BSG fic: Why Colors Disappear
disclaimer: not mine
rating: R, for disturbing imagery, adult language, referenced torture (canon did it first)
set: season 2.5
character: Gina, pairings referenced: Gina/Gaius
notes: I don't even know what this is. Title is from Yoko Kanno's 'Monochrome'. The style was inspired by rose_griffes's recent Martha fic.
Why Colors Disappear
by ALC Punk!
You think it's ironic to hide among women selling their bodies to survive. They have only slightly more choice than you--
Perhaps that makes the difference.
-
There are times when you can pretend you're fine and it never happened.
(the lie goes something like) You're just a woman, reticent and God-fearing and you are not fair game for any clients--Jeanne sees to that, her eyes following you at the oddest moments. Not hungry; just as though she knows. Even the possibility that she's guessed some of it changes things and you're not normal anymore.
Jeanne is one of the two who doesn't sell, who runs things behind the scenes, keeping the other women in clothing and sheets, food and other essentials. She is meek and vulnerable and mild until something gets her back up, and then she is everything you once were, just without the physical strength, and it's to Paulla's credit that Jeanne's safe, the gun in her hands almost still. You think that you might learn to admire her.
Admiring a human feels wrong.
-
You would like to think there will be salvation--when you wake from nightmares, kill me echoing in your ears; God's love? the idea of the Cylons swooping in and saving the fleet with their purported compassion--
It's like a drug. It's heaven and hell all at once, knowing you would have to share, that your sisters would feel your pain a thousand times over. Taking into themselves all the things you've experienced; even second-hand, it could harm more than it would help, but the idea of their love is real, even if you can't feel it.
And you want to. You have the memories of it, hands clasped, lips turned up into smiles as you all chose your positions in God's plan.
If you cling to it hard enough, you can be free.
-
Paulla never asks why you go over your shower ration. You can't tell her that it's not enough to be clean. Sluiced in water, you can feel them again.
Hear their laughter and grunts. Almost feel--
Singing off-key under scalding water, your nails digging in as you scrub almost helps.
-
"I know some better songs," Jeanne tells you one day, her nose wrinkling a little, as though listening to you sing.
You accept the offer, and you both laugh as you stumble over the words to popular tunes from the colonies, from before-- (Jeanne always gets wistful when she talks about before)
You don't think about the artisans and musicians who didn't survive. The regret isn't yours to have.
-
Waking from nightmares is almost commonplace. Over-boiled, lukewarm tea, Jeanne and Paulla with their too-bright smiles and their wistful eyes telling horrific and ridiculous stories keep them at bay until the day can begin again.
You're not sure how to thank them, you're not even sure whether this is a good idea--Kendra was the last woman you laughed with and she destroyed your life in one moment of duty.
Humanity doesn't forgive.
-
"I have nightmares," Jeanne wanders in before bed and there's something in her movements, in the way her fingers pluck at the bed linens (washed too often, but comfortable) that makes you wonder. "--you'd think all the death and destruction would make me forget... him."
You pull up one side of your shirt, knowing there are scars there, a commonality that will give her something to grasp as she tries to run from whatever she's remembering. "Tell me."
And you don't ask why you want to know, why you let her set her own pace as you sit, legs curled under you, watching as the shadows grow deeper in the room, even as the lights stay steady. You're a Cylon. You're not supposed to be thinking of humans as something to be helped.
-
Jeanne falls asleep in your bed. You moved to the chair, so as not to disturb her when your own nightmares begin, and instead of sleeping, you watch her.
Cylons are never this cruel--could never envision such horrible things.
They simply kill. It's clean, painless. A bullet through the skull, and no more suffering.
"The Cylons didn't want this war," you whisper. You don't even consider it a lie anymore. You think about asking Jeanne about forgiveness, but now isn't the time.
-
On the other side of night is day, and Gaius Baltar. He is something you can use, but you have to be careful. He wants things you can't give anymore, things in your nature you know he expects--intimacies that make you want to run silently into the shower, scalding water already falling.
Just his touch makes you flinch.
You want to tell him it isn't his fault, but you have no way of explaining it. He saw, but he still misunderstands the extent of what was done. Even thinking that makes you flinch again.
"No, Gaius--"
Cylon strength at least has its uses.
-
Every morning, you take up the mantle of leader. You make decisions, you discuss rumors and factions. You sell politics to the highest bidder.
You know how to do these things, but you're still uncertain how God picked you.
Or even why the humans listen. It can't simply be your words, or the flirtatious subtleties that make your skin crawl at the best of times. There's something more. Perhaps you have the presence that she once claimed you had, her fingers on your shoulders, a smile in her eyes.
Thinking about before doesn't make you happy.
-
You remember once, telling the Eight, Sharon Valerii she was going to be, that you were doing God's work. God's wonderful, infallible plan that led you down a path of destruction you would never have expected.
Kneeling in front of a live nuclear warhead, biting your thumb as you think of the thousand and one things you can do with it makes you feel that maybe, possibly, there is a payoff. That God hasn't abandoned the plan or you. That this is some crossroads that will lead to the correct ending.
You have no idea which path you're going to use. But you have hope again, and that's got to be something.
