Life, for hearts_blood
Title: Life
Author: embolalia
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Six/Two
Word Count: 1,650
Summary: One Six’s journey through a life all her own.
Original Story: Before They Have Names by hearts_blood
A/N: Many thanks to sunshine_queen for betaing!
Response
Her mother smiles. You’re alive.
She doesn’t know yet about names, or numbers, or what the words mean. She knows that the smile feels good, that her own face twists in response and her mother’s eyes are bright.
She meets the others and they smile, too. The world is a warm place, a happy place.
He touches her face and sensation is a revelation. She reaches up, strokes her own cheek and flutters at the softness, nerves singing in pleasure.
He sighs watching her and she remembers his presence, wonders in a rush of surprise if he’s the same, so soft, so sensitive. She reaches out.
His chin isn’t soft but prickly. Foreign. His hand covers hers, his eyes wide.
The words come slowly, a language written in memories that belong to someone else. Touch is a clearer language, one they make up as they go along. He runs his tongue along the shell of her ear; she runs her fingernail lightly down his chest. His gasps and her moans are a story from beginning to end.
She can tell when he is troubled, but he has no words for what he sees. He holds her hand tightly then, lost in the stream. She rests her head on his shoulder, and kisses his cheek, and when he’s calm he whispers stories of the peace they will find at the end.
She sighs and her sigh means she still feels it around them.
Adaptation
She lets the Centurions go first, then steps out of the heavy raider and down the hall. Her steps echo. They have their tasks, their roles to play. They have words now, and clothes, and the trappings of humanity--but numbers instead of names. They are still machines.
Won’t they be able to tell? she asked him earlier as they wandered the wardrobe, finding the dress she’s wearing.
We look like them, he said, but he always had more of an answer if she waited. They see what they expect.
She could have simply sent the nuke from back on the baseship, but she wanted to see. A strange sort of pressure is building inside her: curiosity, anticipation. Something about the way his eyes lit up when she told him where she was being sent promises a revelation.
The human’s eyes widen in confusion as she approaches. Her gaze catches for just a moment on the photographs before him. It hits her with a wave of awe: here it is, the first living thing she’s ever met. And there is its child.
Are you alive? Her first words.
She kisses him and his lips are drier, different. The adrenaline is sharp on his tongue. They are both about to die.
She wakes feeling lost.
Metabolism
This one is young, she thinks, as she lifts the next body onto the unlit pyre. It still has little golden ringlets. It’s missing its legs. She nods to one of the others to light the flame and turns her eyes away, her chest strangely tight.
Across the field of bodies, a bird alights on an abandoned boot, whistling a little tune. A smile crosses her face, and she thinks of him. She heads toward it, and with a flash of brown and yellow it takes wing, lands in a tree. She cranes her neck, then laughs outright when it darts away again. Following its path, she heads into the woods.
The light around her is growing dim when she realizes suddenly that there’s an ache in her belly. She’s hungry. She stops, looking around. The bird is gone and there’s no path.
Through the trees is a cabin, and she moves toward it hesitantly. Surely the Centurions have gathered the bodies already, she tells herself, but still she feels anxious at the thought.
The house is empty. She opens a can of beans and eats them as quickly as she can, scooping them up with a spoon left to dry in a rack beside the sink. When her hunger has abated, she turns, begins to look around. There are photographs on the walls: a faded image of a wedding, then the same two people with children, with grandchildren. On the back of the couch is an afghan that’s been made by hand. She pulls it over herself and lays down to sleep as the sun sets.
The next day she moves through the house methodically, reading diaries and tax returns, examining the creases where Juliet, the woman who lived here, was near to wearing out her favorite shoes. Her husband Clark was already diagnosed with a fatal illness and in her letters to her sister Juliet confessed the strain of watching him deteriorate.
Their world is so complete around her that she begins to project without thinking, to imagine that one of them has just flushed the toilet upstairs or is puttering out in the garden. Until the food runs out, she thinks she might stay forever if only she could stop wanting to cry.
A week has passed when she staggers back out of the woods. Her sister smiles from across the field. The bodies are gone; the grass is coated in ashes. She doesn’t know what to say.
In her absence, they’ve made peace.
Homeostasis
She reminds him some days, when she doesn’t want to get out of bed, that he promised her peace when they reached their destination. He smiles with sad eyes and tells her it isn’t over yet.
The second time she dies, it’s at the hands of a teenage girl who dies herself while setting off the grenade. She wakes alone; too many Cylons are dying to keep up with greeting each one. It’s alright; they wouldn’t understand why she’s crying. Her hair is still wet as she makes her way back to the rubble-strewn clearing that used to be a guard tower.
The girl’s eyes are blankly open, and she kneels down as she reaches to close them. In the glimpse she got before the explosion, she thought it might be Juliet’s grand-daughter. She was wrong. Still, she sits with the child’s body until a man moves toward her, shouting and sobbing, and then she backs up and lets the man carry his daughter away.
