself a shake and turns in the other direction towards home. Towards Sam.
[][][]
She sees Lynn at work the following day. When the other woman looks up and smiles, Kara makes a point of smiling back. When Lynn hands her a cup of tea during a rest break, Kara takes it gratefully, sighing as she wraps her hands around the mug, welcoming its warmth against her skin. And when Lynn sits next to her, Kara finds she doesn’t mind the company.
After a week of rest breaks, Kara learns a good deal about Lynn Albemarle, at least the basics. Lynn is - was - from Virgon. She’d been a secretary in a small tech firm before it all went to hell. Divorced from a dirt bag of a husband, one child, Nia, that her husband never visited and refused to pay child support on. She’d been coming home from a visit to her sister on Aerilon when the Cylons attacked which was how she made it out alive.
“I know it’s a shitty thing to say,” Lynn confides one day as they lean against the pre-fab metal walls of the machine shop during a rest break. “But I’m glad the bastard’s dead.” She accepts the cigarette Kara hands her, taking a long pull before handing it back, a plume of blue smoke issuing from her mouth. “He never did right by me or Nia. Unfaithful bastard, too. Could never keep it in his pants, y’know?”
Kara nods, exhales, watching the smoke curl upwards then dissipate. She misses the taste and smell of expensive Caprican cigars; hell, even those cheap cigarettes she used to smoke back in high school were better than these things, but this is all she has so she’ll make do. She hands the cigarette back to Lynn and shoves her hands into pockets, trying to warm them up. It’s too cold.
“Last I’d heard, he’d taken up with a waitress in some strip club. Classy,” Lynn sneers as she passes the cigarette back to Kara. “And now they’re both dead. Maybe the Gods do have a sense of humor after all.”
Kara never gets a chance to respond. She hears the bell sounding, calling them back to work. She flicks the cigarette butt to the muddy ground, grinding it beneath her foot before heading back inside to the too hot machine shop and the comforting sounds of metal and machines.
She spends the rest of her shift thanking the Gods that she has Sam. And that there are no strip clubs on New Caprica.
[][][]
Kara’s always had a freakishly regular cycle, a perfect twenty-eight days from start to end just like they described in the health class textbooks. The medic at the flight school who did the yearlies had once joked that Kara’s uterus was the only part of her that adhered to strict military discipline. Kara never doubted she was probably right.
Kara watches her cycle carefully. As a method of birth control she knows it’s crap, but her options are limited. Her shot wore off three months earlier and what birth control is to be had is now in short supply. Most of it is earmarked for the military for reasons Kara knows and understands and now thoroughly resents. When she’d been military, she’d thought it was fair; after all, there’s no room for a baby on a battlestar, and even less in a cockpit. But now that she’s a civvy, she hates it, fuming at the special treatment, the special favors accorded military personnel. Funny how your perceptions change once you’re standing on the other side of the fence.
Three days each cycle, she won’t let Sam touch her. She always finds some excuse: headache, indigestion, exhaustion - that one at least wasn’t a lie; she is tired, always tired - and if Sam notices he never lets on. But then, Kara isn’t the only one who’s tired and worn out.
Twenty-eight days, like clockwork. Until it isn’t.
Day twenty-six comes and goes without any sign of her regular period. Kara stares at her panties, the faded gray fabric unstained by blood, and worries her lip between her teeth. It’s the planet, she tells herself. The change in climate, in gravity, in diet, hell, even the frakking air they’re breathing, all of it’s new and unsettling. Her body is just acclimating itself, that’s all. That excuse is so logical she doesn’t even have to work hard to ignore the whisper of doubt.
On day twenty-seven when there’s no sign of her period, she tells herself it’s exhaustion. Exhaustion can throw internal systems out of whack, right? She ignores the voice that points out five days of living in thirty-three minute increments hadn’t affected her period in the slightest. It had arrived on day twenty-six, right on cue, impervious to such minor considerations as lack of sleep and the constant parade of launches and landings, completely unaffected by something as trivial as the end of the worlds.
