BSG Fic announcement: Fool's Gold 4/5
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.
Kara leans against the wall of the machine shop and watches Sam as he chases a young boy across the pyramid court, the boy’s high-pitched giggles mingling with the laughter of the other children. It’s supposed to be a lesson in the rules of the game, but it’s clearly degenerated into a kind of mad free for all as children dart about the court.
It had been Laura Roslin’s idea. “We have no sports of any kind at the school,” Roslin had explained one evening as they’d shared a pot of bitter tea in her tent. “Young children have so much energy, they need an outlet to channel it. But more than that, team sports foster a sense of camaraderie and show the importance of working together for the common good. I want them to learn that. If we’re going to survive as a race, we need to instill those principles in our children at an early age.”
“I’d be happy to do it,” Sam had said, setting aside his mug.
“Really?” Roslin had asked. Clearly she’d been expecting resistance or at least uncertainty and Sam’s acquiescence had obviously taken her by surprise.
She wasn’t the only one. Even knowing Sam’s passion for the game, Kara was still a little surprised at how quickly he’d volunteered his services, how eager he was at the prospect of teaching pyramid to a bunch of rug rats.
Sam had shrugged. “Sure. Like you say, team sports are good at building a sense of solidarity. Besides, any excuse to spend time on the pyramid court...” he’d added with a laugh that had made Roslin smile.
Kara had remained silent, tamping down on her first reaction which was one of jealousy, since time spent teaching school kids about pyramid was less time spent with her. It was petty and selfish, especially in the face of Sam’s bigheartedness. It was ridiculous to be jealous of a bunch of children, traumatized children to boot. Not for the first time, Kara had been reminded how lucky she was to have found a man as good as Sam. And not for the first time, she had promised herself to try harder to be worthy of him.
A shriek of laughter breaks into her thoughts and Kara smiles as Sam captures his quarry, lifting the boy off the ground. He squeals happily before being deposited on the court once more to hare off after the other children. Sam calls out to them and they finally start to settle down.
“He’s good with kids.”
Kara turns, startled. She’d been so absorbed she hadn’t heard Lynn come up to stand beside her. Kara shoots her a cautious look, taking in the strained, pinched features, the pallor that seems a constant these days. There’s a look in her eyes, sad and pained yet strangely hungry as well, as she watches other people’s children play and laugh. It hurts to look at her, so Kara turns away, returning her gaze to Sam and the children on the pyramid court.
“Yeah,” Kara says softly. “He is.”
Lynn’s right; Sam is good with kids, patient and understanding without being stuffy or overbearing about it. He’d be a good father, no question, and watching him there surrounded by his little band of admirers, Kara feels a pang of guilt. She can’t, she just can’t. Someday maybe, but not now. Not yet. It’s all still too close and just the thought of it sends a shiver of panic through her.
“You’re lucky, Kara. You don’t know how lucky.” With those words, Lynn heads back inside, leaving Kara alone once more.
Her hands flex against the phantom echo of pain. Unconsciously, she presses her right hand to her side, her thumb tracing the line of scar tissue beneath the waist of her pants, feeling it ache in sympathy. Sighing, Kara slips back into the machine shop and away from the reminder of things she can’t have.
[][][]
She looks up from the laundry she’s folding when Sam stumbles into the tent. He mutters a greeting then collapses on to the bed with an exaggerated sigh.
“Tired?” she asks, amusement winning out over concern when she catches the smile twitching his lips.
“Exhausted,” he admits, flinging his arm over his eyes. “I don’t know how Laura does it every day. One afternoon a week, and those kids are kicking my ass.”
Kara snickers. “That’s ‘cos you’re getting old, Sam.”
She hears a harrumph from the bed. “Get over here and I’ll show you old.”
She carefully folds the shirt in her hands and places in on top of the rest before crossing over to the bed. Kara smirks down at him. “I thought you were tired.”
“Maybe I’ve gotten a second wind.” He raises himself up on his elbows and sends her a look that sparks an answering heat inside her. When Sam wraps his hand around her wrist, she allows herself to be pulled down to the bed beside him with only the faintest of protests.
“Sam, I need to finish folding the laundry.” She tries to sound exasperated but she can hear the hint of laughter in her voice.
“Let it wait. A few wrinkles won’t kill us.”
“Hmmm,” she murmurs her agreement against his mouth. She wraps her arms around him and lets Sam bear her down to the mattress. He rolls them over until their lying side by side, kissing her until they’re both breathless. She smiles contentedly when he pulls back.
Sam tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re so beautiful.”
She feels herself blush at the compliment but she raises her chin and smirks at him. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I’ve been thinking…”
“Oh, that’s never good,” she replies.
She expects a broad leering grin, but the smile Sam gives her is surprisingly tender and even a little hesitant.
“Spending so much time with the kids at the school has been great. It’s got me to thinking that maybe it’s time to start thinking about having one of our own.”
Kara freezes. “Sam…”
“Kara,” he says, cutting off her protest. He draws a deep breath before speaking again. “Look, I know it’s a scary thought, but I love you. I want us to have a family. You’d be a terrific mother, I know you would.”
She shakes her head in denial. He doesn’t know. He has no idea. She pulls away. For a moment she feels Sam’s hands tighten but then he releases her and lets her roll away from him. She gets to her feet and heads back to the pile of laundry. She pulls another shirt from the pile and carefully folds it with trembling hands. She can hear the creak of bedsprings followed by footsteps as he crosses the floor to stand behind her.
“Kara.”
She grabs another shirt. “Sam, please. Let’s not talk about this, okay?” She feels his hands on her arms before he tugs gently, forcing her to turn around.
“Kara,” he says, tilting her chin up. She can’t quite meet his eyes.
“Sam, I’m just not ready, okay? I just…” she blows out a breath. “I’m not ready.”
It sounds lame even to her own ears. She can see the expression on Sam’s face shift, hopeful then disappointed before giving way to a kind of grudging, stoic acceptance.
“Sure, I understand. I didn’t mean to push. No pressure, okay?”
She nods, her gaze shifting away. She’s grateful for his acquiescence, but even so, there’s a part of her that feels unreasonably irritated by the ease with which he capitulated. Kara knows he wants this, but his refusal to press is simultaneously a source of relief and frustration.
Never let it be said she’s consistent.
She looks down to see her hands clutching the hapless shirt in a white knuckled grip. She wills herself to relax, then puts the shirt back on top of the pile of unfolded laundry. “I need some time to think,” she says.
Sam nods. He makes no effort to stop her as she grabs her jacket and heads out of the tent. She wishes she could stop running away.
She wishes just once Sam wouldn’t let her.
[][][]
She’s not really surprised to see find Sam still awake and awaiting her return. He looks up at the rustle of canvas and is on his feet before the flap drops behind her. She watches as relief washes over his features, only to be replaced with worry a moment later.
“Gods, Kara, what happened?”
She shrugs. “Nothin’. Just had a little disagreement is all. You should see the other guy,” she adds with a broad wink, inviting Sam to share the joke. But Sam isn’t amused, not in the slightest. She feels his eyes on her, knows he’s cataloguing the split lip, the bruise blossoming on her cheekbone. It doesn’t hurt, not yet anyway; alcohol is wonderful for numbing the pain. It’ll hurt like a sonuvabitch tomorrow, of course, but for now, she feels good, better than she has in days as she rides the sweet adrenalin high of victory.
Sam steps closer, his fingertips grazing her cheekbone, making her wince. She jerks away from his touch. “’S fine,” she says, her voice slurring.
Sam’s lips press together in a thin line. “It’s not fine, Kara. Damn it, you could have been hurt.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Sam laughs, but there’s no mirth to it. “Really? By brawling in bars? Is that how you take care of yourself?”
Kara sticks out her chin in challenge. “Frak you! You’re not my father!” she says, voice rising.
“No, I’m your frakkin’ husband!” he shoots back hotly. He steps closer, close enough to touch as his face darkens with anger.
Kara feels her heart pounding with fear and more than a little excitement. This is what she wants, what she’s been waiting for. She can see the fire in Sam’s eyes, a fire to match her own and she wants him to match her, to push back, to keep her from spiraling madly out of control. Please she almost says. Please stop me.
They stay like that, toe to toe, chests heaving, hearts racing, in a frozen tableau. Kara watches and waits, eyes pleading with Sam. And then, just as always, Sam steps back from the edge.
Head dropping to his chest, Sam heaves a sigh. When he looks up again, the anger is gone, replaced by a weary resignation that makes her want to cry in frustration. He reaches for her, but she bats at his hand and turns away from him.
“Kara,” he says in that soft, solicitous voice that she’s come to hate. He puts his hand on her shoulder. She shrugs it off and wraps her own arms around herself, warding off a sudden chill as her system shuts down in a rush, leaving her trembling.