In bed that night, she rests her head on his chest and lets him build another world around them, a world of bright forests and the sound of birds. She cries until she’s quiet and then its his turn, his sobs mixed with descriptions of the things he’s seen: an entire planet destroyed, void of life, every living thing on its surface silently screaming out all at once. She wraps the projection closer, strokes his hair until both their cheeks are dry.
They go on, day after day, losing equilibrium, bringing each other back to center. In the days before they leave, it begins to feel like a life.
Growth
On Earth, after the war and the war, her hair is long, falling all the way down her back in a matted wave. His skin is weathered, by weather this time.
They were separated when they left New Caprica, and the relief when she sees him, still alive in these days that are more uncertain than ever before, is so strong she feels like crying.
He strokes her cheek and she gasps at the memory. Those first days have been lost to them for so long. She smiles and curve of her chin fits into his palm. He holds her and it’s as much a revelation as it has ever been.
The others have spread out across the grasslands, building farms and schools and homes. They dig their foundation together in the middle of the woods. The dirt gets under her fingernails and they tear against jagged rock. There’s a bird’s nest in the crook of the tree that arches over where they’re digging, and she waits patiently for the eggs to hatch, for their air to explode with nothing more than whistling.
From time to time she makes her way into the settlement and looks around at her sisters. They all have names now, chosen or granted. They laugh and flirt and cry and gossip and no two are anything alike. She wonders if any of them have found peace yet.
When she asks him, he kisses her tenderly, passionately, lovingly. He doesn’t answer.
Procreation
He knows before she does, but she knows what it means.
The trees around their cabin seem to whisper with joy as she harvests in the garden. The nestlings are flying now, and they peck at the sunflower seeds she scatters on the path that leads from their front door down toward the town. The heat of the summer beats down on her as her body slowly grows, but there’s almost always a breeze. She doesn’t ask anymore what peace will feel like.
Her balance changes one day and she stumbles across the kitchen as he laughs at her, suddenly without her perfect grace. She moves toward him one delicate step at a time, then tickles him mercilessly, their child kicking merrily at the sound of their laughter. His stubble is rough beneath her fingertips, as familiar as her own smooth skin.
The birth, when it happens, is frightening and painful and the furthest thing she can imagine from her own. He wraps her in the warm blanket of his love, and her mother holds her hands, guiding her through the difficult labor.
When it’s over you won’t regret any of it, he promises in her ear, and she tries to nod.
She holds their daughter in her arms for the first time and her eyes fill with tears. Of course he’s always been right.
Ellen’s voice hovers beside her as she gazes down at the infant. You’re alive.
It’s like something out of a dream. Yes, she whispers. Yes.
Author: embolalia
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Six/Two
Word Count: 1,650
Summary: One Six’s journey through a life all her own.
Original Story: Before They Have Names by hearts_blood
A/N: Many thanks to sunshine_queen for betaing!
Response
Her mother smiles. You’re alive.
She doesn’t know yet about names, or numbers, or what the words mean. She knows that the smile feels good, that her own face twists in response and her mother’s eyes are bright.
She meets the others and they smile, too. The world is a warm place, a happy place.
He touches her face and sensation is a revelation. She reaches up, strokes her own cheek and flutters at the softness, nerves singing in pleasure.
He sighs watching her and she remembers his presence, wonders in a rush of surprise if he’s the same, so soft, so sensitive. She reaches out.
His chin isn’t soft but prickly. Foreign. His hand covers hers, his eyes wide.
The words come slowly, a language written in memories that belong to someone else. Touch is a clearer language, one they make up as they go along. He runs his tongue along the shell of her ear; she runs her fingernail lightly down his chest. His gasps and her moans are a story from beginning to end.
She can tell when he is troubled, but he has no words for what he sees. He holds her hand tightly then, lost in the stream. She rests her head on his shoulder, and kisses his cheek, and when he’s calm he whispers stories of the peace they will find at the end.
She sighs and her sigh means she still feels it around them.
Adaptation
She lets the Centurions go first, then steps out of the heavy raider and down the hall. Her steps echo. They have their tasks, their roles to play. They have words now, and clothes, and the trappings of humanity--but numbers instead of names. They are still machines.
Won’t they be able to tell? she asked him earlier as they wandered the wardrobe, finding the dress she’s wearing.
We look like them, he said, but he always had more of an answer if she waited. They see what they expect.
She could have simply sent the nuke from back on the baseship, but she wanted to see. A strange sort of pressure is building inside her: curiosity, anticipation. Something about the way his eyes lit up when she told him where she was being sent promises a revelation.
The human’s eyes widen in confusion as she approaches. Her gaze catches for just a moment on the photographs before him. It hits her with a wave of awe: here it is, the first living thing she’s ever met. And there is its child.
Are you alive? Her first words.
She kisses him and his lips are drier, different. The adrenaline is sharp on his tongue. They are both about to die.
She wakes feeling lost.
Metabolism
This one is young, she thinks, as she lifts the next body onto the unlit pyre. It still has little golden ringlets. It’s missing its legs. She nods to one of the others to light the flame and turns her eyes away, her chest strangely tight.