On day twenty-eight when there’s no sign of her period, she shows up at Doc Cottle’s tent, pale and shaking. He takes one look at her, and draws her inside without a word.
“It’s going to take awhile to get the results,” he says, drawing blood while she shivers in her flimsy hospital gown from the cold, only from the cold. “I don’t have the equipment down here. I’ll need to send the tests up to the lab on Galactica.” Cottle labels the blood sample and sets it on a tray next to the urine sample she already gave him. “Two days at least.”
She nods. It’s not like she has a choice anyway. She spends the rest of the day walking around in a fog, the possibility she’s been trying so hard to ignore staring her in the face, mocking her no matter which way she turns. She’s quiet that night. Sam frowns at her across the dinner table, clearly worried, but he’s smart enough not to ask. He’s learned to let her talk in her own time.
On day twenty-nine she wakes up to find droplets of blood staining her panties. She nearly sobs with relief. She wipes her hand across her eyes, mildly surprised to find the skin damp. It isn’t until she hears from Cottle two days later, however - results negative - that she can breathe again
[][][]
When she wakes in the morning, her breath freezes in front of her, cold prickling at her exposed skin. She flexes her hands and grimaces at the low, dull ache in her joints. She’s lived too long in Galactica’s carefully modulated environment. She’s forgotten how the cold and damp burrow inside, taking up residence within long healed fractures. She’d forgotten how her fingers would throb, especially in the mornings, how her grip would falter and her usually dexterous fingers would go clumsy.
She glances down at Sam sleeping peacefully beside her. Dawn is still a good half hour away and his face is pale gray in the shadows. Kara wishes they had a space heater like the one she kept in her rat trap of an apartment back in Delphi. But space heaters, like everything else, are in short supply. What few they have are reserved for communal areas like the school and the hospital tent and of course the nursery where the seedlings are, tended with the zeal of a Geminon temple in anticipation of the spring planting. These days its blankets and body heat for the rest of them. Making do is the order of the day.
She rubs her hands together carefully, making the blood circulate while she tries to soothe away the worst of the pain. By the time the sun begins to rise, the ache in her joints is a low throb, bearable.
Just another day in paradise.
[][][]
“Frak!”
“I’d say that’s the best offer I’d had all day, but I get the impression you’re not talking to me.”
Kara looks up to find Sam standing just inside the tent, a soft smile playing around his lips.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, moving to stand beside the bed where she’s currently sitting.
“I’m trying to mend these stupid trousers, but I can’t get the frakkin’ needle threaded!” she complains. Glaring at the needle as if to demand compliance by force of will alone, she makes another attempt only to stab the tip of the needle into her thumb.
“Frak!” she hisses. A bead of blood is welling up to the surface and she raises it to her lips.
“Here,” Sam says softly as he sits on the bed beside her. “Let me.” Wrapping his hand gently around her wrist, he presses his lips to the pad of her thumb, his tongue lapping gently at the injury. She stares at his bent head, wondering how something so simple could be so erotic. Sam flicks his eyes up to meet hers and the heat in his gaze scorches her. Kara shifts on the bed, feeling the growing wetness between her legs. With a final flick of his tongue, Sam lowers her hand and gives her a smoldering look.
“Better?”
Eyes never leaving his, she nods.
His lips stretch into a lazy grin. “I think the mending can wait, don’t you?”
At Kara’s nod, Sam pulls the torn trousers from her slack grip and tosses them carelessly aside.
If anyone notices that Kara shows up for work the next day in torn trousers, they are smart enough not to comment.
[][][]
The Promenade is packed with people, as always, but it’s the sight of a pair of flight-suited figures that makes Kara stop in her tracks and stare. She catches glimpses amidst the shifting crowd, dark hair, broad shoulders encased in the slick, sleek folds of gray-green vinyl. And then there’s a gap in the flow of people and she recognizes Racetrack and Skulls. She feels a flash of disappointment thought she can’t say why and makes to turn away before she’s spotted.
“Starbuck?”
