Fic: Fifty Ways To Leave Your Lover
Title: Fifty Ways To Leave Your Lover
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Characters: Saul Tigh, mostly. Some others mentioned throughout.
Pairings: None, really.
Rating: R for melancholia and the occasional swear, I suppose.
Word Count: 1516.
Summary: Saul Tigh contemplates death.
Spoilers: Hmm. It's after Torn and before Maelstrom in season 3.
Disclaimers: None of these folks are mine, they belong to Moore and Eick. K? K.
A/N: Mad love to leiascully for beta work and angiescully for being a dear and encouraging me to post this. Written for karaokegal's Come As You're Not party.
Why it's a costume: I've never done anything like this before, and by that I mean, I haven't posted fic I've written on my own. So, here's to me not failing in a particularly public way! So say we all. Happy Halloween!
The XO squinted once more at his reflection in the mirror. It would do, he supposed. He reached up to adjust the eye-patch, a little more uncomfortable than he had imagined he would be, but then, he thought blearily, that is why the gods invented alcohol.
The gods. He snorted derisively and reached behind him for the half-empty bottle of ambrosia.
The barest hint of liquor had brushed his lips when he remembered the last time he had opened this particular bottle. She had been here, in this room, laughing, blonde curls caressing her face with a gentleness that he had never mastered and never would.
Ellen.
Oh, gods, he thought, miserably, and set the bottle on the counter. The glass clanged emphatically when it came into contact with the metal of the counter, and it was so jarring that he took an involuntary step back, away from the mirror, away from the alcohol. He shook his head violently, wishing she would just be gone, wishing she would just be here, and all of that frakkin' wishing just made him feel like he was about to hit the hard deck and depressurize into nothing.
That wouldn't be hard to do. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought about it. If there were fifty ways to leave your lover, there had to be at least three times as many ways to die aboard a Battlestar, and none of them as frakkin' slow as death by drinking. How long would that take? He had no idea. He'd had a flask in his hand or a bottle to his lips for so long now that he wasn't even sure the alcohol would do the job.
Airlock. That was always the first one, the easy one, the one that would never look like an accident. No, that wouldn't do. Loose missile. But the crew would be in danger, hell, maybe the entire fleet, and he had enough on his conscience. He had her. She was enough, godsdammit.
He reached back out for the bottle, turning it this way, that way, watching the liquid shift with the motion. The memories of her seemed to shift with it, and he found that the visions of her death were less painful to him than the memories of her, vibrant and alive and dancing just out of his reach. He would rather not consider those feelings, because her death had been the only thing about her that he had ever been able to control.
Death. That would always be something he could control. He was the XO. He had ordered hundreds of men and women to their deaths and destroyed at least as many Cylons, just by following similar orders. Why was it possible that he could so casually deal death out to everyone, even to her, by the gods, but he could not give it to himself?
Weapons misfire. Possible, he considered, except that it hardly looked like a misfire when you held the gun to your own head and pulled the trigger.
"Frak," he muttered, sinking down onto his bunk. This was useless. Thinking was useless, talking was useless. Action was the only thing that ever meant anything in this post-apocalyptic, post-Ellen world. "That's why," he said, gripping the bottle tightly and tipping it up before she could stop him.
The liquor trickled down his throat, warm on his tongue like she always was, and godsdammit if she wasn't back again, and this wasn't frakking working like it used to. He hurled the bottle across the room, heard it smash against the wall, and the resulting crash was the first satisfying thing he had heard in weeks. Still, that wasn't a solution, he reminded himself. If he kept that up, he'd still be here, he'd still have to endure, and without any of this so-called liquid courage to help him on.
Courage. He snorted again. Courage. He shouldn't even be allowed to so much as think the word, he thought, all the bitterness in his body rising up and threatening to choke the life right out of him. He welcomed it, hoped it would finally just take him, because for all his plotting and planning on New Caprica, all the suicide bombers he had urged on, all the things he had faced in this war and the last, he was still a frakkin' coward. If anyone needed proof, he had it. He was the proof. He was still alive and he didn't have the courage to just stop. Fifty ways, he thought again.
