bsg fic: Occupation, day 79
I was working on a fic with Helo when this came and pushed its way through. (Come back, Helo! We have work to do!)
Title: Occupation, day 79
Rating: PG
Spoilers: through 3.01 (although it’s set before then)
characters: Kara, Gaeta, others
Beta’d by the benevolent jashyr; all remaining errors are mine
about 1,100 words
“I have to try to talk to Gaeta,” her husband says. “I know he doesn’t piss without Baltar’s permission, but maybe I can get something useful from him before the next op.”
“Watch what you say in front of Nicholas,” Cally says.
“He’s too young to understand.”
“Hey, I don’t want our kid to have a potty mouth.” She glares at him for a moment. Galen grins at her and she can’t help but laugh at the irony of her statement. He leans over for a quick good-bye kiss. She watches her husband as he eases quickly out of their tent, closing the flaps before too much cool air slips inside. She feels equal parts resentment and pride, as Nicholas nurses, half-asleep against her breast.
- - - - -
Invisibility. Gaeta’s power lies in invisibility. He remembers how he hated being aboard the Galactica, stuck on a dead-end ship about to be decommissioned. If he had had more flair in his proficiency, been more personable, he might have been posted somewhere else sooner. Then the worlds ended; it was just his luck to live through it and everything centered on survival. Even his resentment of Colonel Tigh’s drunken incompetence had been pushed aside.
They had adjusted to surviving, and started rebuilding their lives inside the tiny slivers of free time. Dee started dating Roslin’s assistant. Gaeta got drunk and woke up with a tattoo in which he has perverse pride. Then he saw his colleagues move ahead, get promoted despite treason and mutiny; the resentment rose inside him again.
He thought he’d had a chance to leave it behind, working for the new president. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that he was still invisible next to Baltar’s whores. He kept doing his job. Where else would he go, what else would he do?
Now he appreciates his invisibility. He already had Baltar’s complete confidence and the cylons didn’t really... see him at all. To them he was an appendage to Baltar’s puppet presidency. He waited carefully until he stumbled across the right information to share; that was a couple of weeks ago and so far he had avoided repercussions.
The sun shivers in the sky. He pushes his hands deeper in his pockets, grateful that it’s not as cold today as usual. After leaving the papers at the drop point he walks quickly back to Colonial One, pausing for a moment when he sees a familiar dark ponytail flicker in the wind. Dee? No, her skin was too pale and Dee was another man’s wife, somewhere in space. How long could he keep fighting if he had no hope that the fleet would rescue them?
- - - - -
Maya pulls her ponytail out of her daughter’s grip. She hadn’t found any grain at the market but she’s grateful to have bartered for some fresh vegetables. The sun is shining today; even though the air is cool she stops to close her eyes and turn her face to the warm glow in the sky. Isis makes a crowing noise and tries to pull off her mittens so Maya starts walking again, back toward the tent that is her home and the town’s school. She shudders as catches a glimpse of the distant detention center, imagines she can hear the screams even though she can’t.
- - - - -
The windows of her cell--don’t call it an apartment--let in warm sunlight for the first time in days. After the rush of hot adrenaline is spent, the silence forces her to think. She doesn’t know how many days she’s been there. She can count other things, though. Counting--three of his bodies that she has killed. Counting--twenty steps from his body to the table. Counting--number of things she wishes she had from her old apartment on Caprica. Four.
The first time she killed him, she had been drowning in the emotions that flooded her, had let hot tears burst out even before his eyes glazed over. She hadn’t been able to stop crying, wasn’t even sure why she was crying as she crouched on the floor, wracked with sobs.
She didn’t know (liar), didn’t believe he would come back. When he did return she was still curled up on the floor near his old body. She felt empty. Her legs tingled from the cramped position. Her chest was tight, her red eyes were puffy and her hair was stiff and sticky from the salt. He thanked her, gravely, for her tears. His voice didn’t have any trace of smugness or satisfaction. When he suggested that she would feel better after a shower she surprised herself by following his advice. His hand was warm in hers as he helped her stand. When she came back out of the bathroom the first body was gone.
Counting-step-number of times he has touched her. Four. Counting--number of times she-no. Counting--number of cylon bodies she has killed face-to-face. Five-no, six. She’s killed the blonde model twice. Step. Counting--number of times she has called him by name...
The second time she killed him she waited until his eyes went blank. Then she threw up. After her shaking stopped she cleaned up the vomit as well as she could before he returned.
Counting--number of people she still misses from Caprica. Five. Counting-step-number of times he’s told her that he loves her. Don’t know. Counting--number of men to whom she has said, “I love you.” No. Counting--number of bones she has broken. Fourteen. She feels her hair move as she steps, hot on her neck, itching her back. She has already looked, unsuccessfully, for something to tie it back. Counting--steps from the staircase back to the body. Twenty-seven.
She stares at it. She’s pleased at her dispassionate response this time and ignores the curl of nausea in her stomach. She pulls her hair up, feeling the cooler air for a moment as it touches her neck.
She stares at him longer until an idea clicks into place. She thinks for a moment that she’ll close his eyes first, or turn him over, then reminds herself that it’s just a machine. So she sits on the floor and pulls the laces out of one of his shoes. She sighs with satisfaction when she ties the knot in her hair and closes her eyes.
Counting--number of breaths in and out. Counting--
She opens her eyes again and stares at his feet. She pulls out the other shoelace, feeling stupid for not having thought of this before. She wonders if he’ll look for the shoelaces when he returns, or just let her touch him and kill him again. She leans over and strokes his fingertips with hers.
