my best girl
I made it this time! :)
Title: My Best Girl
Author: chanter
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (the newer one)
Rating: pg13 for intimate references though nothing explicit
Pairings: Kelly-Cally (that’s fun to say!)
Spoilers from Bastille Day up to the present
Summary: "I breathe it in whenever I can, and all the while I'm screaming to someday breathe it out in your curls."
438 words
Cally... I say it over and over now, I said it over and over then. Into my pillow at night, leaning out a random hatch to a random corridor, in the space between the sound of boots on floors, in the taut-strung anticipation at the moment of a jump and I wish I didn’t have to... have to think of discreet places to secret your name away.
I breathe it in, running here-there-somewhere, breathe in five and fourteen and twenty, the girl with all the chapters of her life running together, one never quite closed as the next one opens. I breathe it out whenever I can, hidden in corners, leaning in lockers, beneath the sound of running water, over and under, anywhere and everywhere and all the time I’m yearning, I’m aching, I’m the one anticipating, I’m screaming to breathe it out buried in your curls.
Cally I’ll keep watch for you. I’ll be lookout at the galley door when it’s midnight and you’re desperate and you’re covered from the tips of those nimble little fingers to the hem of that dusty apron in flour and sugar smudges those rosy cheeks, freckles on freckles and you’ve never looked more beautiful. I’ll wear an apron if you ask me to, even if you don’t--I’ll risk capture and trouble and fire and anything else for the chance to giggle and regress to a childhood you’ve never quite left and say that I, the great military officer, made clandestine cookies last night.
Cally I’ll guard your dreams at night, I’ll handle tangled sheets and jangling alarms and the fact that nothing is private, nothing is sacred, nothing is scripture anymore and still we find somewhere to relish the feel of cotton on flesh, hiding ourselves from view as I lace my fingers in your hair. And if you want to lead go ahead and lead, if it means no nightmares, no memories, nothing shattering us both at three in the morning I’ll do anything, anything.
Cally I’ll take it all, flour on your face, oil and dirt under your fingernails, little white flowers in your curls and tools in the pockets of your uniform. Whatever, wherever, cookies and teddybears, strong ambrosia and mythological scrolls and only the gods know how to reconcile the two, or the three, or a missing ear, a gunshot blast, a child and an adult. Cally I’ll adore you, I do already, five and fourteen and twenty--everybody’s underestimated best girl. The one I daydream about being my best girl. Just like I'm everybody's unsung man. Cally... Cally, I will never call you specialist. Never.
Title: My Best Girl
Author: chanter
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (the newer one)
Rating: pg13 for intimate references though nothing explicit
Pairings: Kelly-Cally (that’s fun to say!)
Spoilers from Bastille Day up to the present
Summary: "I breathe it in whenever I can, and all the while I'm screaming to someday breathe it out in your curls."
438 words
Cally... I say it over and over now, I said it over and over then. Into my pillow at night, leaning out a random hatch to a random corridor, in the space between the sound of boots on floors, in the taut-strung anticipation at the moment of a jump and I wish I didn’t have to... have to think of discreet places to secret your name away.
I breathe it in, running here-there-somewhere, breathe in five and fourteen and twenty, the girl with all the chapters of her life running together, one never quite closed as the next one opens. I breathe it out whenever I can, hidden in corners, leaning in lockers, beneath the sound of running water, over and under, anywhere and everywhere and all the time I’m yearning, I’m aching, I’m the one anticipating, I’m screaming to breathe it out buried in your curls.
Cally I’ll keep watch for you. I’ll be lookout at the galley door when it’s midnight and you’re desperate and you’re covered from the tips of those nimble little fingers to the hem of that dusty apron in flour and sugar smudges those rosy cheeks, freckles on freckles and you’ve never looked more beautiful. I’ll wear an apron if you ask me to, even if you don’t--I’ll risk capture and trouble and fire and anything else for the chance to giggle and regress to a childhood you’ve never quite left and say that I, the great military officer, made clandestine cookies last night.
Cally I’ll guard your dreams at night, I’ll handle tangled sheets and jangling alarms and the fact that nothing is private, nothing is sacred, nothing is scripture anymore and still we find somewhere to relish the feel of cotton on flesh, hiding ourselves from view as I lace my fingers in your hair. And if you want to lead go ahead and lead, if it means no nightmares, no memories, nothing shattering us both at three in the morning I’ll do anything, anything.
Cally I’ll take it all, flour on your face, oil and dirt under your fingernails, little white flowers in your curls and tools in the pockets of your uniform. Whatever, wherever, cookies and teddybears, strong ambrosia and mythological scrolls and only the gods know how to reconcile the two, or the three, or a missing ear, a gunshot blast, a child and an adult. Cally I’ll adore you, I do already, five and fourteen and twenty--everybody’s underestimated best girl. The one I daydream about being my best girl. Just like I'm everybody's unsung man. Cally... Cally, I will never call you specialist. Never.