Maybe, just maybe, he could finally make Starbuck angry enough to do it for him.
The thought cheered him considerably, and he cackled. He couldn't help it. He wondered if she would actually beat him to death with her fists or just shoot him in the head like the old dog he was. Either way, he'd be dead and she'd be in hack for good. He grinned like a fool and hugged himself, chuckling madly. After a moment he stood up, still turning the idea over and over in his head, holding it close like he wanted to hold Ellen, like he still held Ellen when it was late and he was off duty and the night just wouldn't end.
Time to get this over with. He nodded to himself, then grunted and reached for another bottle of liquor. The hard stuff this time, the stuff that Tyrol and his deck gang were still making, the stuff that could probably fuel a Viper, it was so frakkin' toxic. "Perfect," he mumbled, taking a swig and tottering out the door. He hobbled in the general direction of the mess.
The mess was a madhouse of noise and activity, and it took him a moment to get his bearings. He had to close his eyes-- eye, he reminded himself bitterly-- against the whirl of the crowd and grab the bulkhead to steady himself. It looked like the entire ship was crammed into the tiny room: Lee, one arm slung haphazardly around Dee, there was the Chief, and Cally, Seelix, Racetrack, Figurski, Helo and his bitch-machine of a wife, hell, even Bill was there, off in one corner, pretending to be involved in a very serious conversation with Cottle. They all looked entirely opposite everything he was feeling. He cleared his throat and unscrewed the bottle. Stupid frakkin' holiday, he thought. Even Ellen had hated this one. But Ellen...he smiled in spite of himself. Hell, she had always loved a good party, even if it required costumes.
"Colonel!" It was Kara, as the gods would have it. She was wading through the throng, laughing and holding an empty glass out toward him. "Didn't expect to see you here, Colonel. You lose a bet or something?"
"Very funny, Starbuck," he growled, tipping just enough liquor into her glass to placate her. She looked happy, he observed, and though he wanted to hate her for it, he just couldn't muster the energy. Maybe tonight wasn't that night. And then, the old man would never forgive him, and for some reason, that still mattered. He guzzled some more from his bottle and grimaced.
"Well, it wouldn't be like you to miss a party where there's booze, huh?" She downed her drink and winced. "Frak me," Kara wheezed, laughing. "You still drinking Tyrol's liquid tylium ore? Hey, Chief!" She turned and yelled over her shoulder. "Get our pirate here some of the good stuff!"
The XO took another drink and resisted the urge to roll his good eye. Starbuck reached over and liberated the bottle from his hand, shoving it into the hands of some passing nugget. She pressed a flagon of fragrant Aerelon whiskey into his outstretched hand. "Drink up, XO," she grinned, holding up her own glass in mock salute.
He looked past Kara and surveyed the room. She wasn't the only one who looked happy, godsdammit. They all did. Bunch of children, he thought, all clamoring for tricks and treats and alcohol. The scene seemed to slow as he watched them all. Lee in a suit and tie, laughing at Helo in a lab coat and scrubs. Hot Dog and Narcho in foil hats and matching shirts that said "Cylon Model #AWESOME." And Kara, in front of him, dressed like-- well, wonders never ceased. She looked like Roslin, of all things. Those glasses, pinstripes, and a wig. He shook his head, careful not to disengage his huge tricorner hat as he did so.
"Colonel?" Kara's smile faded. She lowered her glass and leaned over, speaking so that only he could hear. "Sir. The Day of the Dead is tomorrow, sir." Her eyebrows twitched over the rims of her borrowed specs.
He blinked. She was right, he thought. Death would wait.
"You got any prophecies to go with that outfit, Starbuck?" he asked as he raised his glass to hers.
She gave a short bark of laughter. "It's gonna be a bitchin' All Hallows' Eve, sir," she answered. "And I think you're gonna win the costume contest."