Fin
Title: Occupation, day 79
Rating: PG
Spoilers: through 3.01 (although it’s set before then)
characters: Kara, Gaeta, others
Beta’d by the benevolent jashyr; all remaining errors are mine
about 1,100 words
“I have to try to talk to Gaeta,” her husband says. “I know he doesn’t piss without Baltar’s permission, but maybe I can get something useful from him before the next op.”
“Watch what you say in front of Nicholas,” Cally says.
“He’s too young to understand.”
“Hey, I don’t want our kid to have a potty mouth.” She glares at him for a moment. Galen grins at her and she can’t help but laugh at the irony of her statement. He leans over for a quick good-bye kiss. She watches her husband as he eases quickly out of their tent, closing the flaps before too much cool air slips inside. She feels equal parts resentment and pride, as Nicholas nurses, half-asleep against her breast.
- - - - -
Invisibility. Gaeta’s power lies in invisibility. He remembers how he hated being aboard the Galactica, stuck on a dead-end ship about to be decommissioned. If he had had more flair in his proficiency, been more personable, he might have been posted somewhere else sooner. Then the worlds ended; it was just his luck to live through it and everything centered on survival. Even his resentment of Colonel Tigh’s drunken incompetence had been pushed aside.
They had adjusted to surviving, and started rebuilding their lives inside the tiny slivers of free time. Dee started dating Roslin’s assistant. Gaeta got drunk and woke up with a tattoo in which he has perverse pride. Then he saw his colleagues move ahead, get promoted despite treason and mutiny; the resentment rose inside him again.
He thought he’d had a chance to leave it behind, working for the new president. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that he was still invisible next to Baltar’s whores. He kept doing his job. Where else would he go, what else would he do?
Now he appreciates his invisibility. He already had Baltar’s complete confidence and the cylons didn’t really... see him at all. To them he was an appendage to Baltar’s puppet presidency. He waited carefully until he stumbled across the right information to share; that was a couple of weeks ago and so far he had avoided repercussions.
The sun shivers in the sky. He pushes his hands deeper in his pockets, grateful that it’s not as cold today as usual. After leaving the papers at the drop point he walks quickly back to Colonial One, pausing for a moment when he sees a familiar dark ponytail flicker in the wind. Dee? No, her skin was too pale and Dee was another man’s wife, somewhere in space. How long could he keep fighting if he had no hope that the fleet would rescue them?
- - - - -
Maya pulls her ponytail out of her daughter’s grip. She hadn’t found any grain at the market but she’s grateful to have bartered for some fresh vegetables. The sun is shining today; even though the air is cool she stops to close her eyes and turn her face to the warm glow in the sky. Isis makes a crowing noise and tries to pull off her mittens so Maya starts walking again, back toward the tent that is her home and the town’s school. She shudders as catches a glimpse of the distant detention center, imagines she can hear the screams even though she can’t.
- - - - -
The windows of her cell--don’t call it an apartment--let in warm sunlight for the first time in days. After the rush of hot adrenaline is spent, the silence forces her to think. She doesn’t know how many days she’s been there. She can count other things, though. Counting--three of his bodies that she has killed. Counting--twenty steps from his body to the table. Counting--number of things she wishes she had from her old apartment on Caprica. Four.
The first time she killed him, she had been drowning in the emotions that flooded her, had let hot tears burst out even before his eyes glazed over. She hadn’t been able to stop crying, wasn’t even sure why she was crying as she crouched on the floor, wracked with sobs.
She didn’t know (liar), didn’t believe he would come back. When he did return she was still curled up on the floor near his old body. She felt empty. Her legs tingled from the cramped position. Her chest was tight, her red eyes were puffy and her hair was stiff and sticky from the salt. He thanked her, gravely, for her tears. His voice didn’t have any trace of smugness or satisfaction. When he suggested that she would feel better after a shower she surprised herself by following his advice. His hand was warm in hers as he helped her stand. When she came back out of the bathroom the first body was gone.
Counting-step-number of times he has touched her. Four. Counting--number of times she-no. Counting--number of cylon bodies she has killed face-to-face. Five-no, six. She’s killed the blonde model twice. Step. Counting--number of times she has called him by name...
The second time she killed him she waited until his eyes went blank. Then she threw up. After her shaking stopped she cleaned up the vomit as well as she could before he returned.
Counting--number of people she still misses from Caprica. Five. Counting-step-number of times he’s told her that he loves her. Don’t know. Counting--number of men to whom she has said, “I love you.” No. Counting--number of bones she has broken. Fourteen. She feels her hair move as she steps, hot on her neck, itching her back. She has already looked, unsuccessfully, for something to tie it back. Counting--steps from the staircase back to the body. Twenty-seven.
She stares at it. She’s pleased at her dispassionate response this time and ignores the curl of nausea in her stomach. She pulls her hair up, feeling the cooler air for a moment as it touches her neck.
She stares at him longer until an idea clicks into place. She thinks for a moment that she’ll close his eyes first, or turn him over, then reminds herself that it’s just a machine. So she sits on the floor and pulls the laces out of one of his shoes. She sighs with satisfaction when she ties the knot in her hair and closes her eyes.
Counting--number of breaths in and out. Counting--
She opens her eyes again and stares at his feet. She pulls out the other shoelace, feeling stupid for not having thought of this before. She wonders if he’ll look for the shoelaces when he returns, or just let her touch him and kill him again. She leans over and strokes his fingertips with hers.
Fin