“Kara,” he says again as he clutches her shoulders. This time she doesn’t pull back; she’s tired of fighting. Sam turns her towards him and pulls her into a tight embrace. She slumps against him, boneless and weary. Sam takes it as a victory, their victory, but all Kara can taste defeat on her tongue. She lets Sam hold her and croon soothing words into her hair as he strokes her back and promises everything will be all right. It’s a lie, but Kara decides to let him pretend, at least for a little while longer.
[][][]
“Doesn’t it ever stop frakkin’ rainin’ on this frakkin’ mud hole?”
Kara doesn’t bother looking up from her workbench at Jimmy’s profanity laced tirade. No need; she knows exactly what he means. After four days of solid rain she suspects she might grow a frakking set of gills, the air so thick with humidity it feels like breathing underwater. The moisture permeates everything and her clothing feels perpetually damp as the chill seeps through right down to the bone. Worse still, a small hole has opened up in the roof of their tent right over the bed. They can’t repair it, not until it stops raining, so they move the bed and try to ignore the tinny sound of raindrops as they drip into the metal bucket below with only moderate success.
The machine shop, at least, is dry and Kara thanks the Gods for a job that keeps her surrounded by metal rather than waterlogged canvas all day.
Jimmy’s still bitching, but Kara tunes him out. Instead, she listens to the rain as pounds down on the metal roof with a staccato rhythm reminiscent of gunfire. She knows it’s probably pretty frakked up that she finds the sound more soothing than annoying, but it’s familiar in its way and if she closes her eyes and concentrates on the clanging sounds of tools and the metallic tang filling her nostrils, she can almost pretend she’s back on Galactica for a few moments. At least until the illusion snaps as it always does.
Kara keeps working, eyes focused on the task at hand. The work keeps her hands occupied while the noise provides just enough distraction to keep her from thinking too much. Kara prefers not to think too much.
During her break, she goes outside and huddles beneath the lip of the roof and tries to stay dry. She takes lazy drags on her cigarette and stares out at the rain, her thoughts turning to Kobol. To those hours, days, spent marching through a torrential downpour, stumbling across treacherous, rain-slicked terrain while Cylons stalked them, intent on their destruction.
Thinking on those days brings with it an odd melancholy, tinged with nostalgia and no small regret. At the time it had been terrifying. And yet…there’d also been a sense of hope, of expectation. No one knew if Roslin’s visions were true or if she was leading them on a fool’s errand that would ultimately lead them to their deaths. But underneath the fear and doubt there had been that mad glimmer of possibility, leading them on, lending them strength. In spite of it all, they’d done it; they’d found the map to Earth. Roslin had given them the key that would lead them to the fabled Thirteenth Colony, to their lost brethren.
Would lead them home.
And then they’d thrown it away and settled here on this barely habitable rock, forsaking the promise offered by the Gods. They’d broken faith and this is their due.
Perhaps this is exactly what they deserve, their bright shiny future rusting away beneath gunmetal skies and endless rain like tears.
With a final drag from her cigarette, Kara tosses it to the muddy ground and heads inside.
[][][]
She dashes through the entrance to Jake’s bar breathing hard. The running didn’t help much; she’s still soaked through in spite of her heavy jacket. She pushes back the hood and swipes wet tendrils away from her eyes and scans the bar looking for Sam.
She finds him almost immediately. He’s standing at the bar, his elbow perched on the countertop, a drink in his other hand. Right where she expects him to be. What she doesn’t expect, however, is to see Jean standing next to him, her body pressed close to his.
It’s easy enough to explain, of course. The bar is crowded, like always, and Sam’s occupying premium space. Kara’s been in enough crowded bars in her day to know the press and jostle of bodies as they jockey for room and access. Yet, there’s no mistaking the way their heads angle close, or the way Jean touches Sam’s arm or the way he laughs at some joke she’d just made.
Kara reminds herself that they’re friends, that they fought together side by side on Caprica. That kind of thing forges powerful ties of friendship between people.
And sometimes more than friendship, the treacherous voice whispers in the back of her mind. After all, isn’t that how you and Sam began?
She pushes that thought away. She trusts Sam and that’s all there is to it. Squaring her shoulders, she puts on her cockiest grin and saunters over to her husband.
Sam’s whole face lights up. “Hey! It’s about time! I thought maybe you’d fallen into a mud puddle and drowned.”
Kara chuckles, insinuating herself beneath Sam’s arm so she can press her body along his, letting the warmth of his body chase away the chill. “Got held up at work. But you don’t need to worry; I’m an excellent swimmer.”
Sam laughs, drawing her closer “Good to know.”
Kara looks over at Jean, her sweetest smile plastered on her face. “Hey, Jean. Thanks for keeping my husband company.” Kara lets the words hang, the implied dismissal unmistakable.
“Sure, Kara. No problem.” Jean’s smiling as well, but there’s a coolness to her tone and Kara can’t decide if Jean’s more annoyed by Kara’s arrival or her casual dismissal. She doesn’t actually care.
Jean’s smile warms as she looks at Sam. “I should go.”
Sam blinks. “Already? But you just got here.”
Jean shakes her head. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on you two love birds. I’ll see you guys later, all right?”
“Sure,” Sam says, brow wrinkling in confusion.
Finishing her drink, Jean, puts the glass on the counter and heads over to one of the nearby tables. Sam watches her go, then turns to look at Kara with a puzzled expression. She doesn’t give him a chance to ask the question she can see beginning to take shape in his eyes.
“So, what does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?” she asks with a wink. She slides her arm around Sam’s waist and smiles up at him.
Sam’s puzzlement gives way to wry amusement. He shakes his head laughing before signaling the bartender.
“A drink for my girl,” he yells.
Kara smiles in satisfaction.
[][][]
“Rumor has it that the President’s planning to extend the standard work day from twelve to thirteen hours.”
Kara nearly drops her fork at the Chief’s grim pronouncement. “You gotta be frakkin’ kidding me!”
Tyrol shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, the gesture momentarily dislodging the glasses he’s started wearing of late. “Wish I was. But housing’s becoming a serious problem and, like always, President Frakwit’s solution is to make everyone else work longer hours while he lives it up on Colonial One.”
She gives a disdainful snort. “Bastard just upped the work day to twelve hours not even two months ago. At this rate, we’ll be working round the clock by year’s end.”
“What about the union?” Sam asks. He gives Cally a smile, waving away her offer of seconds. He’s probably lost his appetite. Kara certainly has.
“We’re planning a rally in two days time for all the good it will do. The bastard doesn’t give a rat’s ass about us. And as for the Quorum,” Kara smiles wryly at the disdain in Tyrol’s voice, “talk about a bunch of pansy-assed wusses. As long as they’re not the ones sweating their asses off, they’re fine with it.”
And that, Kara knows, is the truth. She watches Cally lay her hand over her husband’s, twining their fingers together, offering her silent support.
“Maybe Zarek…” but even as the words leave her mouth she knows it’s pointless, sees the Chief shaking his head.
“For all his talk about freedom, he’s just as bad. Baltar might be president, but Zarek’s the one running the show. He’s not going to mess with that.”
Kara sighs. He’s right again. They’re like a bunch of frakking sheep, overworked, underfed and too exhausted most of the time to do anything but go along.
She wonders how she became one as well.
[][][]
On the day Hot Dog dies, Kara drinks herself insensate for the first time in months.
Kara can’t wrap her head around it. An accident. A stupid frakking accident. It isn’t right. That thought keeps echoing through her brain. The guy had spent six months flying a Viper in battle, six months of dodging Raiders and Cylon boarding parties and not a scratch on him. And then he goes and dies falling from the scaffolding at one of the construction sites. It wasn’t even that long a fall, maybe eight, ten feet, but he’d hit the ground at the wrong angle and snapped his neck. He’d been dead the moment of impact.
It isn’t right.
She rubs furiously at her eyes, refusing to cry and takes another pull straight from the bottle of ambrosia. She’d been saving it for their anniversary to celebrate, but she needs it more right now. Sam’ll understand.
She takes another drink, welcoming the burn.
Kara looks up to see Sam standing at the entrance of the tent, his hand fisting in the canvas flap.
“You heard,” is all he says. She nods and takes another drink.
Sam drops into the chair across from her and sighs, scrubbing wearily at his face. He looks haggard, Kara thinks, staring at him through the haze of alcohol. His face is lined with exhaustion, thinner and sharper than it had been when they’d first met on Caprica. And how frakked up is that, when a guy looked healthier living on a radioactive rock hiding from killer robots bent on his destruction than he does living in relative peace and domestic tranquility? He picks up the bottle and takes a drink of his own.
The silence stretches between them as they trade the bottle back and forth. Like the alcohol, Sam’s solid presence helps a little, but not enough. She’s not sure anything would be enough.
“He was one of my nuggets,” she blurts out, surprising them both. Sam looks up from the spot on the table he’d been staring at for the last few minutes and frowns.
“I’d trained him for Vipers. He’d been a Fleet Academy washout before it all went to crap and he was too cocky by half. I flunked him his first day.” She makes a choked sound that might be a laugh. “I flunked the whole class, actually.”