She turns back, her brightest smile plastered across her face. “Hey. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yeah.” Racetrack gives her a tentative smile, clearly uncertain of how to respond. They’d never exactly been what she’d call friends; adversaries might be closer to the mark. There’d always been a degree of friction between them, an unspoken animosity. It hadn’t been anything in particular, they just rubbed each other the wrong way.
Kara’s well accustomed to that reaction.
“So,” Kara asks, trying to sound nonchalant. “What’re you guys doing here?”
“Supply run,” Racetrack replies. She looks a little more at ease and Kara can see the way Skulls comes to stand beside her, his body adopting a casual slouch that only barely disguises the wariness of his body. Silent back-up, should she need it. “The Admiral asked us to shuttle down some stuff - spare parts, some sheet metal, tools - to help with the building project.”
Kara nods. That jives with what Sam had told her, what Lee had promised. Leave it to the Adamas to look after them. “That’s good.”
“The Admiral gave us the day off, told us to stretch our legs, take in the sights,” Racetrack continues with a shrug. “Is there someplace around here where a girl can get a drink?”
“Quite a few,” Kara replies, noticing the way Racetrack’s and Skulls’ eyes light up. “You want to go to Jake’s place. The Oasis,” she clarifies. “It’s at the far end of the Promenade, right hand side. You can’t miss it.”
Racetrack nods. Her gaze flickers towards Skulls and Kara catches a hint of a question. Skulls’ shoulders raise fractionally in response. “You wanna join us, Starbuck?”
Kara feels herself freeze. There was a time she would have leapt at the chance to have a drink with a fellow pilot, even one she didn’t particularly like. But she feels self-conscious, painfully aware of the contrast between Racetrack’s neat ponytail and her own tousled mop of hair. She impatiently pushes loose strands out of her eyes and tries not to think about how she must look standing there in the middle of the Promenade in her faded, hand-me-down civvy clothes, muddy and disheveled and a world away from the officer she’d once been. She’d never been one to fuss over appearances, but the contrast between the two of them is undeniable. It’s like some twisted before and after advertisement, only now Kara’s the terrible warning, not the glowing example of improved living.
Racetrack and Skulls look vaguely uncomfortable as well, as if they’d rather be anywhere but here talking to her. She can try and pretend it’s the because of the cold, but she knows better. For all that they’d known Starbuck, Kara is a virtual stranger, just another civilian settler. No, worse; she’s one of those people, the ones who left the Fleet, who turned their backs on duty and their shipmates. Loyalty is everything in the service and even if they never say a word, Kara can practically see the disappointment and disdain in their eyes.
Feeling abashed and unaccountably guilty, Kara shakes her head and offers them a smile. “’Fraid not. I’ve got to get to work. It was good seeing you, though. Give my best to everyone, okay?”
Racetrack nods and Kara thinks she can see the relief that washes over the other woman’s features. “Sure. No problem. It was good seeing you, too, Starbuck.”
Racetracks’s voice almost sounds sincere.
Kara watches as Racetrack gives Skulls a playful shove in the direction Kara had indicated. She watches as they’re swallowed up by the ebb and flow of the crowd, their soft laughter floating back to her, the sound mocking to her ears. Hands curling to fists at her side, Kara turns and heads to the shop.
She refuses to look back.
[][][]
Four months after Kara Thrace became Kara Anders, she sees Lee Adama for the first time. It’s so unexpected that she doesn’t believe her eyes at first, despite the fact that she would know him anywhere, could pick him out of a crowd just by the way he carries himself.
It’s his uniform she sees first, a flash of duty blues glimpsed through the flux of the crowd in the market place. It’s enough to stop her in her tracks. No one on New Caprica wears blues - the uniforms were the first things left behind by the personnel when they departed Galactica and Pegasus - and members of the Fleet rarely come planet side. Shopping forgotten, she pushes through the crowd without thinking, drawn like a ship to a landing beacon.