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Characters: Saul Tigh, mostly. Some others mentioned throughout.
Pairings: None, really.
Rating: R for melancholia and the occasional swear, I suppose.
Word Count: 1516.
Summary: Saul Tigh contemplates death.
Spoilers: Hmm. It's after Torn and before Maelstrom in season 3.
Disclaimers: None of these folks are mine, they belong to Moore and Eick. K? K.
A/N: Mad love to leiascully for beta work and angiescully for being a dear and encouraging me to post this. Written for karaokegal's Come As You're Not party.
Why it's a costume: I've never done anything like this before, and by that I mean, I haven't posted fic I've written on my own. So, here's to me not failing in a particularly public way! So say we all. Happy Halloween!
The XO squinted once more at his reflection in the mirror. It would do, he supposed. He reached up to adjust the eye-patch, a little more uncomfortable than he had imagined he would be, but then, he thought blearily, that is why the gods invented alcohol.
The gods. He snorted derisively and reached behind him for the half-empty bottle of ambrosia.
The barest hint of liquor had brushed his lips when he remembered the last time he had opened this particular bottle. She had been here, in this room, laughing, blonde curls caressing her face with a gentleness that he had never mastered and never would.
Ellen.
Oh, gods, he thought, miserably, and set the bottle on the counter. The glass clanged emphatically when it came into contact with the metal of the counter, and it was so jarring that he took an involuntary step back, away from the mirror, away from the alcohol. He shook his head violently, wishing she would just be gone, wishing she would just be here, and all of that frakkin' wishing just made him feel like he was about to hit the hard deck and depressurize into nothing.
That wouldn't be hard to do. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought about it. If there were fifty ways to leave your lover, there had to be at least three times as many ways to die aboard a Battlestar, and none of them as frakkin' slow as death by drinking. How long would that take? He had no idea. He'd had a flask in his hand or a bottle to his lips for so long now that he wasn't even sure the alcohol would do the job.
Airlock. That was always the first one, the easy one, the one that would never look like an accident. No, that wouldn't do. Loose missile. But the crew would be in danger, hell, maybe the entire fleet, and he had enough on his conscience. He had her. She was enough, godsdammit.
He reached back out for the bottle, turning it this way, that way, watching the liquid shift with the motion. The memories of her seemed to shift with it, and he found that the visions of her death were less painful to him than the memories of her, vibrant and alive and dancing just out of his reach. He would rather not consider those feelings, because her death had been the only thing about her that he had ever been able to control.
Death. That would always be something he could control. He was the XO. He had ordered hundreds of men and women to their deaths and destroyed at least as many Cylons, just by following similar orders. Why was it possible that he could so casually deal death out to everyone, even to her, by the gods, but he could not give it to himself?
Weapons misfire. Possible, he considered, except that it hardly looked like a misfire when you held the gun to your own head and pulled the trigger.
"Frak," he muttered, sinking down onto his bunk. This was useless. Thinking was useless, talking was useless. Action was the only thing that ever meant anything in this post-apocalyptic, post-Ellen world. "That's why," he said, gripping the bottle tightly and tipping it up before she could stop him.
The liquor trickled down his throat, warm on his tongue like she always was, and godsdammit if she wasn't back again, and this wasn't frakking working like it used to. He hurled the bottle across the room, heard it smash against the wall, and the resulting crash was the first satisfying thing he had heard in weeks. Still, that wasn't a solution, he reminded himself. If he kept that up, he'd still be here, he'd still have to endure, and without any of this so-called liquid courage to help him on.
Courage. He snorted again. Courage. He shouldn't even be allowed to so much as think the word, he thought, all the bitterness in his body rising up and threatening to choke the life right out of him. He welcomed it, hoped it would finally just take him, because for all his plotting and planning on New Caprica, all the suicide bombers he had urged on, all the things he had faced in this war and the last, he was still a frakkin' coward. If anyone needed proof, he had it. He was the proof. He was still alive and he didn't have the courage to just stop. Fifty ways, he thought again.