Sam nods, silently encouraging her to continue. “He got there eventually though. Proved to be a decent enough pilot once he shut the frak up and started paying attention. Still a little too cocky, but solid, ya know? You could count on him.”
Kara shakes her head and takes another drink. “He survived six months in the cockpit, survived everything the Cylons threw at him and then he goes and breaks his stupid frakking neck in a stupid frakking fall. It isn’t right.”
Her voice rises with each word until she’s almost screaming. She wipes angrily at her face and it’s only when she feels the dampness on her fingertips that she realizes she’s crying.
“It isn’t right,” she says again, her voice hoarse and thick with tears.
Sam’s on his feet and then he’s kneeling beside her, wrapping his arms around her. She tries to pull back, appalled at her own weakness, but for once Sam fights her. He hangs on, arms wrapped tightly around her until the fight drains out of her and she slumps against him, burying her face in his neck.
“It isn’t right,” she whispers against skin. She can feel Sam stroking her hair, whispering soothing bits of nonsense. It’s not enough, but it’ll do.
[][][]
“Anders!”
Kara turns off the blow torch in her hand and flips up the welding mask “Yeah?”
“We got a box of screws ready. You wanna take it over to Walker’s site?” Charlie asks.
It’s a foregone conclusion; Charlie knows she’s always happy for an excuse to pop by the construction site and say hi to Sam. It’s actually kind of sweet of him to give her first crack at deliveries. Underneath his gruff exterior, Charlie’s a ball of mush.
Kara grins, peeling off her mask and dropping it to the workbench. “Sure. No problem.” She grabs the box out of his arms.
“And try not to be all afternoon about it.” His voice is stern, but Kara can see his lips twitch with amusement.
She nods and heads out.
It isn’t far - practicality demands that the machine shop be near the biggest construction site - and Kara had chosen this job in large part because of the proximity to Sam. When she arrives, she scans the work crew looking for her husband’s face. She sees the Chief and gives him a nod, but there’s no sign of Sam anywhere.
“Whaddya got?”
Kara almost jumps at the voice. She hadn’t realized she’d been standing there very long.
“Screws,” she says, handing over the box. The foreman takes them with a grunt that might signify anything from ‘thank you’ to ‘it’s about frakkin’ time’ to ‘I’m constipated and need more fiber in my diet’.” For a moment Kara thinks about asking after Sam, but the foreman is glaring at her now, clearly wanting her to be off so he can get back to work. Kara nods curtly and leaves.
If anyone back at the shop notices the promptness of her return, they’re wise enough not to ask.
[][][]
“I didn’t see you on the site today.”
Fork halfway between the plate and his mouth, Sam stops and gives Kara a curious look. “What are you talking about?”
Kara winces inwardly. She hadn’t meant to say anything. They’d been having a perfectly pleasant dinner together, chatting about inconsequential things and the words just popped out. She shrugs, trying to act casual. “Nothing. Just…I had to drop off a delivery from the shop. I looked for you and you weren’t there.”
Sam’s frowning and Kara feels a twinge of something that might be guilt on top of embarrassment. “I had to go to the lumber yard with Alex and Steve to pick up more wood for the scaffolding.”
She nods. Of course. It makes perfect sense. Nothing going on.
Something must show on her face though, because Sam’s expression turns serious. “Where did you think I was?”
“Nowhere,” she answers, the word coming out sharp and quick. “It’s just…it was your shift and you weren’t there.”
Sam shrugs. “The foreman always has me running errands. I think he lost money betting against the C-Bucks in the last Colonial Cup Finals,” he adds, inviting her to laugh. When she doesn’t, the frown reappears in full force “You should have asked Tyrol. He could have told you where I was.”
She nods, irritated with herself for even bringing the subject up in the first place. She feels Sam’s eyes on her, studying her carefully. She gives him what she hopes is a convincing smile.
They finish dinner in silence.
Sam collects the plates and puts them in the basin of tepid water to soak. Kara feels his eyes on her, but she keeps her back to him.
“Ten Point wanted to get a game going after dinner,” he says.
Kara nods, but doesn’t look back. “Hmmm.”
“You wanna come?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head, hands slipping into the water. She begins to scrub furiously at the soup pot. “I’ve got stuff to do.”
There’s silence behind her. When she finally turns she sees Sam looking at her, his expression somber. She offers him a smile. “Go on, ya big lug. I can take it from here.”
Sam hesitates, but he acquiesces, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
She putters around the tent or a time, trying to keep busy. Noise from outside filters through the canvas walls, but inside the silence is oppressive. There’s nothing to distract her from the doubts that niggle at the back of her mind. Finally it’s too much.
Cursing under her breath, she grabs her coat and stalks from the tent, letting the canvas flap drop behind her.
She heads over to the pyramid court. She can hear the sound of cheers and laughter as she approaches, can see the small crowd of people gathered to watch the game. Her eyes skim over them searching for one face in particular, the only one that matters.
Stripped down to his tanks, Sam’s torso gleams with sweat as he moves across the court with liquid grace. He drives the ball home and smiles as Jake high fives him and Ten Point laughingly accuses him of cheating. They square up for the next round of play.
Kara seats herself on the bleachers they’d recently erected and watches the game wind down to its inevitable conclusion. She watches as they thump one another on the back, laughing in triumph, or commiserating in defeat as the crowd disperses and return to their homes and their lives. She watches as Sam grabs his coat and heads over where she’s still seated.
“Ready to go home?” he asks, with deceptive casualness.
Kara nods. She stands and when Sam slides his arm around her waist, she doesn’t pull away. She leans into his warmth and lets him take her home. No words are spoken but it’s enough. For now. She’s getting good at settling it seems.
[][][]
Kara hears Sam enter the tent and smiles. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she calls over her shoulder, frowning at the look on his face. “What’s wrong?” she asks, turning down the heat on the small camp stove.
“Some more tools have gone missing from the construction site. A couple of screw drivers, some wrenches, two welding torches, a pair of metal cutters…” He drops heavily into his chair, rolling his neck slowly.
Kara comes to stand behind him, rubbing the tense muscles. She’d not terribly surprised by his news. Petty theft is on the rise all across the settlement.
“Did you report it?” she asks, digging the heel of her hand more deeply into a particularly knotted muscle, feeling the lift of his shoulder as he shrugs.
“For what good it does. Tyrol and I went to see the President about trying to set up some security at the construction site. You can imagine his response.”
“Do it yourselves,” she mutters. That’s pretty much Baltar’s response to everything, or at least everything that requires even minimal effort on his part.
Sam nods.
The situation in the settlement is rapidly deteriorating. Two sacks of grain go missing from one of the storehouses; bits and pieces of personal property are vanishing from various tents with regularity. No one knows if it’s an individual or a gang behind the thefts, or if it’s even anything that organized. They have so little, but there are always people who want more than their fair share and don’t give a Gods damn about how many others they hurt in the process.
Even she and Sam are hit. She comes home one day after a long shift at the machine shop to find her idols missing. She sits on the bed and stares at the piece of dark fabric in which she kept them carefully wrapped, anger and sorrow and bewilderment rolling through her. She has so few personal possessions, so few material objects that truly matter to her. Her leather jacket, Zak’s ring, her dog tags and flight pin. Her father’s recording. Her idols. The value is more sentimental than anything. And yet someone broke into her home, rifled through her belongings and took something so personal and private, something she never shared or flaunted. It isn’t just a loss; it feels like a violation. She wonders who the thief is and why he, she, took them. To sell or trade on the black market? To use them in prayer? To melt them down for scrap metal? It could be any of those things and she doesn’t know which possibility appalls her more.
By the time Sam returns home, the fabric is tucked away. She never mentions the theft to Sam, sees no reason to worry him needlessly. He’s got enough to deal with as it is. She takes greater care to lock away everything of value in the beat-up foot locker they use as a bench. It won’t stop a determined thief, but it’s the best they have. If Sam notices Kara never holds her idols during morning prayer any more, he never says a word.
It only gets worse.
A week later she sees a crowd gathered outside the hospital tent. She pushes through the gawkers, past the guard - he’s a former marine from Galactica and one look at her face is enough to make him step aside; old habits really do die hard - and muscles her way inside. She finds Cottle sitting on a bed with a sour look on his face and towel pressed against the back of his head. Roslin is sitting next to him, talking softly.
“What happened?” Kara demands, as she heads over to Cottle.
Roslin looks up, her face grave. “Someone broke in last night, looking for drugs. The doctor walked in on them, but they knocked him out and ran.”
It’s only then that Kara sees the door to the supply cabinet hanging open. The lock lies mangled on the ground - the stolen metal cutters, she thinks - and there’s a few ampoules scattered around - some intact, others broken, their contents staining the wooden planks. The cabinet is empty.
Kara swears softly.
“It could have been worse,” Roslin continues. “If Doctor Cottle hadn’t arrived when he did, they might have emptied out all the cabinets.”