He’s standing on the edge of the Promenade - a rather pompous name for the ugly stretch of muddy road that runs through the heart of the settlement- immersed in conversation with Gaeta. She feels an unexpected surge of disappointment though she can’t imagine why. Commander Adama is here on official business. Of course. The President probably requires regular reports and no doubt takes great delight in making the Adamas dance attendance upon him, arrogant prick that he is. Roslin would never have done that, but then Roslin never had to juggle the demands of office with such pressing and time consuming tasks as drinking and whoring. Kara knows that’s probably an uncharitable thought, but if half of the rumors are true, Baltar’s the biggest joke to ever take office. And that, she supposes, would make New Caprica the biggest punch line of all time.
She sees Lee nodding at something Gaeta says and then he turns his head and looks directly at her. Her breath freezes in her lungs as their eyes meet across the length of the Promenade. She’s sure he sees her - how could he not? - he sees her and then very slowly, very deliberately, he turns away.
She watches as Lee walks away, his back stiff, strides purposeful and brisk. She feels her face harden, her lips drawing into a thin line as her earlier disappointment gives way to an anger she knows she isn’t really entitled to feel. She told him to stay away, after all. She was the one to sever all ties. He’s only adhering to her wishes. She’d laid down the rules, and Lee, as always, followed them scrupulously and would continue to do so right up to the very gates of Hades.
It doesn’t matter, she tells herself. She doesn’t give a damn about anything Lee Adama does or says. He’s not her concern anymore. He’s no one to her. Nothing. She repeats this to herself over and over while she finishes her shopping. She repeats it throughout her shift at the machine shop. By the time she settles in to cook dinner she’s managed to block Lee Adama completely from her thoughts. She’s managed it so well, in fact, that she doesn’t even hear Sam come home. She doesn’t even realize he’s there until he slips his arms around her, making her jump.
“Hey,” he says. He pulls her hair away from her neck to drop a kiss on her nape. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s all right. I was just thinking.”
“’Bout what?” he asks.
“Nothing.” Which, of course, is true.
Sam nuzzles playfully behind her ear, making her squirm in his embrace.
Kara giggles then swats his arm. “Stop it, Sam! Unless you want your dinner on the floor.”
“Dunno, it might taste better.”
This time she whacks him with the spoon. She holds it up menacingly and Sam cowers almost comically in response. “Given the culinary masterpiece you served last night, I don’t think you’re in any position to critique my cooking, buster!”
He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I never claimed to be a chef. But at least I can boil water.”
Kara snorts in amusement. “It was only the once and I’ve gotten better since then.”
Sam’s expression softened. “Yeah, you have.” He leans in and kisses the tip of her nose and the last shreds of irritation fade.
“Idiot,” she growls, but her voice is tinged with fondness. “I’m almost finished, Why don’t you set the table?”
“Sure.”
Kara turns back to her pot, stirring in an anemic looking carrot and a handful of grains. She hears Sam puttering around behind her, the sounds as soothing as his presence. She smiles, still a little amazed after all these months at how much she enjoys these little moments of domestic bliss. A year ago, if anyone had predicted that she’d take pleasure in cooking a meal for her husband, she would have laughed at them, but things change. After all, change is the only constant in the universe. Change and death. Kara definitely prefers the former.
Sam’s voice breaks into her thoughts. “Hey, guess who I saw today?”
“Who?” Kara stares into the pot, wondering whether or not to add another pinch of salt from their dwindling store of spices.
“Commander Adama.”
Kara freezes, her hand clutching the spoon so tightly her knuckles turn white. She takes a deep breath and then another to steady herself before turning. “Oh?” she asks, hoping Sam can’t hear the agitation in her voice.
“Yep,” he says, smiling and Kara breathes a sigh of relief. “He came by the construction site, had a long talk with Tyrol. I guess our illustrious president,” Kara can’t help but smile at the note of sarcasm in her husband’s voice when he mentions Baltar, “told him about the labor problems he’s been having lately. He probably expected the poor guy to fix ‘em for him.”
“And did he?”
Sam shrugs, dropping into one of the chairs. “Nothing he can do about a labor dispute, but he promised to see what he could do about sending down some more raw materials, maybe even some more tools. Anything would be a help.”
