Pentathlon Fic #1: Writer's Choice
Title: This Is My Rack
Pairing: Kara/Sam (Writer's choice)
Wordcount: 545
Summary: That awkward moment when Kara finds out they gave her rack away when she died.
As she walked away from the debrief, she wasn’t sure what she wanted more: a shower to wash all of the Demetrius stink of her, or to fall into her rack and not wake up for days. Laziness won out, and she went to the duty locker.
As she opened the hatch, she was flooded with a sense of relief she hadn’t even realized she need, a nostalgia. The last time she’d been here was before she’d been to Earth (not died, couldn’t have been died, no matter what everyone said): she’d wasted no time getting locked up in the brig as soon as she’d gotten back last. Everything seemed the same, table scattered with just the right amount of clutter to stay under reg violations, the gentle drone of Costanza’s snoring, the smell of boots and Viper smocks worn far too long and washed far too little.
The path to her rack was almost instinctual, ground she’d walked a thousand times at least, and that’s why it was such an affront when she opened her locker to throw in her gear and realized that the stuff inside was different. Shaving cream and razors, a man’s duty kit, right at her eye level.
Of course.
Of course. They’d all thought she’d been gone for so long (hours, it’d been hours). Of course they’d given her away her rack to someone else, some nugget. What did she think, they’d keep it as a memorial?
But then she realized some of the stuff was actually hers. The picture of her and Zak and Lee, wedged right where it’d always been. A box of cigars. Some of her clothes.
She lifted the tags hanging on the hook, and it all made sense. S. Anders ser 137673.
She stood there for several long moments, being frozen the only alternative to fleeing. And then there was a stirring from inside the rack, a rustle as the curtain was pulled slightly aside. “Kara?” Sam asked, his voice rough from sleeping.
“Sam,” she said. “This is my rack.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew they were the wrong ones to say, but they were all she had.
He drew himself up, swinging his feet onto the floor. “I don’t want to fight,” he said by way of explanation. “Not tonight. I’ll go sleep in Jean’s.” His eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, and for the first time Kara remembered he’d lost his best friend mere hours (only hours? Now that was something that felt like months) ago.
“You should stay,” she told him.
“What about you?” he asked. He’d left his own dogtags on the hook, but he was wearing hers on the leather string, the tag shiny against the bare skin of his chest. She didn’t answer him with words, just started unlacing her boots. “Okay,” he said, lying back down on the bed.
She settled in beside him. Neither of them asked what now. He was her husband and she was his wife, and it was strangely fitting that this bed did, in some way, belong to both of them. He smelled like a hot shower, and now she regretted not taking one. But he drew her in close anyway, and they fell asleep.
Pairing: Kara/Sam (Writer's choice)
Wordcount: 545
Summary: That awkward moment when Kara finds out they gave her rack away when she died.
As she walked away from the debrief, she wasn’t sure what she wanted more: a shower to wash all of the Demetrius stink of her, or to fall into her rack and not wake up for days. Laziness won out, and she went to the duty locker.
As she opened the hatch, she was flooded with a sense of relief she hadn’t even realized she need, a nostalgia. The last time she’d been here was before she’d been to Earth (not died, couldn’t have been died, no matter what everyone said): she’d wasted no time getting locked up in the brig as soon as she’d gotten back last. Everything seemed the same, table scattered with just the right amount of clutter to stay under reg violations, the gentle drone of Costanza’s snoring, the smell of boots and Viper smocks worn far too long and washed far too little.
The path to her rack was almost instinctual, ground she’d walked a thousand times at least, and that’s why it was such an affront when she opened her locker to throw in her gear and realized that the stuff inside was different. Shaving cream and razors, a man’s duty kit, right at her eye level.
Of course.
Of course. They’d all thought she’d been gone for so long (hours, it’d been hours). Of course they’d given her away her rack to someone else, some nugget. What did she think, they’d keep it as a memorial?
But then she realized some of the stuff was actually hers. The picture of her and Zak and Lee, wedged right where it’d always been. A box of cigars. Some of her clothes.
She lifted the tags hanging on the hook, and it all made sense. S. Anders ser 137673.
She stood there for several long moments, being frozen the only alternative to fleeing. And then there was a stirring from inside the rack, a rustle as the curtain was pulled slightly aside. “Kara?” Sam asked, his voice rough from sleeping.
“Sam,” she said. “This is my rack.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew they were the wrong ones to say, but they were all she had.
He drew himself up, swinging his feet onto the floor. “I don’t want to fight,” he said by way of explanation. “Not tonight. I’ll go sleep in Jean’s.” His eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, and for the first time Kara remembered he’d lost his best friend mere hours (only hours? Now that was something that felt like months) ago.
“You should stay,” she told him.
“What about you?” he asked. He’d left his own dogtags on the hook, but he was wearing hers on the leather string, the tag shiny against the bare skin of his chest. She didn’t answer him with words, just started unlacing her boots. “Okay,” he said, lying back down on the bed.
She settled in beside him. Neither of them asked what now. He was her husband and she was his wife, and it was strangely fitting that this bed did, in some way, belong to both of them. He smelled like a hot shower, and now she regretted not taking one. But he drew her in close anyway, and they fell asleep.