“I’m right here, you know,” Cottle grouses, winces. Concussion, Kara thinks.
Kara frowns, her gaze returning to the cabinet. They’re short of medical supplies as it is. If people start stealing them now, they won’t have them when they really need them.
“Do you have a list of the drugs that were stolen?”
Cottle glares at her, which Kara figures is a good sign. “Do I look like someone who doesn’t keep an inventory of his supplies?”
“Good,” she says. “I’ll be back.”
Roslin stands, resting her hand lightly on Kara’s arm. “What are you going to do?”
“What needs to be done.”
Kara storms out of the tent, glaring at anyone in her way. She’d be gratified by the speed with which people scurry out of her path if she weren’t so angry. She heads to the construction site - and how ironic is it that they’re building a hospital? - and scans the workers gathered there. Sam sees her, and waves. He’s smiling, but his expression sobers when he sees her face.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice hushed.
“Where’s Tyrol?”
“In the tent, going over plumbing. Why?”
“Come with me.” She doesn’t elaborate; no point in wasting time explaining the situation twice. Sam nods, falls into step beside her.
She finds Tyrol in deep discussion with a couple of workmen. Like Sam, his expression turns sober at once.
“What’s going on, Starbuck?”
She tells them. She keeps it short and to the point, a formal briefing. No place for emotions, no time for outbursts. Sam and the Chief are grim faced by the time she finishes her account.
“What do you suggest?” It’s Tyrol who poses the question; Sam’s already in, she knows that much.
“It’s time to get Baltar off his lazy ass and do something. You with me?”
The Chief nods. “I’m with you, sir.”
She almost smiles at Tyrol’s unconscious use of the honorific. Old habits. This time she doesn’t bother to correct him.
They manage to bully their way on to Colonial One, their sheer brazenness taking Baltar’s staff by surprise. They get as far as the door to the President’s office, however, before they’re stopped by Gaeta.
“We need to see the President,” Kara says curtly, without even the pretense of courtesy. She makes to shoulder past him and is surprised when Gaeta steps in front of her path, blocking her.
“You might want to speak with the Vice President Zarek,” he says in a soft voice. He shoots a meaningful glance from the door to Baltar’s office to another on the other side of the corridor. “I think he might be more …able to help you.”
Kara nods slowly, thanking Gaeta. As much as Kara hates going to Zarek hat in hand, she doesn’t really see much of a choice. At least he has some understanding of the situation.
They find Zarek seated at his desk, a stack of documents at his elbow. His face lights with an easy smile as he leans back in his seat, affable and assured. “Captain Thrace, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Kara feels herself stiffen even though she’d been expecting the dig. It’s hard not to rise to the bait. “It’s Mrs. Anders,” she replies coolly. “I’m not in the military anymore.”
Zarek nods and there’s a look of sympathy - or is it pity? - in his eyes. “Yes, of course. My apologies. What can I do for you?”
“There’s been another theft.”
“Oh?”
“Someone broke into the hospital tent and stole medicines.”
Zarek sits up, his air of amusement gone. “How much was stolen?”
“Enough.”
Zarek nods thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose so. What do you need?”
Kara can’t hide her surprise at Zarek’s reaction. Zarek’s smile turns wry. “Don’t look so shocked, Mrs. Anders. We’re on the same side here.”
She shifts awkwardly, uncertain whether to trust his good will, but knowing she has no choice. She feels Sam and the Chief moving closer, flanking her. Their presence reassures her.
“We need a police force. We need to stop this before it gets completely out of hand.
She watches as Zarek steeples his fingers. He looks up at her. “Agreed. There needs to be some kind of order.”
“So you’ll take care of this?”
He rises and shakes her hand. “You have my word, Mrs. Anders.”
Kara gives him a curt nod and departs, Sam and Tyrol on her wake. She smiles at Gaeta in passing, still not quite believing the ease with which she won Zarek’s agreement. Maybe things are looking up.
[][][]
Zarek’s as good as his word. Within a week, the first members of the New Caprican police force are in place, black arm bands on their sleeves denoting their authority. Their faces look familiar though she can’t put her finger on the reason. It’s only a few days later when she sees a man walking down the Promenade, a gun on his hip and a patch of black fabric on his arm that she puts a name to the face and it all clicks into place.
Grimes.
Of course. She should have known that Zarek would recruit his old friends, form his own goon squad with the Quorum’s blessing. She doesn’t know why she expected otherwise.
It’s funny, actually. It almost feels like she’s tumbled headfirst into some bizarre world in which everything’s turned on its head. A world in which the president is a mentally unstable genius, the vice president’s a terrorist and the police force is populated by ex-cons. A world in which Kara Thrace gives up flying to settle on ball of mud of her own free will and pretends to be happy.
It’s frakking hysterical.
Then why, she wonders, isn’t she laughing?
[][][]
The market is abuzz with gossip when Kara arrives.
“What’s the word, Ari?”
Ari leans forward, resting his forearms on the carte filled with used clothing. “ You mean you haven’t heard?”
“Hear what?”
“There were some military types down from ships last night. Apparently they knifed some poor slob. He never even saw it coming.”
Kara blinks, stunned. It couldn’t be. “Are you serious?”
Ari nods. “Dead serious. I heard it from Paul who got it from Roger. He wasn’t there, but his brother-in-law was and he swears there was a really ugly fight. There were a bunch of marines and they ganged up on this guy. When he tried to fight back, they stabbed him,” Ari adds looking far too pleased with himself given the grimness of the news.
Kara nods absently. As she continues her errands, Kara keeps half an ear open for information regarding the stabbing. It isn’t hard; it seems to be the sole topic of conversation. By the time she finishes, she’s managed to glean some details, though much of it is contradictory. They were from Pegasus, that much seems to be agreed upon, but anything else, from the number of participants to their branch of service remains in question.
As to the fight itself, no one seems to know much though the stories are all pretty fantastical. While she can believe such things could - and did - occur under Cain’s command, she knows things are different now. The Pegasus’ crew has settled down a lot under Lee’s leadership. He would never tolerate this kind of behavior and he certainly wouldn’t allow crew members who are prone to violence free reign on the planet’s surface. Whatever issues she might have with Lee personally, she knows with absolute certainty that he’s too conscientious for that. There has to be more to the story. So Kara listens.
It’s the whispers of “Gideon” that alarm her most, though. Even now, that incident looms large in the collective civilian memory, more so than she’d ever realized back when she’d still been serving. The President might have absolved Tigh of any wrongdoing, the press might have glossed over their events that occurred during his institution of martial law, but for the populace at large, those deaths are not forgiven or forgotten. There’s a deep well of hostility towards the military simmering just beneath the surface and this stabbing might well blow the lid clean off it.
Kara drops off her purchases then heads to work. Not surprisingly, the shop is buzzing with the story as well.
“Did you hear?” Mark asks, the moment he crosses the threshold. Voice dripping with venom, his face twists with rage. “Frakkin’ military! It’s bad enough they’re just sitting up there on their fat asses, livin’ large while we work our fingers to the bone. Now they’re trying to kill us!”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the group.
“It’s the Gideon all over again,” Jimmy chimes in. “They do whatever they frakkin’ please. I heard they stabbed the guy and then robbed him in full view of everybody.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Mark sneers. “They’ve always been like that. Even before we settled here, back when we were running from the Cylons. They always thought they were better than the rest of us. Hogged all the best food, the best medicine, the best of everything. They lived like the Gods while we wasted away.”
Kara frowns, remembering the unpalatable meals, short water rations, cramped quarters, the endless shifts and bone jarring exhaustion Things might have been a little better on Galactica than on some of the other ships, but it was hardly Olympus, no matter what the civilians think.
Jimmy’s nodding emphatically. “They always acted like they were special. Like flying a Viper made them important or something,” he says with a derogatory sniff. “If Adama were here right now I’d…”
That’s Kara’s limit. “You’d what?”
Jimmy blinks, clearly not expecting anyone to challenge his self-righteous tirade.
“I was military,” Kara says, voice low but unyielding. Her eyes sweep the group, daring them to say something. “Viper pilot. I risked my life every frakkin’ day and so did the rest of the crew and all to keep the rest of you alive. Before you bad mouth Adama and his people, I suggest you remember that.”
She glares at Jimmy, pleased to see the way he wilts under her baleful look. When she shifts her gaze she can’t help but notice that no on will meet her eyes.
Kara’s harangue ends the conversation cold. Deflated, her co-workers return to their stations, silent and sullen.
“It’s just talk, Kara,” Lynn says softly, coming to stand beside her. “The military is threatening to a lot of people. They’re just scared is all.”
“But why? I used to be military,” Kara says again.
“But you’re not anymore. You’re one of us now.”
Kara returns to her own station, Lynn’s final words playing over and over again in her mind.
But you’re not anymore. You’re one of us now.
She bends herself to her work and tries to ignore the ache in her chest at the stark truth that she’s been denying for so long. This time the Prodigal won’t be returning.