Across the field of bodies, a bird alights on an abandoned boot, whistling a little tune. A smile crosses her face, and she thinks of him. She heads toward it, and with a flash of brown and yellow it takes wing, lands in a tree. She cranes her neck, then laughs outright when it darts away again. Following its path, she heads into the woods.
The light around her is growing dim when she realizes suddenly that there’s an ache in her belly. She’s hungry. She stops, looking around. The bird is gone and there’s no path.
Through the trees is a cabin, and she moves toward it hesitantly. Surely the Centurions have gathered the bodies already, she tells herself, but still she feels anxious at the thought.
The house is empty. She opens a can of beans and eats them as quickly as she can, scooping them up with a spoon left to dry in a rack beside the sink. When her hunger has abated, she turns, begins to look around. There are photographs on the walls: a faded image of a wedding, then the same two people with children, with grandchildren. On the back of the couch is an afghan that’s been made by hand. She pulls it over herself and lays down to sleep as the sun sets.
The next day she moves through the house methodically, reading diaries and tax returns, examining the creases where Juliet, the woman who lived here, was near to wearing out her favorite shoes. Her husband Clark was already diagnosed with a fatal illness and in her letters to her sister Juliet confessed the strain of watching him deteriorate.
Their world is so complete around her that she begins to project without thinking, to imagine that one of them has just flushed the toilet upstairs or is puttering out in the garden. Until the food runs out, she thinks she might stay forever if only she could stop wanting to cry.
A week has passed when she staggers back out of the woods. Her sister smiles from across the field. The bodies are gone; the grass is coated in ashes. She doesn’t know what to say.
In her absence, they’ve made peace.
Homeostasis
She reminds him some days, when she doesn’t want to get out of bed, that he promised her peace when they reached their destination. He smiles with sad eyes and tells her it isn’t over yet.
The second time she dies, it’s at the hands of a teenage girl who dies herself while setting off the grenade. She wakes alone; too many Cylons are dying to keep up with greeting each one. It’s alright; they wouldn’t understand why she’s crying. Her hair is still wet as she makes her way back to the rubble-strewn clearing that used to be a guard tower.
The girl’s eyes are blankly open, and she kneels down as she reaches to close them. In the glimpse she got before the explosion, she thought it might be Juliet’s grand-daughter. She was wrong. Still, she sits with the child’s body until a man moves toward her, shouting and sobbing, and then she backs up and lets the man carry his daughter away.
In bed that night, she rests her head on his chest and lets him build another world around them, a world of bright forests and the sound of birds. She cries until she’s quiet and then its his turn, his sobs mixed with descriptions of the things he’s seen: an entire planet destroyed, void of life, every living thing on its surface silently screaming out all at once. She wraps the projection closer, strokes his hair until both their cheeks are dry.
They go on, day after day, losing equilibrium, bringing each other back to center. In the days before they leave, it begins to feel like a life.
Growth
On Earth, after the war and the war, her hair is long, falling all the way down her back in a matted wave. His skin is weathered, by weather this time.
They were separated when they left New Caprica, and the relief when she sees him, still alive in these days that are more uncertain than ever before, is so strong she feels like crying.
He strokes her cheek and she gasps at the memory. Those first days have been lost to them for so long. She smiles and curve of her chin fits into his palm. He holds her and it’s as much a revelation as it has ever been.
The others have spread out across the grasslands, building farms and schools and homes. They dig their foundation together in the middle of the woods. The dirt gets under her fingernails and they tear against jagged rock. There’s a bird’s nest in the crook of the tree that arches over where they’re digging, and she waits patiently for the eggs to hatch, for their air to explode with nothing more than whistling.
From time to time she makes her way into the settlement and looks around at her sisters. They all have names now, chosen or granted. They laugh and flirt and cry and gossip and no two are anything alike. She wonders if any of them have found peace yet.
When she asks him, he kisses her tenderly, passionately, lovingly. He doesn’t answer.
Procreation
He knows before she does, but she knows what it means.
The trees around their cabin seem to whisper with joy as she harvests in the garden. The nestlings are flying now, and they peck at the sunflower seeds she scatters on the path that leads from their front door down toward the town. The heat of the summer beats down on her as her body slowly grows, but there’s almost always a breeze. She doesn’t ask anymore what peace will feel like.
Her balance changes one day and she stumbles across the kitchen as he laughs at her, suddenly without her perfect grace. She moves toward him one delicate step at a time, then tickles him mercilessly, their child kicking merrily at the sound of their laughter. His stubble is rough beneath her fingertips, as familiar as her own smooth skin.
The birth, when it happens, is frightening and painful and the furthest thing she can imagine from her own. He wraps her in the warm blanket of his love, and her mother holds her hands, guiding her through the difficult labor.
When it’s over you won’t regret any of it, he promises in her ear, and she tries to nod.
She holds their daughter in her arms for the first time and her eyes fill with tears. Of course he’s always been right.
Ellen’s voice hovers beside her as she gazes down at the infant. You’re alive.
It’s like something out of a dream. Yes, she whispers. Yes.