fic: god's will be done
Title: god's will be done
Summary: Filling in the blanks with Gaius & Six, pre-apocalypse.
Specs: written for vauxhall_cross for the November Hiatus of Doom Ficathon. (Note that I signed up as violentmedusa.) 1076 words, give or take. The specifications were angst, good characterisation, and smut. I hope I got two out of the three, at least.
With Gaius, she finds herself sinning, coveting him as he struts the narrow walks of Caprica City. She covets his narrow hips for her palms and lank mane for her fingertips. He fancies himself the predator, constantly, so she knows from the reports. And so she wants to show him his fallacies with his tie in her fist and her tongue in his mouth. She wants herself glowing hot under sacrilege. She wants to sculpt the human traitor in a press of slick flesh and quick hands.
She wants to pound God’s work into herself and him, until the difference between them disappears into a gap tinier than the space between synthetic cells.
--
This is how she arranges it:
With legs stretched from a low chaise, almond-point heels, a skirt and jacket as delicate and flimsy as lingerie. Perfume to melt her body to the taste of human desires. The glass office of an older man even more ignorant than most, set high at the top of a steel tower. Waiting with the tilted head of a child, a glass of water imported from the mountains, and a handshake that twists (oh she could have predicted it) into a kiss along the ridge of her knuckles.
And he turns her hand over so his lips can graze her wrist, sniff, and he says, “Myria?”
She smiles as if flattered or embarrassed. “Why, yes.”
“It’s a favourite of mine.” His simper lies so deftly between arrogance and desperation that she can already taste the next two years, feel the texture of her manipulations as cold and clear as the glass in her other hand.
“Our host seems a bit late,” she suggests, his fingers hot around her wrist.
“A bit daft, more like.” He smirks up at her, his briefcase sitting in another chair. “Lifetime appointments to these positions are so tedious after the first forty years.”
“Shall I pour you a drink, Doctor?” she removes her hand from his, moves to the bar, selects the most expensive ambrosia.
“Gaius, please.” He says, “Ms…?”
She hands him the luminous glass, free of ice. “Gaius, do you enjoy our line of work?” The deferential, forward bend of her neck, the long grace of her limbs, is almost programmed in, she finds. Automatic. The role is so pleasurable to her that she must remind and remind herself to pull back, that he must be made to feel the predator.
“I find myself loving it more and more every second.” He says, pompous, to the descending orange of the city below. She notes that he is watching her reflection, now.
“Perhaps, then, there’s an offer you could make me.” She does not move closer, she reseats herself, crosses her ankles and touches her knees together, and by the time the old man has come in to toast their respective successes, she can feel God’s will heavy and warm, close at hand.
--
God’s work is done in the early morning light off the ocean. She cannot hold him off in his fervour. She cannot prevent herself from loosing a vocal prayer to the harsh angles of ceiling and horizon, a prayer which Gaius addresses to himself.
They are neither of them a decent hand in the kitchen, so Gaius orders in, and a man in a militaristic grey brings crepes and fresh juice, espresso from the city at four in the afternoon. In the shower, they watch the sun set over the western islands and then spend another night in religious observation.
Gaius has a house made of glass and stone, the low cold colours of a human earth. She spends her hours there murmuring circles around him, and he professes inspiration, constantly. He sits at his desk, cocky and calculating, papers spread with blue ink smears, writing down her ideas, her links and suggestions and occasional tremulous solution. His fingertips stay hot, up under her skirt or pressed like pale oval faces against the wide ocean windows as he thinks. He constantly thinks.
She learns very quickly, over the phone or a lunch, that a stammer signals a lie and that the most brilliant of lies conceals an even greater truth. Gaius is a genius. Gaius holds the fate of humanity in his moist hands. In two years, he sleeps with sixteen other women, and she keeps track of them, their names and qualities. She learns from one that a dumb woman is only attractive when very famous, and from another that a short woman reminds him of his own failings, unless thrillingly caustic. She is neither, but she still retains the information. From one of the ones she murders, drugged and drowned in a night-time ocean, she learns that he really does prefer blondes.
But not enough, perhaps. He is cavalier. He is a swaggering little bird with a berry in its beak and a thousand other berries to choose from. It is a cruel feeling, helplessness. As he performs his interviews and flirts with secretaries, she wears God’s will with all the translucence of her designer suits. Her mission is almost done. It is warm and close at hand.
--
Two nights before the world will end, she eats a meal with him in his glass and stone house. Fish and the most exquisite berries, plucked tart and full and red. He says, “You know, I think I have them, I think they’re ready and I think I’ve made myself not only the richest, but the most influential private figure in the Colonies.” He laughs like a giddy girl.
