Pokerface, Apollo&Anders (gen) PG-13
For medie's "Kissing a Fool" comment!fic Challenge which can be found here
Title: Poker face
Pairing: Apollo/Anders (non-slashy)
Spoilers: Season 3.16, "The Son Also Rises"
Rating: PG-13 (drunkenness, man-pain)
Summary: Originally a commentfic for the "Kissing a Fool challenge" but I've edited it a bit more. Lee discovers that while he is no longer Starbuck's keeper, it's assumed he's the one responsible for handling the legacy she left behind.
"Uhm, Major Adama, sir?" Constanza couldn't quite meet his eyes when he found Lee in the CAG office facing stacks of untouched forms and evaluations, a capped pen in his hand and the look of someone who had just forgotten what he was going to say next.
Decorum called, and Lee roused. The accepted time for mourning a lost comrade had long since passed. His pilots watched him out of the corners of their eyes these days and held their breath when he spoke.
"Yes, Hotdog? What is it?" Lee didn't expect his voice to sound so dry and brittle. Constanza shuffled awkwardly in his place, trying to fit his statement to the meaning.
"It's Starb-." Lee's sudden attention was a whip smack, and the pilot paused. Rephrased. "Sam Anders is in the rec room, sir." Constanza met Lee's eyes finally. Lee nodded, resigned, and rose from his chair. Turning quickly away from the hatch, Hotdog made his way to livelier gatherings.
.......
The rec room was all but empty when Lee arrived, the grey walls festooned with icons left behind, though few left remembered why they were there originally. This was a place of comfort, the smoky walls and alcohol shutting out the blackness of space, creating the illusion that some things were sacred. Protected. Unchangeable. Lee never went there anymore.
Sam Anders sat slumped in a chair, alone at the table in the middle of the room. Starbuck's triad table.
Sam chuckled without looking up from the Top Gun mug he was mulling around on the table top. "Hi Lee! Hi, my man Leeee Adama..." Sam's drunken drawl contained a manic lightness that was at odds with the slump of his shoulders and the shadows under his eyes.
"Hey Sam." Lee shifted his weight on his feet as though adjusting a new and unaccustomed burden. "Looks like the party's over, buddy."
Sam was in his own world, eyes still glued to that damn mug, chuckling roughly.
"Seems I know how to clear a room."
It's a few paces to Sam's side at the table and the atmosphere in the place is suddenly too dense, or the gravity too high, because Lee can feel his bones being ground down. Sam was beyond drunk, his hands twitched spasticly on the empty mug, fumbling with it. Lee could tell he wanted to talk when Sam suddenly swiveled his head to peer into Lee's face beseechingly.
The smile was painful, and he couldn't make it reach his eyes, but it's what Sam needed. "Yeah?"
Sam's head rolled on his shoulders, eyes glazed. "'t 'twas 'er mug. They told me."
As if to further explain his point, he tried to focus on Lee's eyes. Thrust the mug in front of Lee. The Skull and crossbones on the Mug stared accusingly back at him with their black, empty sockets. Top Gun. He shouldn't have insisted she could keep it. But he did. He wanted them, her, to be fine, like they had been before....
Lee hauled a chair next to Sam and sat down, made sure his expression was expectant. Supportive.
"Gods, I love her." Sam was crying. Great, uncontrolled, gasping sobs that wracked his athlete's body, which tilted and slid, the limits of the chair unrecognized. Lee was out of his chair to catch Sam as he fell, but the man had 5 inches and 40 pounds on him, so all he managed was an awkward, controlled shift to the floor. Lee's knees hit the deck and Sam slumped, wretched in his arms.
"I know buddy. I know." Is all he could think to say, voice detatched, distant and as soothing as it should be. Sam mumbled a lost reply, his face in Lee's chest; cheeks mashed against his tanks.
Clutching at Lee like a drowning man, all pretense at coping forgotten, Sam succumbed to his pain while Lee held fast in his resolve. Face disconcertingly placid, eyes staring unfocused back at the the skull on the Top Gun mug, he smoothed his hands over shaking shoulders and through Sam's hair like his mother did for him-in another life. The movements were timeless, instinctive comfort and when Sam passed out, exhausted beyond his limits, Lee pressed his lips to Sam's brow once and continued to hold him tight for a while longer.