“That was…nice of him,” she says, voice and face neutral.
“Yeah.” Sam nods. “He seems like a nice guy.”
It’s a simple observation, but Kara can almost hear the question underneath and she’s in no mood to discuss Lee Adama, not with Sam, not with anyone. Her complicated, messy and ultimately acrimonious relationship with Lee is one subject she’s never broached with Sam. It’s ancient history and history deserves to stay buried as far as she’s concerned.
She makes a non-committal sound as she turns back to the pot, gives the contents a cautious taste. Not exactly four star cuisine, but it’s edible, which is more than could be said for some of the swill she consumed back on Galactica.
“Soup’s on,” she says, putting an end to the conversation. Sam brings the dishes over and she ladles a helping of soup into each of them. They sit at the table and Kara focuses on the food before her with the grim determination of someone who is either famished or who is trying to avoid conversation by keeping her mouth and attention otherwise occupied. They eat in silence for a time, nothing by the clink of their spoons against the sides of the dishes and the usual sounds of activity outside their tent serving as the background.
“Ten Point and I were talking about setting up a pyramid court near the Promenade,” Sam says at last.
Kara raises her head cautiously and looks at her husband. His lips are curved into a hesitant smile and she can see the concern reflected in his eyes. He wants her to talk, but he won’t push, he never does and she’s grateful for it. She grabs at the change in topic like a lifeline. “A pyramid court, huh?” she gives him a wry look.
Sam’s smile stretches into something genuine. “Yep. We figured it might help. You know, provide a bit of a distraction, give people something to do with the free time.”
“Right, because we have so much of that.” Kara’s voice is thick with sarcasm, but she can’t help but smile a little.
Sam shrugs, setting his spoon back in his now empty dish. “It’s getting a little better now that we have a shift system in place. And people are more familiar at their jobs now. Half the guys on the construction crew had never used a power saw before in their lives. Yours truly included,” he added with a grin. “Now, I’m practically a pro.”
Kara shakes her head, smiling. “So…a pyramid court.”
“It’s not really civilization until you have one.”
Kara pushes her dish aside and leans forward, elbows resting on the table. Sam does the same. “So, I’ll be getting to kick your ass on a regular basis then.”
Sam sends her a lecherous grin across the table. “I love it when you kick my ass.”
She matches his grin with one of her own. “That’s good, since I do it on a daily basis.”
“Promises, promises.”
“You want a demonstration, Mr. Anders?”
“Show me what you got, Mrs. Anders.”
It was a long time before they got around to cleaning up the dinner dishes that night.
[][][]
She sees Lee twice more in the months that follow, once talking to Tyrol at the construction site when Kara is visiting Sam; once coming out of the school where former president Roslin now teaches. He makes no effort to seek her out on either occasion. She doesn’t bother to make her presence known to him. He has his life on Pegasus, she has hers here.
It’s for the best.
[][][]
Drifting on the cusp of slumber, Kara feels the mattress shift beneath her as Sam slides under the covers and molds his body to hers. She shivers as Sam’s cool fingers trace sleep warmed skin, smiling drowsily as he presses soft kisses along the back of her neck, his lips teasing at the edge of the collar of her sleep shirt.
“Sam,” she sighs into the darkness.
He slips one hand beneath the hem of her shirt and rests his palm briefly against her belly, the gesture tender yet proprietary. Mine it says, and Kara has no intention of arguing the point. His hand begins to move slowly, roaming lazily across her torso to skim the swell of her breast. Kara sighs, enjoying the gentle exploration, content to let her husband caress and touch like this. Soon enough, however, his touches become more urgent, his hands moving with undeniable purpose. She feels his fingertips tease along the elastic of her panties and she feels herself growing wet in anticipation. Kara imagines him slipping those clever fingers inside her and bringing her off before rolling her over and sliding his cock inside her, taking her in that slow, lazy rhythm he loves so much.
It would be so easy to let him continue. Gods knows she wants him to. But in the back of her mind the voice of reason is shrieking, reminding her of the date, reminding her of the consequences for indulging in a moment of weakness. No, she can’t risk it.
