Starbuck round...
TITLE: Suspended [dis]Belief
AUTHOR: J Stravinski
FANDOM: Battlestar Galactica
PAIRING: Starbuck/Roslin
RATING: G
FEEDBACK: Much appreciated. Particularly to point out blatant errors.
SPOILERS: Episode 2.06
DISCLAIMER: I don't own anyone who hails from the twelve colonies. Their creators are much more talented.
CREDITS: Thanx to thenewhope for pointing out how to make it slightly less dodgy.
COMMENTS: For furies, who requested ice, alcohol, and prophecy as part of the Starbuck round at getyourtoaster.
AUTHOR NOTES: The A/N contain spoilers, so they're under the cut.
AUTHOR NOTES: Set during Episode 2.06, "Home: Part 1", some time after Kara's returned, Sharon's had guns pulled on her, Kara's revealed the arrow, and Laura's told them to hold off on spacing Sharon just yet.
**********************
You’ve only been back from Caprica three hours but you already know the Astral Queen is devoid of alcohol stores - at least you're pretty sure of this, because you've looked pretty much everywhere. You seem to recall a time when you'd have said that it's probably better that way, that you're probably better off not drinking when you feel like this anyway. You think you should be scared that you don't feel that way anymore, but you don't really have time for fear, any more than you have time to wonder where is the line between social drinking and ending up passed out in a back corridor between Mrs and Colonel Tigh.
You wish you didn't have time for this, this pain and confusion that you're trying to run from, but somehow you do have time. It's there all the time - the little (sometimes not so little) lump of concrete sitting right behind your gut - sometimes more Anders, sometimes more baby farm, and Gods you hope it's never actually a fracking baby.
You begin to wonder at the irony, that there's always time for the pain but never time for escaping it, but it ends in a laugh - the President's in the doorway, looking for you, and there's not even time to finish the thought.
It’s just the two of you in an informal setting and you expect her to open with questions about Caprica. Maybe something from her point of view, what her home planet is like these days; maybe something from yours, what it was like going back; maybe something about what went on down there - the President's not stupid, even if Lee's still oblivious she knows something happened down on that planet.
Instead she just looks at you, and you look back. She slowly and ever so slightly nods, then indicates for you to sit. You do, but not before lowering your eyes in a subtle unspoken gratitude.
"You trust her," she says without greeting, and it's obvious she means Sharon.
Your mind flicks through what feels like a thousand different responses to that, and a thousand different Sharon's to consider. It’s a road you can’t afford to go down, and you push the thoughts aside.
"She saved us," you say, and shrug. It's not an answer, but then maybe that's the point - there isn't an answer.
"Why did you go back to Caprica?" She changes tack without even pausing to consider your response. You resent the manipulation, the implied intellectual superiority, that comes with a conversation so obviously controlled by the random flow of questions, but you respect that the President, unlike some others, never patronises. Never patronises you, at least, and you'd wonder about that now that you've thought of it, but again there's that time thing.
She's looking at you, expecting an answer, so you stall with an "um”. You never stopped to think about what made you believe, you just knew you had to.
"If we believe it's real,” you decide, and it’s deliberately general, deliberately detached, “we've got nothing to lose."
She smiles, a smile that begins and ends at her mouth. "Oh, we've got plenty to lose."
But now that you’ve said it, you know you're right, on this at least. "If we don't believe, and it is real, we lose more. If it’s not real, well, believing doesn’t make much difference either way."
Somewhere in the back of your brain you're asking yourself why you did go to Caprica, why you did believe. You push the thought aside and suspect that even the President wants to know your beliefs more than you do - and she doesn't want to know them that much, really. She just wants to know how much she can trust you.
--Probably so she can know how much she can trust your judgment of whether to trust Sharon, you realise, and you feel better knowing that you are only having one conversation after all.
"She says that even if we find Earth, the price we pay will be too high."
You look at her.
"What do you think?"
The President of the Colonies is asking you, a rogue pilot, what you think is an appropriate number of lives to risk in order to save the future of Humankind. You push that thought aside before it gains strength and choose instead to believe that she's asking what you think about the reliability of prophesies spouted by sentient hardware.
You answer her first question anyway.
"There will be costs whichever path we choose.” It sounds reasonable and rational, and you try not to think of Anders, or of the baby farm, or the nuclear wasteland you used to call home.
Instead you remember the feel of the arrow against your fingers, and you recall the tiny spark of hope you surprised yourself with. You realise it's still there, within you, and you look down at your hands.
“This way,” you say, and this time you believe your own words, “there's a chance we might be right.”
When you look up she’s studying your expression, and you force a laugh. “Hey, being wrong can't be much worse than this."
Her smile is as empty as yours feels. The fleet's numbers are still diminishing; the Cylons are always three steps ahead of you; and you know she knows that if the Cylons know where Earth is, there's no guarantee that the fleet finding it won't just lead to an even more certain death. You're not the only one who needs there to be a good reason to believe.