Part V
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.
Kara leans against the wall of the machine shop and watches Sam as he chases a young boy across the pyramid court, the boy’s high-pitched giggles mingling with the laughter of the other children. It’s supposed to be a lesson in the rules of the game, but it’s clearly degenerated into a kind of mad free for all as children dart about the court.
It had been Laura Roslin’s idea. “We have no sports of any kind at the school,” Roslin had explained one evening as they’d shared a pot of bitter tea in her tent. “Young children have so much energy, they need an outlet to channel it. But more than that, team sports foster a sense of camaraderie and show the importance of working together for the common good. I want them to learn that. If we’re going to survive as a race, we need to instill those principles in our children at an early age.”
“I’d be happy to do it,” Sam had said, setting aside his mug.
“Really?” Roslin had asked. Clearly she’d been expecting resistance or at least uncertainty and Sam’s acquiescence had obviously taken her by surprise.
She wasn’t the only one. Even knowing Sam’s passion for the game, Kara was still a little surprised at how quickly he’d volunteered his services, how eager he was at the prospect of teaching pyramid to a bunch of rug rats.
Sam had shrugged. “Sure. Like you say, team sports are good at building a sense of solidarity. Besides, any excuse to spend time on the pyramid court...” he’d added with a laugh that had made Roslin smile.
Kara had remained silent, tamping down on her first reaction which was one of jealousy, since time spent teaching school kids about pyramid was less time spent with her. It was petty and selfish, especially in the face of Sam’s bigheartedness. It was ridiculous to be jealous of a bunch of children, traumatized children to boot. Not for the first time, Kara had been reminded how lucky she was to have found a man as good as Sam. And not for the first time, she had promised herself to try harder to be worthy of him.
A shriek of laughter breaks into her thoughts and Kara smiles as Sam captures his quarry, lifting the boy off the ground. He squeals happily before being deposited on the court once more to hare off after the other children. Sam calls out to them and they finally start to settle down.
“He’s good with kids.”
Kara turns, startled. She’d been so absorbed she hadn’t heard Lynn come up to stand beside her. Kara shoots her a cautious look, taking in the strained, pinched features, the pallor that seems a constant these days. There’s a look in her eyes, sad and pained yet strangely hungry as well, as she watches other people’s children play and laugh. It hurts to look at her, so Kara turns away, returning her gaze to Sam and the children on the pyramid court.
“Yeah,” Kara says softly. “He is.”
Lynn’s right; Sam is good with kids, patient and understanding without being stuffy or overbearing about it. He’d be a good father, no question, and watching him there surrounded by his little band of admirers, Kara feels a pang of guilt. She can’t, she just can’t. Someday maybe, but not now. Not yet. It’s all still too close and just the thought of it sends a shiver of panic through her.
“You’re lucky, Kara. You don’t know how lucky.” With those words, Lynn heads back inside, leaving Kara alone once more.
Her hands flex against the phantom echo of pain. Unconsciously, she presses her right hand to her side, her thumb tracing the line of scar tissue beneath the waist of her pants, feeling it ache in sympathy. Sighing, Kara slips back into the machine shop and away from the reminder of things she can’t have.
[][][]
She looks up from the laundry she’s folding when Sam stumbles into the tent. He mutters a greeting then collapses on to the bed with an exaggerated sigh.
“Tired?” she asks, amusement winning out over concern when she catches the smile twitching his lips.
“Exhausted,” he admits, flinging his arm over his eyes. “I don’t know how Laura does it every day. One afternoon a week, and those kids are kicking my ass.”
Kara snickers. “That’s ‘cos you’re getting old, Sam.”
She hears a harrumph from the bed. “Get over here and I’ll show you old.”
She carefully folds the shirt in her hands and places in on top of the rest before crossing over to the bed. Kara smirks down at him. “I thought you were tired.”
“Maybe I’ve gotten a second wind.” He raises himself up on his elbows and sends her a look that sparks an answering heat inside her. When Sam wraps his hand around her wrist, she allows herself to be pulled down to the bed beside him with only the faintest of protests.
“Sam, I need to finish folding the laundry.” She tries to sound exasperated but she can hear the hint of laughter in her voice.
“Let it wait. A few wrinkles won’t kill us.”
“Hmmm,” she murmurs her agreement against his mouth. She wraps her arms around him and lets Sam bear her down to the mattress. He rolls them over until their lying side by side, kissing her until they’re both breathless. She smiles contentedly when he pulls back.
Sam tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re so beautiful.”
She feels herself blush at the compliment but she raises her chin and smirks at him. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I’ve been thinking…”
“Oh, that’s never good,” she replies.
She expects a broad leering grin, but the smile Sam gives her is surprisingly tender and even a little hesitant.
“Spending so much time with the kids at the school has been great. It’s got me to thinking that maybe it’s time to start thinking about having one of our own.”
Kara freezes. “Sam…”
“Kara,” he says, cutting off her protest. He draws a deep breath before speaking again. “Look, I know it’s a scary thought, but I love you. I want us to have a family. You’d be a terrific mother, I know you would.”
She shakes her head in denial. He doesn’t know. He has no idea. She pulls away. For a moment she feels Sam’s hands tighten but then he releases her and lets her roll away from him. She gets to her feet and heads back to the pile of laundry. She pulls another shirt from the pile and carefully folds it with trembling hands. She can hear the creak of bedsprings followed by footsteps as he crosses the floor to stand behind her.
“Kara.”
She grabs another shirt. “Sam, please. Let’s not talk about this, okay?” She feels his hands on her arms before he tugs gently, forcing her to turn around.
“Kara,” he says, tilting her chin up. She can’t quite meet his eyes.
“Sam, I’m just not ready, okay? I just…” she blows out a breath. “I’m not ready.”
It sounds lame even to her own ears. She can see the expression on Sam’s face shift, hopeful then disappointed before giving way to a kind of grudging, stoic acceptance.
“Sure, I understand. I didn’t mean to push. No pressure, okay?”
She nods, her gaze shifting away. She’s grateful for his acquiescence, but even so, there’s a part of her that feels unreasonably irritated by the ease with which he capitulated. Kara knows he wants this, but his refusal to press is simultaneously a source of relief and frustration.
Never let it be said she’s consistent.
She looks down to see her hands clutching the hapless shirt in a white knuckled grip. She wills herself to relax, then puts the shirt back on top of the pile of unfolded laundry. “I need some time to think,” she says.
Sam nods. He makes no effort to stop her as she grabs her jacket and heads out of the tent. She wishes she could stop running away.
She wishes just once Sam wouldn’t let her.
[][][]
She’s not really surprised to see find Sam still awake and awaiting her return. He looks up at the rustle of canvas and is on his feet before the flap drops behind her. She watches as relief washes over his features, only to be replaced with worry a moment later.
“Gods, Kara, what happened?”
She shrugs. “Nothin’. Just had a little disagreement is all. You should see the other guy,” she adds with a broad wink, inviting Sam to share the joke. But Sam isn’t amused, not in the slightest. She feels his eyes on her, knows he’s cataloguing the split lip, the bruise blossoming on her cheekbone. It doesn’t hurt, not yet anyway; alcohol is wonderful for numbing the pain. It’ll hurt like a sonuvabitch tomorrow, of course, but for now, she feels good, better than she has in days as she rides the sweet adrenalin high of victory.
Sam steps closer, his fingertips grazing her cheekbone, making her wince. She jerks away from his touch. “’S fine,” she says, her voice slurring.
Sam’s lips press together in a thin line. “It’s not fine, Kara. Damn it, you could have been hurt.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Sam laughs, but there’s no mirth to it. “Really? By brawling in bars? Is that how you take care of yourself?”
Kara sticks out her chin in challenge. “Frak you! You’re not my father!” she says, voice rising.
“No, I’m your frakkin’ husband!” he shoots back hotly. He steps closer, close enough to touch as his face darkens with anger.
Kara feels her heart pounding with fear and more than a little excitement. This is what she wants, what she’s been waiting for. She can see the fire in Sam’s eyes, a fire to match her own and she wants him to match her, to push back, to keep her from spiraling madly out of control. Please she almost says. Please stop me.
They stay like that, toe to toe, chests heaving, hearts racing, in a frozen tableau. Kara watches and waits, eyes pleading with Sam. And then, just as always, Sam steps back from the edge.
Head dropping to his chest, Sam heaves a sigh. When he looks up again, the anger is gone, replaced by a weary resignation that makes her want to cry in frustration. He reaches for her, but she bats at his hand and turns away from him.
“Kara,” he says in that soft, solicitous voice that she’s come to hate. He puts his hand on her shoulder. She shrugs it off and wraps her own arms around herself, warding off a sudden chill as her system shuts down in a rush, leaving her trembling.