“Sam,” she says again, pitching her voice with an irritation that’s only half-feigned. “Not tonight. I’m exhausted.”
Sam’s fingers still just beneath the waistband of her panties. She can feel a harsh exhalation of breath on the back of her neck, can feel the hardness of his growing erection pressed against the curve of her ass. She waits, holding herself still, unable to breathe, until Sam removes his hand and pulls away.
Kara misses his warmth at once. The temptation to call him back, to offer herself is powerful, but it still pales in comparison with the fear.
Kara lies curled on her side and waits until she can hear the cadence of Sam’s breathing even out in sleep. Only then can she sleep as well.
[][][]
She has lunch with Laura Roslin every ten days or so as their schedules allow. It’s still a little strange to be sitting so comfortably next to the former President of the Twelve Colonies sharing a meager meal together. But then strange has become the norm these days.
Kara expected the move planet side to be particularly difficult for Roslin, the loss of position and power exacerbating what was already a difficult transition for most, but Roslin had surprised her. The former president is nothing if not resilient and she’s thrown herself into her new life with a determination and vigor that leaves Kara awed and more than a little envious. If she regrets her fall from power - and Kara knows she must - she gives no sign of it. She makes no complaint, never rails against the injustice of it all, never attempts to undermine Baltar’s increasingly ineffectual administration. Instead she focuses all her energy into creating a school, devoting herself entirely to the education of the settlement’s children.
Kara had forgotten that Roslin had been a school teacher once upon a time, long before the apocalypse. Clearly she’d been a very good one, firm but kind, with a well of patience Kara could never have matched in a hundred years. At times it’s difficult to reconcile the woman she’d been - the shrewd and sometimes ruthless politician who could order a Cylon thrown out an airlock, or an admiral assassinated without a qualm - with the woman Kara knows now, the teacher who gently coaxes her students through their lessons, the woman who smiles at Kara across the table as they talk about life in the settlement, sharing bits of news and gossip.
They’re sitting at the table in the small tent Roslin shares with Maya and her baby. Maya is feeding Isis, or at least trying to since more food seems to end up on smeared across the baby’s face or spattered on her bib than in her mouth. Isis giggles and slaps her pudgy hands happily on the tabletop while Maya wheedles and teases and Roslin looks on, her mouth curved in an indulgent smile. It’s a charming scene, but it leaves Kara feeling faintly ill at ease. When Roslin turns to look at her, Kara offers her a weak smile before returning her full attention to her meal.
It’s then that Roslin decides to drop her bombshell.
“Commander Adama is getting married.”
Kara’s spoon stops inches from mouth. Her eyes drop to the bowl in front of her, unseeing, and she draws a steadying breath. When she raises her eyes again, she finds Roslin watching her thoughtfully.
“Really?” Kara’s proud at how steady her voice sounds, hoping it’s enough to fool Roslin, knowing it’s not. “I hadn’t heard.”
“They saw no point in making an announcement to the settlement,” Roslin replies with an elegant shrug of her shoulders. “Most people on New Caprica would prefer to ignore the military and the ships still in orbit over the planet. Their very existence is a painful reminder of things most would rather forget.”
Roslin’s words take Kara by surprise; it’s rare for the woman to speak so candidly and so critically about the decision to settle and the almost willful amnesia practiced by most of the colonists. Kara’s heard the grumbling. Baltar has been pushing to dismantle the military entirely, considering them an unnecessary drain of resources and Kara knows he’s not alone in that sentiment. Roslin’s condemnation is a general one, but Kara suspects it’s aimed at her as well. After all, isn’t she guilty of doing the same?
Kara shoots her a wary look, but Roslin’s answering gaze is placid, benign and Kara thinks that perhaps it’s her own guilty conscience perceiving censure where none was given.
“So…no big blowout then?” Kara asks, unable to help herself, remembering her own wedding and all the people that attended. And those who didn’t.
Roslin shakes her head. “No. I‘ve been told they’re planning a private ceremony on Galactica. Just family and friends.”