You know she's got you here to find out whether she should trust Sharon, whether she should even speak with Sharon, but you've also got her, just the two of you, and she owes you for that arrow.
You take a chance and ask your own question.
"What do you believe?"
You're surprised when she hesitates, and you expect to be scared or deflated by her uncertainty, but you find it makes her seem more Human, and you feel strengthened by that.
After a moment she says, "I haven't questioned whether it's possible that I really am destined to be what they say I am."
She pauses, but you know the reason before she says it. It's the same one as yours. Without belief, you're both left with nothing. Without her belief, one third of the fleet is left with nothing.
The silence between you is heavy. She knows that you've realised it, that you've felt it in that moment - the weight of her responsibility, and the weight of her fear. Yours is nothing to hers, your duty is nothing to that of the Saviour of the Human Race. You find you want to reach out to her, inappropriate or not, but she's already reaching towards you. Your fingers brush hers and then tangle through them and you realise her form's blurring slightly through tears. You laugh them away and she smiles. This time it reaches her eyes, and you hold their gaze.
"You might not think you believe, but you do," she says.
You're not sure you believe her, so you say nothing, just rub your thumb softly across her skin in thanks.
"You wouldn't have gone to Caprica if you didn't believe."
You still don't believe her but there's something in the way she looks at you, something in the feel of her touch, that reaches a distant part of you, a part of you that does believe, that knows the truth. You wonder for a fraction of a moment whether you're resisting belief because believing in this thing is even more scary than not, but that's certainly not a thought you want to investigate further.
She's still holding your hand, and she squeezes it gently like she's about to pull away. But she's given you something and you want to do the same, so you hold it tight, making her stay a little longer. You look into her eyes, and this time she's the one waiting for your lead, this time the conversation is in your hands.
"You believed in me," you say. "You believe in the fleet. You believe in the future. That's enough."
She grips your hand again and mouths "thank you", and this time you let it withdraw.
" Lieutenant Thrace," she says, "about our Cylon."
***** ***** *****
The President pauses as she reaches the door, and turns towards you.
"I'd offer you a drink in thanks, but social time is a little short in our current schedule. You'll find two bottles in my residential quarters - please, help yourself."
You'd wonder if you really just heard the President of the Colonies assisting the bearer of the Arrow to drown herself in substance abuse, but you can also hear the thoughts you'd like to bury becoming louder again. And besides, you're in no position to ignore a directive from a superior, given your recent behaviour.
AUTHOR: J Stravinski
FANDOM: Battlestar Galactica
PAIRING: Starbuck/Roslin
RATING: G
FEEDBACK: Much appreciated. Particularly to point out blatant errors.
SPOILERS: Episode 2.06
DISCLAIMER: I don't own anyone who hails from the twelve colonies. Their creators are much more talented.
CREDITS: Thanx to thenewhope for pointing out how to make it slightly less dodgy.
COMMENTS: For furies, who requested ice, alcohol, and prophecy as part of the Starbuck round at getyourtoaster.
AUTHOR NOTES: The A/N contain spoilers, so they're under the cut.
AUTHOR NOTES: Set during Episode 2.06, "Home: Part 1", some time after Kara's returned, Sharon's had guns pulled on her, Kara's revealed the arrow, and Laura's told them to hold off on spacing Sharon just yet.
**********************
You’ve only been back from Caprica three hours but you already know the Astral Queen is devoid of alcohol stores - at least you're pretty sure of this, because you've looked pretty much everywhere. You seem to recall a time when you'd have said that it's probably better that way, that you're probably better off not drinking when you feel like this anyway. You think you should be scared that you don't feel that way anymore, but you don't really have time for fear, any more than you have time to wonder where is the line between social drinking and ending up passed out in a back corridor between Mrs and Colonel Tigh.
You wish you didn't have time for this, this pain and confusion that you're trying to run from, but somehow you do have time. It's there all the time - the little (sometimes not so little) lump of concrete sitting right behind your gut - sometimes more Anders, sometimes more baby farm, and Gods you hope it's never actually a fracking baby.
You begin to wonder at the irony, that there's always time for the pain but never time for escaping it, but it ends in a laugh - the President's in the doorway, looking for you, and there's not even time to finish the thought.
It’s just the two of you in an informal setting and you expect her to open with questions about Caprica. Maybe something from her point of view, what her home planet is like these days; maybe something from yours, what it was like going back; maybe something about what went on down there - the President's not stupid, even if Lee's still oblivious she knows something happened down on that planet.
Instead she just looks at you, and you look back. She slowly and ever so slightly nods, then indicates for you to sit. You do, but not before lowering your eyes in a subtle unspoken gratitude.
"You trust her," she says without greeting, and it's obvious she means Sharon.
Your mind flicks through what feels like a thousand different responses to that, and a thousand different Sharon's to consider. It’s a road you can’t afford to go down, and you push the thoughts aside.