-f-
rating: R, for disturbing imagery, adult language, referenced torture (canon did it first)
set: season 2.5
character: Gina, pairings referenced: Gina/Gaius
notes: I don't even know what this is. Title is from Yoko Kanno's 'Monochrome'. The style was inspired by rose_griffes's recent Martha fic.
Why Colors Disappear
by ALC Punk!
You think it's ironic to hide among women selling their bodies to survive. They have only slightly more choice than you--
Perhaps that makes the difference.
-
There are times when you can pretend you're fine and it never happened.
(the lie goes something like) You're just a woman, reticent and God-fearing and you are not fair game for any clients--Jeanne sees to that, her eyes following you at the oddest moments. Not hungry; just as though she knows. Even the possibility that she's guessed some of it changes things and you're not normal anymore.
Jeanne is one of the two who doesn't sell, who runs things behind the scenes, keeping the other women in clothing and sheets, food and other essentials. She is meek and vulnerable and mild until something gets her back up, and then she is everything you once were, just without the physical strength, and it's to Paulla's credit that Jeanne's safe, the gun in her hands almost still. You think that you might learn to admire her.
Admiring a human feels wrong.
-
You would like to think there will be salvation--when you wake from nightmares, kill me echoing in your ears; God's love? the idea of the Cylons swooping in and saving the fleet with their purported compassion--
It's like a drug. It's heaven and hell all at once, knowing you would have to share, that your sisters would feel your pain a thousand times over. Taking into themselves all the things you've experienced; even second-hand, it could harm more than it would help, but the idea of their love is real, even if you can't feel it.
And you want to. You have the memories of it, hands clasped, lips turned up into smiles as you all chose your positions in God's plan.
If you cling to it hard enough, you can be free.
-
Paulla never asks why you go over your shower ration. You can't tell her that it's not enough to be clean. Sluiced in water, you can feel them again.
Hear their laughter and grunts. Almost feel--
Singing off-key under scalding water, your nails digging in as you scrub almost helps.
-
"I know some better songs," Jeanne tells you one day, her nose wrinkling a little, as though listening to you sing.
You accept the offer, and you both laugh as you stumble over the words to popular tunes from the colonies, from before-- (Jeanne always gets wistful when she talks about before)
You don't think about the artisans and musicians who didn't survive. The regret isn't yours to have.
-
Waking from nightmares is almost commonplace. Over-boiled, lukewarm tea, Jeanne and Paulla with their too-bright smiles and their wistful eyes telling horrific and ridiculous stories keep them at bay until the day can begin again.
You're not sure how to thank them, you're not even sure whether this is a good idea--Kendra was the last woman you laughed with and she destroyed your life in one moment of duty.
Humanity doesn't forgive.
-
"I have nightmares," Jeanne wanders in before bed and there's something in her movements, in the way her fingers pluck at the bed linens (washed too often, but comfortable) that makes you wonder. "--you'd think all the death and destruction would make me forget... him."
You pull up one side of your shirt, knowing there are scars there, a commonality that will give her something to grasp as she tries to run from whatever she's remembering. "Tell me."
And you don't ask why you want to know, why you let her set her own pace as you sit, legs curled under you, watching as the shadows grow deeper in the room, even as the lights stay steady. You're a Cylon. You're not supposed to be thinking of humans as something to be helped.
-
Jeanne falls asleep in your bed. You moved to the chair, so as not to disturb her when your own nightmares begin, and instead of sleeping, you watch her.
Cylons are never this cruel--could never envision such horrible things.
They simply kill. It's clean, painless. A bullet through the skull, and no more suffering.
"The Cylons didn't want this war," you whisper. You don't even consider it a lie anymore. You think about asking Jeanne about forgiveness, but now isn't the time.
-
On the other side of night is day, and Gaius Baltar. He is something you can use, but you have to be careful. He wants things you can't give anymore, things in your nature you know he expects--intimacies that make you want to run silently into the shower, scalding water already falling.
Just his touch makes you flinch.
You want to tell him it isn't his fault, but you have no way of explaining it. He saw, but he still misunderstands the extent of what was done. Even thinking that makes you flinch again.
"No, Gaius--"
Cylon strength at least has its uses.
-
Every morning, you take up the mantle of leader. You make decisions, you discuss rumors and factions. You sell politics to the highest bidder.
You know how to do these things, but you're still uncertain how God picked you.
Or even why the humans listen. It can't simply be your words, or the flirtatious subtleties that make your skin crawl at the best of times. There's something more. Perhaps you have the presence that she once claimed you had, her fingers on your shoulders, a smile in her eyes.
Thinking about before doesn't make you happy.
-
You remember once, telling the Eight, Sharon Valerii she was going to be, that you were doing God's work. God's wonderful, infallible plan that led you down a path of destruction you would never have expected.
Kneeling in front of a live nuclear warhead, biting your thumb as you think of the thousand and one things you can do with it makes you feel that maybe, possibly, there is a payoff. That God hasn't abandoned the plan or you. That this is some crossroads that will lead to the correct ending.
You have no idea which path you're going to use. But you have hope again, and that's got to be something.
-f-