The testament to Kara was tangible in his grasp, the missing described by the shape of the loss. He hungered but could never own it.
Title: Poker face
Pairing: Apollo/Anders (non-slashy)
Spoilers: Season 3.16, "The Son Also Rises"
Rating: PG-13 (drunkenness, man-pain)
Summary: Originally a commentfic for the "Kissing a Fool challenge" but I've edited it a bit more. Lee discovers that while he is no longer Starbuck's keeper, it's assumed he's the one responsible for handling the legacy she left behind.
"Uhm, Major Adama, sir?" Constanza couldn't quite meet his eyes when he found Lee in the CAG office facing stacks of untouched forms and evaluations, a capped pen in his hand and the look of someone who had just forgotten what he was going to say next.
Decorum called, and Lee roused. The accepted time for mourning a lost comrade had long since passed. His pilots watched him out of the corners of their eyes these days and held their breath when he spoke.
"Yes, Hotdog? What is it?" Lee didn't expect his voice to sound so dry and brittle. Constanza shuffled awkwardly in his place, trying to fit his statement to the meaning.
"It's Starb-." Lee's sudden attention was a whip smack, and the pilot paused. Rephrased. "Sam Anders is in the rec room, sir." Constanza met Lee's eyes finally. Lee nodded, resigned, and rose from his chair. Turning quickly away from the hatch, Hotdog made his way to livelier gatherings.
.......
The rec room was all but empty when Lee arrived, the grey walls festooned with icons left behind, though few left remembered why they were there originally. This was a place of comfort, the smoky walls and alcohol shutting out the blackness of space, creating the illusion that some things were sacred. Protected. Unchangeable. Lee never went there anymore.
Sam Anders sat slumped in a chair, alone at the table in the middle of the room. Starbuck's triad table.
Sam chuckled without looking up from the Top Gun mug he was mulling around on the table top. "Hi Lee! Hi, my man Leeee Adama..." Sam's drunken drawl contained a manic lightness that was at odds with the slump of his shoulders and the shadows under his eyes.
"Hey Sam." Lee shifted his weight on his feet as though adjusting a new and unaccustomed burden. "Looks like the party's over, buddy."
Sam was in his own world, eyes still glued to that damn mug, chuckling roughly.
"Seems I know how to clear a room."
It's a few paces to Sam's side at the table and the atmosphere in the place is suddenly too dense, or the gravity too high, because Lee can feel his bones being ground down. Sam was beyond drunk, his hands twitched spasticly on the empty mug, fumbling with it. Lee could tell he wanted to talk when Sam suddenly swiveled his head to peer into Lee's face beseechingly.
The smile was painful, and he couldn't make it reach his eyes, but it's what Sam needed. "Yeah?"
Sam's head rolled on his shoulders, eyes glazed. "'t 'twas 'er mug. They told me."
As if to further explain his point, he tried to focus on Lee's eyes. Thrust the mug in front of Lee. The Skull and crossbones on the Mug stared accusingly back at him with their black, empty sockets. Top Gun. He shouldn't have insisted she could keep it. But he did. He wanted them, her, to be fine, like they had been before....
Lee hauled a chair next to Sam and sat down, made sure his expression was expectant. Supportive.
"Gods, I love her." Sam was crying. Great, uncontrolled, gasping sobs that wracked his athlete's body, which tilted and slid, the limits of the chair unrecognized. Lee was out of his chair to catch Sam as he fell, but the man had 5 inches and 40 pounds on him, so all he managed was an awkward, controlled shift to the floor. Lee's knees hit the deck and Sam slumped, wretched in his arms.
"I know buddy. I know." Is all he could think to say, voice detatched, distant and as soothing as it should be. Sam mumbled a lost reply, his face in Lee's chest; cheeks mashed against his tanks.
Clutching at Lee like a drowning man, all pretense at coping forgotten, Sam succumbed to his pain while Lee held fast in his resolve. Face disconcertingly placid, eyes staring unfocused back at the the skull on the Top Gun mug, he smoothed his hands over shaking shoulders and through Sam's hair like his mother did for him-in another life. The movements were timeless, instinctive comfort and when Sam passed out, exhausted beyond his limits, Lee pressed his lips to Sam's brow once and continued to hold him tight for a while longer.
The testament to Kara was tangible in his grasp, the missing described by the shape of the loss. He hungered but could never own it.