“Kara,” he says again as he clutches her shoulders. This time she doesn’t pull back; she’s tired of fighting. Sam turns her towards him and pulls her into a tight embrace. She slumps against him, boneless and weary. Sam takes it as a victory, their victory, but all Kara can taste defeat on her tongue. She lets Sam hold her and croon soothing words into her hair as he strokes her back and promises everything will be all right. It’s a lie, but Kara decides to let him pretend, at least for a little while longer.
[][][]
“Doesn’t it ever stop frakkin’ rainin’ on this frakkin’ mud hole?”
Kara doesn’t bother looking up from her workbench at Jimmy’s profanity laced tirade. No need; she knows exactly what he means. After four days of solid rain she suspects she might grow a frakking set of gills, the air so thick with humidity it feels like breathing underwater. The moisture permeates everything and her clothing feels perpetually damp as the chill seeps through right down to the bone. Worse still, a small hole has opened up in the roof of their tent right over the bed. They can’t repair it, not until it stops raining, so they move the bed and try to ignore the tinny sound of raindrops as they drip into the metal bucket below with only moderate success.
The machine shop, at least, is dry and Kara thanks the Gods for a job that keeps her surrounded by metal rather than waterlogged canvas all day.
Jimmy’s still bitching, but Kara tunes him out. Instead, she listens to the rain as pounds down on the metal roof with a staccato rhythm reminiscent of gunfire. She knows it’s probably pretty frakked up that she finds the sound more soothing than annoying, but it’s familiar in its way and if she closes her eyes and concentrates on the clanging sounds of tools and the metallic tang filling her nostrils, she can almost pretend she’s back on Galactica for a few moments. At least until the illusion snaps as it always does.
Kara keeps working, eyes focused on the task at hand. The work keeps her hands occupied while the noise provides just enough distraction to keep her from thinking too much. Kara prefers not to think too much.
During her break, she goes outside and huddles beneath the lip of the roof and tries to stay dry. She takes lazy drags on her cigarette and stares out at the rain, her thoughts turning to Kobol. To those hours, days, spent marching through a torrential downpour, stumbling across treacherous, rain-slicked terrain while Cylons stalked them, intent on their destruction.
Thinking on those days brings with it an odd melancholy, tinged with nostalgia and no small regret. At the time it had been terrifying. And yet…there’d also been a sense of hope, of expectation. No one knew if Roslin’s visions were true or if she was leading them on a fool’s errand that would ultimately lead them to their deaths. But underneath the fear and doubt there had been that mad glimmer of possibility, leading them on, lending them strength. In spite of it all, they’d done it; they’d found the map to Earth. Roslin had given them the key that would lead them to the fabled Thirteenth Colony, to their lost brethren.
Would lead them home.
And then they’d thrown it away and settled here on this barely habitable rock, forsaking the promise offered by the Gods. They’d broken faith and this is their due.
Perhaps this is exactly what they deserve, their bright shiny future rusting away beneath gunmetal skies and endless rain like tears.
With a final drag from her cigarette, Kara tosses it to the muddy ground and heads inside.
[][][]
She dashes through the entrance to Jake’s bar breathing hard. The running didn’t help much; she’s still soaked through in spite of her heavy jacket. She pushes back the hood and swipes wet tendrils away from her eyes and scans the bar looking for Sam.
She finds him almost immediately. He’s standing at the bar, his elbow perched on the countertop, a drink in his other hand. Right where she expects him to be. What she doesn’t expect, however, is to see Jean standing next to him, her body pressed close to his.
It’s easy enough to explain, of course. The bar is crowded, like always, and Sam’s occupying premium space. Kara’s been in enough crowded bars in her day to know the press and jostle of bodies as they jockey for room and access. Yet, there’s no mistaking the way their heads angle close, or the way Jean touches Sam’s arm or the way he laughs at some joke she’d just made.
Kara reminds herself that they’re friends, that they fought together side by side on Caprica. That kind of thing forges powerful ties of friendship between people.
And sometimes more than friendship, the treacherous voice whispers in the back of her mind. After all, isn’t that how you and Sam began?
She pushes that thought away. She trusts Sam and that’s all there is to it. Squaring her shoulders, she puts on her cockiest grin and saunters over to her husband.
Sam’s whole face lights up. “Hey! It’s about time! I thought maybe you’d fallen into a mud puddle and drowned.”
Kara chuckles, insinuating herself beneath Sam’s arm so she can press her body along his, letting the warmth of his body chase away the chill. “Got held up at work. But you don’t need to worry; I’m an excellent swimmer.”
Sam laughs, drawing her closer “Good to know.”
Kara looks over at Jean, her sweetest smile plastered on her face. “Hey, Jean. Thanks for keeping my husband company.” Kara lets the words hang, the implied dismissal unmistakable.
“Sure, Kara. No problem.” Jean’s smiling as well, but there’s a coolness to her tone and Kara can’t decide if Jean’s more annoyed by Kara’s arrival or her casual dismissal. She doesn’t actually care.
Jean’s smile warms as she looks at Sam. “I should go.”
Sam blinks. “Already? But you just got here.”
Jean shakes her head. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on you two love birds. I’ll see you guys later, all right?”
“Sure,” Sam says, brow wrinkling in confusion.
Finishing her drink, Jean, puts the glass on the counter and heads over to one of the nearby tables. Sam watches her go, then turns to look at Kara with a puzzled expression. She doesn’t give him a chance to ask the question she can see beginning to take shape in his eyes.
“So, what does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?” she asks with a wink. She slides her arm around Sam’s waist and smiles up at him.
Sam’s puzzlement gives way to wry amusement. He shakes his head laughing before signaling the bartender.
“A drink for my girl,” he yells.
Kara smiles in satisfaction.
[][][]
“Rumor has it that the President’s planning to extend the standard work day from twelve to thirteen hours.”
Kara nearly drops her fork at the Chief’s grim pronouncement. “You gotta be frakkin’ kidding me!”
Tyrol shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, the gesture momentarily dislodging the glasses he’s started wearing of late. “Wish I was. But housing’s becoming a serious problem and, like always, President Frakwit’s solution is to make everyone else work longer hours while he lives it up on Colonial One.”
She gives a disdainful snort. “Bastard just upped the work day to twelve hours not even two months ago. At this rate, we’ll be working round the clock by year’s end.”
“What about the union?” Sam asks. He gives Cally a smile, waving away her offer of seconds. He’s probably lost his appetite. Kara certainly has.
“We’re planning a rally in two days time for all the good it will do. The bastard doesn’t give a rat’s ass about us. And as for the Quorum,” Kara smiles wryly at the disdain in Tyrol’s voice, “talk about a bunch of pansy-assed wusses. As long as they’re not the ones sweating their asses off, they’re fine with it.”
And that, Kara knows, is the truth. She watches Cally lay her hand over her husband’s, twining their fingers together, offering her silent support.
“Maybe Zarek…” but even as the words leave her mouth she knows it’s pointless, sees the Chief shaking his head.
“For all his talk about freedom, he’s just as bad. Baltar might be president, but Zarek’s the one running the show. He’s not going to mess with that.”
Kara sighs. He’s right again. They’re like a bunch of frakking sheep, overworked, underfed and too exhausted most of the time to do anything but go along.
She wonders how she became one as well.
[][][]
On the day Hot Dog dies, Kara drinks herself insensate for the first time in months.
Kara can’t wrap her head around it. An accident. A stupid frakking accident. It isn’t right. That thought keeps echoing through her brain. The guy had spent six months flying a Viper in battle, six months of dodging Raiders and Cylon boarding parties and not a scratch on him. And then he goes and dies falling from the scaffolding at one of the construction sites. It wasn’t even that long a fall, maybe eight, ten feet, but he’d hit the ground at the wrong angle and snapped his neck. He’d been dead the moment of impact.
It isn’t right.
She rubs furiously at her eyes, refusing to cry and takes another pull straight from the bottle of ambrosia. She’d been saving it for their anniversary to celebrate, but she needs it more right now. Sam’ll understand.
She takes another drink, welcoming the burn.
Kara looks up to see Sam standing at the entrance of the tent, his hand fisting in the canvas flap.
“You heard,” is all he says. She nods and takes another drink.
Sam drops into the chair across from her and sighs, scrubbing wearily at his face. He looks haggard, Kara thinks, staring at him through the haze of alcohol. His face is lined with exhaustion, thinner and sharper than it had been when they’d first met on Caprica. And how frakked up is that, when a guy looked healthier living on a radioactive rock hiding from killer robots bent on his destruction than he does living in relative peace and domestic tranquility? He picks up the bottle and takes a drink of his own.
The silence stretches between them as they trade the bottle back and forth. Like the alcohol, Sam’s solid presence helps a little, but not enough. She’s not sure anything would be enough.
“He was one of my nuggets,” she blurts out, surprising them both. Sam looks up from the spot on the table he’d been staring at for the last few minutes and frowns.
“I’d trained him for Vipers. He’d been a Fleet Academy washout before it all went to crap and he was too cocky by half. I flunked him his first day.” She makes a choked sound that might be a laugh. “I flunked the whole class, actually.”