And that does sting because Kara knows she doesn’t really qualify as either anymore and by her own choice. Adama might have proclaimed her his daughter, but she harbors no illusions that Lee would welcome her back with open arms. Kara burned that bridge so well she could still taste ash on her tongue for days afterwards.
She’s always had a knack for destruction.
Kara nods absently, a strange numbness creeping through her. She looks up, startled, when she feels the gentle pressure of Roslin’s hand upon hers. Roslin meets her gaze with eyes that see too much and a sad, sympathetic smile that lays Kara bare. She almost pulls her hand away, but Roslin’s grip tightens, holding on, warm and reassuring and Kara closes her eyes, not wanting to see the look of pity on the other woman’s face. Kara can feel the prick of tears behind her eyelids and she ruthlessly wills them away. She has nothing to cry about. She got exactly what she wanted: Lee has finally moved on. Nothing but bright shiny futures all around.
[][][]
A week later, there’s an envelope sitting on the bed, small and very white against the gray military issue blankets. She picks it up, frowning at the salutation Mr. and Mrs. S. Anders, before she peers inside. She pulls out the slip of paper, eyes widening as she realizes what it is: the announcement of the upcoming nuptials of Commander Lee Adama and Lieutenant Anastasia Dualla.
Kara drops to the bed and stares at the neatly typed invitation clutched in her hands. Her heart is pounding and she feels herself swinging wildly between sadness and relief and not a little shock. She’d never expected…never dared to hope. But perhaps…
She peers more closely, noticing something written on the other side. She turns it over and recognizes Lee’s neat handwriting at once. She sucks in a breath and feels her stomach drop when she reads his message:
The Admiral would like you to attend.
It’s signed Commander Adama and the chilly formality is more off-putting than the implied message, as if the invitation was tendered out of a sense of obligation rather than from any genuine sentiment. As if Kara is a total stranger, not someone who had once been considered family. She’d thought it had hurt to receive the news of his upcoming wedding second hand, but this is worse. But worse still is the knowledge that he’s only returning the favor.
Tit for tat. You reap what you sow. It’s cosmic justice on an all too personal scale and it hurts so much she can barely breathe.
She crumples the invitation, envelope and all, and uses it as kindling for the camp stove. She watches the paper catch fire, the smoke curling up towards the canvas roof before it dissipates. When Sam comes home that evening, tired and worn, she drags him to bed and fraks him until they’re both too exhausted to move or even think.
Sam drifts off and Kara lies beside him staring at the canvas above and tries not to think about might have been and never was and the gaping space between.
[][][]
For the first time in her life, Kara begins to understand what the phrase “pyramid widow” means. Even if her husband is abandoning her for a court, rather than the game.
Once he gets the idea in his head to build a pyramid court, Sam throws himself into the project whole heartedly. At first it’s just him and Ten Point, but soon others join in as well. Kara comes by and lends a hand sometimes, though her schedule doesn’t leave her much free time at the moment. About a quarter of the machine shop is down with a homegrown variety of the flu and one of the women is in the final stages of pregnancy and under strict orders from Cottle to stay on bed rest, so Kara is pulling a lot of doubles of late.
It really sucks to be in charge sometimes.
Each day, Sam dutifully pulls his regular shift at the construction site before heading to the spot they’ve selected for the pyramid court after. Kara brings food for him and his crew of dedicated madmen and she knows she should probably be appalled to find herself turning into such a devoted little wifey. Any irritation fades, however, when she sees Sam smiling at her and proclaiming to everyone within hearing range that he has the best wife on the planet. It’s stupid and it’s sappy and it never fails to make her grin.
She wishes Sam wasn’t gone so much, wishes he spent more time focused on her rather than his pet project, but when he returns to their tent each night, exhausted and sore but so genuinely happy, she can’t help but feel a little selfish. Sam gives so much and asks for so little in return, she decides that a little forbearance is a small price for her to pay.