"She saved us," you say, and shrug. It's not an answer, but then maybe that's the point - there isn't an answer.
"Why did you go back to Caprica?" She changes tack without even pausing to consider your response. You resent the manipulation, the implied intellectual superiority, that comes with a conversation so obviously controlled by the random flow of questions, but you respect that the President, unlike some others, never patronises. Never patronises you, at least, and you'd wonder about that now that you've thought of it, but again there's that time thing.
She's looking at you, expecting an answer, so you stall with an "um”. You never stopped to think about what made you believe, you just knew you had to.
"If we believe it's real,” you decide, and it’s deliberately general, deliberately detached, “we've got nothing to lose."
She smiles, a smile that begins and ends at her mouth. "Oh, we've got plenty to lose."
But now that you’ve said it, you know you're right, on this at least. "If we don't believe, and it is real, we lose more. If it’s not real, well, believing doesn’t make much difference either way."
Somewhere in the back of your brain you're asking yourself why you did go to Caprica, why you did believe. You push the thought aside and suspect that even the President wants to know your beliefs more than you do - and she doesn't want to know them that much, really. She just wants to know how much she can trust you.
--Probably so she can know how much she can trust your judgment of whether to trust Sharon, you realise, and you feel better knowing that you are only having one conversation after all.
"She says that even if we find Earth, the price we pay will be too high."
You look at her.
"What do you think?"
The President of the Colonies is asking you, a rogue pilot, what you think is an appropriate number of lives to risk in order to save the future of Humankind. You push that thought aside before it gains strength and choose instead to believe that she's asking what you think about the reliability of prophesies spouted by sentient hardware.
You answer her first question anyway.
"There will be costs whichever path we choose.” It sounds reasonable and rational, and you try not to think of Anders, or of the baby farm, or the nuclear wasteland you used to call home.
Instead you remember the feel of the arrow against your fingers, and you recall the tiny spark of hope you surprised yourself with. You realise it's still there, within you, and you look down at your hands.
“This way,” you say, and this time you believe your own words, “there's a chance we might be right.”
When you look up she’s studying your expression, and you force a laugh. “Hey, being wrong can't be much worse than this."
Her smile is as empty as yours feels. The fleet's numbers are still diminishing; the Cylons are always three steps ahead of you; and you know she knows that if the Cylons know where Earth is, there's no guarantee that the fleet finding it won't just lead to an even more certain death. You're not the only one who needs there to be a good reason to believe.
You know she's got you here to find out whether she should trust Sharon, whether she should even speak with Sharon, but you've also got her, just the two of you, and she owes you for that arrow.
You take a chance and ask your own question.
"What do you believe?"
You're surprised when she hesitates, and you expect to be scared or deflated by her uncertainty, but you find it makes her seem more Human, and you feel strengthened by that.
After a moment she says, "I haven't questioned whether it's possible that I really am destined to be what they say I am."
She pauses, but you know the reason before she says it. It's the same one as yours. Without belief, you're both left with nothing. Without her belief, one third of the fleet is left with nothing.
The silence between you is heavy. She knows that you've realised it, that you've felt it in that moment - the weight of her responsibility, and the weight of her fear. Yours is nothing to hers, your duty is nothing to that of the Saviour of the Human Race. You find you want to reach out to her, inappropriate or not, but she's already reaching towards you. Your fingers brush hers and then tangle through them and you realise her form's blurring slightly through tears. You laugh them away and she smiles. This time it reaches her eyes, and you hold their gaze.
"You might not think you believe, but you do," she says.
You're not sure you believe her, so you say nothing, just rub your thumb softly across her skin in thanks.
"You wouldn't have gone to Caprica if you didn't believe."
You still don't believe her but there's something in the way she looks at you, something in the feel of her touch, that reaches a distant part of you, a part of you that does believe, that knows the truth. You wonder for a fraction of a moment whether you're resisting belief because believing in this thing is even more scary than not, but that's certainly not a thought you want to investigate further.
She's still holding your hand, and she squeezes it gently like she's about to pull away. But she's given you something and you want to do the same, so you hold it tight, making her stay a little longer. You look into her eyes, and this time she's the one waiting for your lead, this time the conversation is in your hands.
"You believed in me," you say. "You believe in the fleet. You believe in the future. That's enough."
She grips your hand again and mouths "thank you", and this time you let it withdraw.
" Lieutenant Thrace," she says, "about our Cylon."
***** ***** *****
The President pauses as she reaches the door, and turns towards you.
"I'd offer you a drink in thanks, but social time is a little short in our current schedule. You'll find two bottles in my residential quarters - please, help yourself."
You'd wonder if you really just heard the President of the Colonies assisting the bearer of the Arrow to drown herself in substance abuse, but you can also hear the thoughts you'd like to bury becoming louder again. And besides, you're in no position to ignore a directive from a superior, given your recent behaviour.