Sam nods, silently encouraging her to continue. “He got there eventually though. Proved to be a decent enough pilot once he shut the frak up and started paying attention. Still a little too cocky, but solid, ya know? You could count on him.”
Kara shakes her head and takes another drink. “He survived six months in the cockpit, survived everything the Cylons threw at him and then he goes and breaks his stupid frakking neck in a stupid frakking fall. It isn’t right.”
Her voice rises with each word until she’s almost screaming. She wipes angrily at her face and it’s only when she feels the dampness on her fingertips that she realizes she’s crying.
“It isn’t right,” she says again, her voice hoarse and thick with tears.
Sam’s on his feet and then he’s kneeling beside her, wrapping his arms around her. She tries to pull back, appalled at her own weakness, but for once Sam fights her. He hangs on, arms wrapped tightly around her until the fight drains out of her and she slumps against him, burying her face in his neck.
“It isn’t right,” she whispers against skin. She can feel Sam stroking her hair, whispering soothing bits of nonsense. It’s not enough, but it’ll do.
[][][]
“Anders!”
Kara turns off the blow torch in her hand and flips up the welding mask “Yeah?”
“We got a box of screws ready. You wanna take it over to Walker’s site?” Charlie asks.
It’s a foregone conclusion; Charlie knows she’s always happy for an excuse to pop by the construction site and say hi to Sam. It’s actually kind of sweet of him to give her first crack at deliveries. Underneath his gruff exterior, Charlie’s a ball of mush.
Kara grins, peeling off her mask and dropping it to the workbench. “Sure. No problem.” She grabs the box out of his arms.
“And try not to be all afternoon about it.” His voice is stern, but Kara can see his lips twitch with amusement.
She nods and heads out.
It isn’t far - practicality demands that the machine shop be near the biggest construction site - and Kara had chosen this job in large part because of the proximity to Sam. When she arrives, she scans the work crew looking for her husband’s face. She sees the Chief and gives him a nod, but there’s no sign of Sam anywhere.
“Whaddya got?”
Kara almost jumps at the voice. She hadn’t realized she’d been standing there very long.
“Screws,” she says, handing over the box. The foreman takes them with a grunt that might signify anything from ‘thank you’ to ‘it’s about frakkin’ time’ to ‘I’m constipated and need more fiber in my diet’.” For a moment Kara thinks about asking after Sam, but the foreman is glaring at her now, clearly wanting her to be off so he can get back to work. Kara nods curtly and leaves.
If anyone back at the shop notices the promptness of her return, they’re wise enough not to ask.
[][][]
“I didn’t see you on the site today.”
Fork halfway between the plate and his mouth, Sam stops and gives Kara a curious look. “What are you talking about?”
Kara winces inwardly. She hadn’t meant to say anything. They’d been having a perfectly pleasant dinner together, chatting about inconsequential things and the words just popped out. She shrugs, trying to act casual. “Nothing. Just…I had to drop off a delivery from the shop. I looked for you and you weren’t there.”
Sam’s frowning and Kara feels a twinge of something that might be guilt on top of embarrassment. “I had to go to the lumber yard with Alex and Steve to pick up more wood for the scaffolding.”
She nods. Of course. It makes perfect sense. Nothing going on.
Something must show on her face though, because Sam’s expression turns serious. “Where did you think I was?”
“Nowhere,” she answers, the word coming out sharp and quick. “It’s just…it was your shift and you weren’t there.”
Sam shrugs. “The foreman always has me running errands. I think he lost money betting against the C-Bucks in the last Colonial Cup Finals,” he adds, inviting her to laugh. When she doesn’t, the frown reappears in full force “You should have asked Tyrol. He could have told you where I was.”
She nods, irritated with herself for even bringing the subject up in the first place. She feels Sam’s eyes on her, studying her carefully. She gives him what she hopes is a convincing smile.
They finish dinner in silence.
Sam collects the plates and puts them in the basin of tepid water to soak. Kara feels his eyes on her, but she keeps her back to him.
“Ten Point wanted to get a game going after dinner,” he says.
Kara nods, but doesn’t look back. “Hmmm.”
“You wanna come?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head, hands slipping into the water. She begins to scrub furiously at the soup pot. “I’ve got stuff to do.”
There’s silence behind her. When she finally turns she sees Sam looking at her, his expression somber. She offers him a smile. “Go on, ya big lug. I can take it from here.”
Sam hesitates, but he acquiesces, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
She putters around the tent or a time, trying to keep busy. Noise from outside filters through the canvas walls, but inside the silence is oppressive. There’s nothing to distract her from the doubts that niggle at the back of her mind. Finally it’s too much.
Cursing under her breath, she grabs her coat and stalks from the tent, letting the canvas flap drop behind her.
She heads over to the pyramid court. She can hear the sound of cheers and laughter as she approaches, can see the small crowd of people gathered to watch the game. Her eyes skim over them searching for one face in particular, the only one that matters.
Stripped down to his tanks, Sam’s torso gleams with sweat as he moves across the court with liquid grace. He drives the ball home and smiles as Jake high fives him and Ten Point laughingly accuses him of cheating. They square up for the next round of play.
Kara seats herself on the bleachers they’d recently erected and watches the game wind down to its inevitable conclusion. She watches as they thump one another on the back, laughing in triumph, or commiserating in defeat as the crowd disperses and return to their homes and their lives. She watches as Sam grabs his coat and heads over where she’s still seated.
“Ready to go home?” he asks, with deceptive casualness.
Kara nods. She stands and when Sam slides his arm around her waist, she doesn’t pull away. She leans into his warmth and lets him take her home. No words are spoken but it’s enough. For now. She’s getting good at settling it seems.
[][][]
Kara hears Sam enter the tent and smiles. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she calls over her shoulder, frowning at the look on his face. “What’s wrong?” she asks, turning down the heat on the small camp stove.
“Some more tools have gone missing from the construction site. A couple of screw drivers, some wrenches, two welding torches, a pair of metal cutters…” He drops heavily into his chair, rolling his neck slowly.
Kara comes to stand behind him, rubbing the tense muscles. She’d not terribly surprised by his news. Petty theft is on the rise all across the settlement.
“Did you report it?” she asks, digging the heel of her hand more deeply into a particularly knotted muscle, feeling the lift of his shoulder as he shrugs.
“For what good it does. Tyrol and I went to see the President about trying to set up some security at the construction site. You can imagine his response.”
“Do it yourselves,” she mutters. That’s pretty much Baltar’s response to everything, or at least everything that requires even minimal effort on his part.
Sam nods.
The situation in the settlement is rapidly deteriorating. Two sacks of grain go missing from one of the storehouses; bits and pieces of personal property are vanishing from various tents with regularity. No one knows if it’s an individual or a gang behind the thefts, or if it’s even anything that organized. They have so little, but there are always people who want more than their fair share and don’t give a Gods damn about how many others they hurt in the process.
Even she and Sam are hit. She comes home one day after a long shift at the machine shop to find her idols missing. She sits on the bed and stares at the piece of dark fabric in which she kept them carefully wrapped, anger and sorrow and bewilderment rolling through her. She has so few personal possessions, so few material objects that truly matter to her. Her leather jacket, Zak’s ring, her dog tags and flight pin. Her father’s recording. Her idols. The value is more sentimental than anything. And yet someone broke into her home, rifled through her belongings and took something so personal and private, something she never shared or flaunted. It isn’t just a loss; it feels like a violation. She wonders who the thief is and why he, she, took them. To sell or trade on the black market? To use them in prayer? To melt them down for scrap metal? It could be any of those things and she doesn’t know which possibility appalls her more.
By the time Sam returns home, the fabric is tucked away. She never mentions the theft to Sam, sees no reason to worry him needlessly. He’s got enough to deal with as it is. She takes greater care to lock away everything of value in the beat-up foot locker they use as a bench. It won’t stop a determined thief, but it’s the best they have. If Sam notices Kara never holds her idols during morning prayer any more, he never says a word.
It only gets worse.
A week later she sees a crowd gathered outside the hospital tent. She pushes through the gawkers, past the guard - he’s a former marine from Galactica and one look at her face is enough to make him step aside; old habits really do die hard - and muscles her way inside. She finds Cottle sitting on a bed with a sour look on his face and towel pressed against the back of his head. Roslin is sitting next to him, talking softly.
“What happened?” Kara demands, as she heads over to Cottle.
Roslin looks up, her face grave. “Someone broke in last night, looking for drugs. The doctor walked in on them, but they knocked him out and ran.”
It’s only then that Kara sees the door to the supply cabinet hanging open. The lock lies mangled on the ground - the stolen metal cutters, she thinks - and there’s a few ampoules scattered around - some intact, others broken, their contents staining the wooden planks. The cabinet is empty.
Kara swears softly.
“It could have been worse,” Roslin continues. “If Doctor Cottle hadn’t arrived when he did, they might have emptied out all the cabinets.”