Maybe, just maybe, he could finally make Starbuck angry enough to do it for him.
The thought cheered him considerably, and he cackled. He couldn't help it. He wondered if she would actually beat him to death with her fists or just shoot him in the head like the old dog he was. Either way, he'd be dead and she'd be in hack for good. He grinned like a fool and hugged himself, chuckling madly. After a moment he stood up, still turning the idea over and over in his head, holding it close like he wanted to hold Ellen, like he still held Ellen when it was late and he was off duty and the night just wouldn't end.
Time to get this over with. He nodded to himself, then grunted and reached for another bottle of liquor. The hard stuff this time, the stuff that Tyrol and his deck gang were still making, the stuff that could probably fuel a Viper, it was so frakkin' toxic. "Perfect," he mumbled, taking a swig and tottering out the door. He hobbled in the general direction of the mess.
The mess was a madhouse of noise and activity, and it took him a moment to get his bearings. He had to close his eyes-- eye, he reminded himself bitterly-- against the whirl of the crowd and grab the bulkhead to steady himself. It looked like the entire ship was crammed into the tiny room: Lee, one arm slung haphazardly around Dee, there was the Chief, and Cally, Seelix, Racetrack, Figurski, Helo and his bitch-machine of a wife, hell, even Bill was there, off in one corner, pretending to be involved in a very serious conversation with Cottle. They all looked entirely opposite everything he was feeling. He cleared his throat and unscrewed the bottle. Stupid frakkin' holiday, he thought. Even Ellen had hated this one. But Ellen...he smiled in spite of himself. Hell, she had always loved a good party, even if it required costumes.
"Colonel!" It was Kara, as the gods would have it. She was wading through the throng, laughing and holding an empty glass out toward him. "Didn't expect to see you here, Colonel. You lose a bet or something?"
"Very funny, Starbuck," he growled, tipping just enough liquor into her glass to placate her. She looked happy, he observed, and though he wanted to hate her for it, he just couldn't muster the energy. Maybe tonight wasn't that night. And then, the old man would never forgive him, and for some reason, that still mattered. He guzzled some more from his bottle and grimaced.
"Well, it wouldn't be like you to miss a party where there's booze, huh?" She downed her drink and winced. "Frak me," Kara wheezed, laughing. "You still drinking Tyrol's liquid tylium ore? Hey, Chief!" She turned and yelled over her shoulder. "Get our pirate here some of the good stuff!"
The XO took another drink and resisted the urge to roll his good eye. Starbuck reached over and liberated the bottle from his hand, shoving it into the hands of some passing nugget. She pressed a flagon of fragrant Aerelon whiskey into his outstretched hand. "Drink up, XO," she grinned, holding up her own glass in mock salute.
He looked past Kara and surveyed the room. She wasn't the only one who looked happy, godsdammit. They all did. Bunch of children, he thought, all clamoring for tricks and treats and alcohol. The scene seemed to slow as he watched them all. Lee in a suit and tie, laughing at Helo in a lab coat and scrubs. Hot Dog and Narcho in foil hats and matching shirts that said "Cylon Model #AWESOME." And Kara, in front of him, dressed like-- well, wonders never ceased. She looked like Roslin, of all things. Those glasses, pinstripes, and a wig. He shook his head, careful not to disengage his huge tricorner hat as he did so.
"Colonel?" Kara's smile faded. She lowered her glass and leaned over, speaking so that only he could hear. "Sir. The Day of the Dead is tomorrow, sir." Her eyebrows twitched over the rims of her borrowed specs.
He blinked. She was right, he thought. Death would wait.
"You got any prophecies to go with that outfit, Starbuck?" he asked as he raised his glass to hers.
She gave a short bark of laughter. "It's gonna be a bitchin' All Hallows' Eve, sir," she answered. "And I think you're gonna win the costume contest."