A month after Sam first announced his plan, the pyramid court is completed. Inexplicably, President Baltar has latched on to the project and wants a formal inauguration. Officially, he claims to be a “huge” fan of the sport; privately Kara suspects he just wants a little good publicity.
“You did all the work,” Kara protests. “Now the slimy bastard wants to take all the credit.”
Sam shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not about him. It’s about building something for us. All of us.”
Kara smiles, leans in to kiss him. “I have the best husband on the planet.”
“In the galaxy,” he amends with a smirk.
Kara swats his arm. “Nice ego ya got there, buster. How come I’m only the best wife on the planet?”
He shrugs again, his expression innocent. “Maybe I figure you just need a little incentive to improve.”
“I’ll show you incentive,” she growls before tumbling him to the floor and straddling his hips. “I’m gonna frak you until your eyes cross, you smug bastard.”
Sam grins up at her. “And my plan works perfectly.”
Kara guffaws loudly then proceeds to follow his plan to the Tee.
Three days later, they hold the official inauguration. Baltar arrives in his neatly pressed suit, frowning when he see the mud spattered on his immaculately polished shoes. Kara smirks at the look on his face and wonders when he last stepped foot off Colonial One. She suspects never.
The remnants of the press corps huddle around him like bees to honey. Playa cozies up him, throwing him coy smiles in between gushing praise for his administration. He makes the obligatory responses, offering bland, empty smiles even as his gaze passes right by her as if she wasn’t there.
Baltar steps up to the microphone at last. “Thank you all for coming,” he starts but gets no further when before it whistles shrilly with feedback and he startles like a rabbit, sending a ripple of nervous laughter through the crowd. Baltar frowns but manages to give the rest of his speech without incident. Kara doesn’t listen; it’s all smoke and hot air and about as substantial. She applauds politely when he finishes and bites back the urge to make a snide comment under her breath. This is Sam’s day; she’ll behave for his sake.
The highlight of the inauguration is an exhibition match featuring the surviving members of the Caprica Buccaneers. Of the original ten members of the C-Bucks, only Sam, Ten Point and Riley are left. Riley won’t be playing, of course, thanks to severe burns he received during a raid on a Cylon stronghold near Delphi. At least he’s alive though. Kara tries not to think about the other members of Sam’s team, the other members of the Resistance that she’d met on Caprica who didn’t survive to join the Fleet. She tries especially hard not to think about Sue-Shaun and the way she died.
Sam had tried to coax her into playing, but Kara had refused. After much wheedling and cajoling she’d told him simply that “I want to have the pleasure of watching you play just once.”
Sam had frowned, but he’d accepted with good grace and just a little bit of playful teasing that had inevitably led them back to their still unmade bed.
When Sam takes to the court in full kit, she can’t help but smile, sure she made the right decision. He waves to the crowd, soaking in their cheers with the self-assurance of someone accustomed to adulation. But when he smiles, she knows it’s just for her. Her grin widens.
As exhibition matches go, it’s not very impressive. They’re all a little rusty, Sam and Ten Point included, but they’re still head and shoulders above their competition so they play down. It isn’t about winning; it’s about showing the crowd a good time. And Samuel T. Anders is a good athlete but he’s a great showman.
She watches Sam move across the court, all grace and coiled strength. He’s beautiful like this, utterly mesmerizing, so happy he’s practically glowing. This is it, for him. This is what he loves best, where he truly shines. This is for Sam what flying is - was - for her. She feels a sudden flare of envy, for the things she surrendered and can never have again and the things that are still within Sam’s grasp. The envy, however, is quickly followed by guilt. Her choice. Her sacrifice. She can’t blame Sam for the things she gave up when he never asked her to do it in the first place. Still, watching him like this, she can’t help but feel the loss that lingers even now and probably always will
After the match, a hot, sweaty Sam drags her back to their tent. High on adrenalin and the rush of the game, it’s a wild, frenzied frak that leaves her breathless and worn out. Sam is out like a light and Kara follows soon after.
She dreams of Vipers blazing through the sky overhead while she sinks slowly and inexorably into the ground below.
Part III