“I’m right here, you know,” Cottle grouses, winces. Concussion, Kara thinks.
Kara frowns, her gaze returning to the cabinet. They’re short of medical supplies as it is. If people start stealing them now, they won’t have them when they really need them.
“Do you have a list of the drugs that were stolen?”
Cottle glares at her, which Kara figures is a good sign. “Do I look like someone who doesn’t keep an inventory of his supplies?”
“Good,” she says. “I’ll be back.”
Roslin stands, resting her hand lightly on Kara’s arm. “What are you going to do?”
“What needs to be done.”
Kara storms out of the tent, glaring at anyone in her way. She’d be gratified by the speed with which people scurry out of her path if she weren’t so angry. She heads to the construction site - and how ironic is it that they’re building a hospital? - and scans the workers gathered there. Sam sees her, and waves. He’s smiling, but his expression sobers when he sees her face.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice hushed.
“Where’s Tyrol?”
“In the tent, going over plumbing. Why?”
“Come with me.” She doesn’t elaborate; no point in wasting time explaining the situation twice. Sam nods, falls into step beside her.
She finds Tyrol in deep discussion with a couple of workmen. Like Sam, his expression turns sober at once.
“What’s going on, Starbuck?”
She tells them. She keeps it short and to the point, a formal briefing. No place for emotions, no time for outbursts. Sam and the Chief are grim faced by the time she finishes her account.
“What do you suggest?” It’s Tyrol who poses the question; Sam’s already in, she knows that much.
“It’s time to get Baltar off his lazy ass and do something. You with me?”
The Chief nods. “I’m with you, sir.”
She almost smiles at Tyrol’s unconscious use of the honorific. Old habits. This time she doesn’t bother to correct him.
They manage to bully their way on to Colonial One, their sheer brazenness taking Baltar’s staff by surprise. They get as far as the door to the President’s office, however, before they’re stopped by Gaeta.
“We need to see the President,” Kara says curtly, without even the pretense of courtesy. She makes to shoulder past him and is surprised when Gaeta steps in front of her path, blocking her.
“You might want to speak with the Vice President Zarek,” he says in a soft voice. He shoots a meaningful glance from the door to Baltar’s office to another on the other side of the corridor. “I think he might be more …able to help you.”
Kara nods slowly, thanking Gaeta. As much as Kara hates going to Zarek hat in hand, she doesn’t really see much of a choice. At least he has some understanding of the situation.
They find Zarek seated at his desk, a stack of documents at his elbow. His face lights with an easy smile as he leans back in his seat, affable and assured. “Captain Thrace, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Kara feels herself stiffen even though she’d been expecting the dig. It’s hard not to rise to the bait. “It’s Mrs. Anders,” she replies coolly. “I’m not in the military anymore.”
Zarek nods and there’s a look of sympathy - or is it pity? - in his eyes. “Yes, of course. My apologies. What can I do for you?”
“There’s been another theft.”
“Oh?”
“Someone broke into the hospital tent and stole medicines.”
Zarek sits up, his air of amusement gone. “How much was stolen?”
“Enough.”
Zarek nods thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose so. What do you need?”
Kara can’t hide her surprise at Zarek’s reaction. Zarek’s smile turns wry. “Don’t look so shocked, Mrs. Anders. We’re on the same side here.”
She shifts awkwardly, uncertain whether to trust his good will, but knowing she has no choice. She feels Sam and the Chief moving closer, flanking her. Their presence reassures her.
“We need a police force. We need to stop this before it gets completely out of hand.
She watches as Zarek steeples his fingers. He looks up at her. “Agreed. There needs to be some kind of order.”
“So you’ll take care of this?”
He rises and shakes her hand. “You have my word, Mrs. Anders.”
Kara gives him a curt nod and departs, Sam and Tyrol on her wake. She smiles at Gaeta in passing, still not quite believing the ease with which she won Zarek’s agreement. Maybe things are looking up.
[][][]
Zarek’s as good as his word. Within a week, the first members of the New Caprican police force are in place, black arm bands on their sleeves denoting their authority. Their faces look familiar though she can’t put her finger on the reason. It’s only a few days later when she sees a man walking down the Promenade, a gun on his hip and a patch of black fabric on his arm that she puts a name to the face and it all clicks into place.
Grimes.
Of course. She should have known that Zarek would recruit his old friends, form his own goon squad with the Quorum’s blessing. She doesn’t know why she expected otherwise.
It’s funny, actually. It almost feels like she’s tumbled headfirst into some bizarre world in which everything’s turned on its head. A world in which the president is a mentally unstable genius, the vice president’s a terrorist and the police force is populated by ex-cons. A world in which Kara Thrace gives up flying to settle on ball of mud of her own free will and pretends to be happy.
It’s frakking hysterical.
Then why, she wonders, isn’t she laughing?
[][][]
The market is abuzz with gossip when Kara arrives.
“What’s the word, Ari?”
Ari leans forward, resting his forearms on the carte filled with used clothing. “ You mean you haven’t heard?”
“Hear what?”
“There were some military types down from ships last night. Apparently they knifed some poor slob. He never even saw it coming.”
Kara blinks, stunned. It couldn’t be. “Are you serious?”
Ari nods. “Dead serious. I heard it from Paul who got it from Roger. He wasn’t there, but his brother-in-law was and he swears there was a really ugly fight. There were a bunch of marines and they ganged up on this guy. When he tried to fight back, they stabbed him,” Ari adds looking far too pleased with himself given the grimness of the news.
Kara nods absently. As she continues her errands, Kara keeps half an ear open for information regarding the stabbing. It isn’t hard; it seems to be the sole topic of conversation. By the time she finishes, she’s managed to glean some details, though much of it is contradictory. They were from Pegasus, that much seems to be agreed upon, but anything else, from the number of participants to their branch of service remains in question.
As to the fight itself, no one seems to know much though the stories are all pretty fantastical. While she can believe such things could - and did - occur under Cain’s command, she knows things are different now. The Pegasus’ crew has settled down a lot under Lee’s leadership. He would never tolerate this kind of behavior and he certainly wouldn’t allow crew members who are prone to violence free reign on the planet’s surface. Whatever issues she might have with Lee personally, she knows with absolute certainty that he’s too conscientious for that. There has to be more to the story. So Kara listens.
It’s the whispers of “Gideon” that alarm her most, though. Even now, that incident looms large in the collective civilian memory, more so than she’d ever realized back when she’d still been serving. The President might have absolved Tigh of any wrongdoing, the press might have glossed over their events that occurred during his institution of martial law, but for the populace at large, those deaths are not forgiven or forgotten. There’s a deep well of hostility towards the military simmering just beneath the surface and this stabbing might well blow the lid clean off it.
Kara drops off her purchases then heads to work. Not surprisingly, the shop is buzzing with the story as well.
“Did you hear?” Mark asks, the moment he crosses the threshold. Voice dripping with venom, his face twists with rage. “Frakkin’ military! It’s bad enough they’re just sitting up there on their fat asses, livin’ large while we work our fingers to the bone. Now they’re trying to kill us!”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the group.
“It’s the Gideon all over again,” Jimmy chimes in. “They do whatever they frakkin’ please. I heard they stabbed the guy and then robbed him in full view of everybody.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Mark sneers. “They’ve always been like that. Even before we settled here, back when we were running from the Cylons. They always thought they were better than the rest of us. Hogged all the best food, the best medicine, the best of everything. They lived like the Gods while we wasted away.”
Kara frowns, remembering the unpalatable meals, short water rations, cramped quarters, the endless shifts and bone jarring exhaustion Things might have been a little better on Galactica than on some of the other ships, but it was hardly Olympus, no matter what the civilians think.
Jimmy’s nodding emphatically. “They always acted like they were special. Like flying a Viper made them important or something,” he says with a derogatory sniff. “If Adama were here right now I’d…”
That’s Kara’s limit. “You’d what?”
Jimmy blinks, clearly not expecting anyone to challenge his self-righteous tirade.
“I was military,” Kara says, voice low but unyielding. Her eyes sweep the group, daring them to say something. “Viper pilot. I risked my life every frakkin’ day and so did the rest of the crew and all to keep the rest of you alive. Before you bad mouth Adama and his people, I suggest you remember that.”
She glares at Jimmy, pleased to see the way he wilts under her baleful look. When she shifts her gaze she can’t help but notice that no on will meet her eyes.
Kara’s harangue ends the conversation cold. Deflated, her co-workers return to their stations, silent and sullen.
“It’s just talk, Kara,” Lynn says softly, coming to stand beside her. “The military is threatening to a lot of people. They’re just scared is all.”
“But why? I used to be military,” Kara says again.
“But you’re not anymore. You’re one of us now.”
Kara returns to her own station, Lynn’s final words playing over and over again in her mind.
But you’re not anymore. You’re one of us now.
She bends herself to her work and tries to ignore the ache in her chest at the stark truth that she’s been denying for so long. This time the Prodigal won’t be returning.
Part V