“Congratulations,” she picks at the food. She sips her ambrosia, instead. She’d rather feel luminous tonight.
Gaius toasts himself, and includes her with a tip of the crystal rim. “You are a rare one,” he tells her over the green glow.
When she looks at him, she feels the red glow of sacrilege, she feels the hot tips of his mind and sex and fingers under her skin. She loves him, she knows. She feels it in a separate part of her long limbs, the part that feels heat and pain and the spread of cold ocean water over the pale oval of a dying woman’s face.
“I am unique,” she smiles, standing, then straddling him. She makes love to him for the last time, knowing how soon the world will end, how soon the glass and stone will fall into shards, then dust, under God’s will.
Summary: Filling in the blanks with Gaius & Six, pre-apocalypse.
Specs: written for vauxhall_cross for the November Hiatus of Doom Ficathon. (Note that I signed up as violentmedusa.) 1076 words, give or take. The specifications were angst, good characterisation, and smut. I hope I got two out of the three, at least.
With Gaius, she finds herself sinning, coveting him as he struts the narrow walks of Caprica City. She covets his narrow hips for her palms and lank mane for her fingertips. He fancies himself the predator, constantly, so she knows from the reports. And so she wants to show him his fallacies with his tie in her fist and her tongue in his mouth. She wants herself glowing hot under sacrilege. She wants to sculpt the human traitor in a press of slick flesh and quick hands.
She wants to pound God’s work into herself and him, until the difference between them disappears into a gap tinier than the space between synthetic cells.
--
This is how she arranges it:
With legs stretched from a low chaise, almond-point heels, a skirt and jacket as delicate and flimsy as lingerie. Perfume to melt her body to the taste of human desires. The glass office of an older man even more ignorant than most, set high at the top of a steel tower. Waiting with the tilted head of a child, a glass of water imported from the mountains, and a handshake that twists (oh she could have predicted it) into a kiss along the ridge of her knuckles.
And he turns her hand over so his lips can graze her wrist, sniff, and he says, “Myria?”
She smiles as if flattered or embarrassed. “Why, yes.”
“It’s a favourite of mine.” His simper lies so deftly between arrogance and desperation that she can already taste the next two years, feel the texture of her manipulations as cold and clear as the glass in her other hand.
“Our host seems a bit late,” she suggests, his fingers hot around her wrist.
“A bit daft, more like.” He smirks up at her, his briefcase sitting in another chair. “Lifetime appointments to these positions are so tedious after the first forty years.”
“Shall I pour you a drink, Doctor?” she removes her hand from his, moves to the bar, selects the most expensive ambrosia.
“Gaius, please.” He says, “Ms…?”
She hands him the luminous glass, free of ice. “Gaius, do you enjoy our line of work?” The deferential, forward bend of her neck, the long grace of her limbs, is almost programmed in, she finds. Automatic. The role is so pleasurable to her that she must remind and remind herself to pull back, that he must be made to feel the predator.
“I find myself loving it more and more every second.” He says, pompous, to the descending orange of the city below. She notes that he is watching her reflection, now.
“Perhaps, then, there’s an offer you could make me.” She does not move closer, she reseats herself, crosses her ankles and touches her knees together, and by the time the old man has come in to toast their respective successes, she can feel God’s will heavy and warm, close at hand.
--
God’s work is done in the early morning light off the ocean. She cannot hold him off in his fervour. She cannot prevent herself from loosing a vocal prayer to the harsh angles of ceiling and horizon, a prayer which Gaius addresses to himself.
They are neither of them a decent hand in the kitchen, so Gaius orders in, and a man in a militaristic grey brings crepes and fresh juice, espresso from the city at four in the afternoon. In the shower, they watch the sun set over the western islands and then spend another night in religious observation.
Gaius has a house made of glass and stone, the low cold colours of a human earth. She spends her hours there murmuring circles around him, and he professes inspiration, constantly. He sits at his desk, cocky and calculating, papers spread with blue ink smears, writing down her ideas, her links and suggestions and occasional tremulous solution. His fingertips stay hot, up under her skirt or pressed like pale oval faces against the wide ocean windows as he thinks. He constantly thinks.
She learns very quickly, over the phone or a lunch, that a stammer signals a lie and that the most brilliant of lies conceals an even greater truth. Gaius is a genius. Gaius holds the fate of humanity in his moist hands. In two years, he sleeps with sixteen other women, and she keeps track of them, their names and qualities. She learns from one that a dumb woman is only attractive when very famous, and from another that a short woman reminds him of his own failings, unless thrillingly caustic. She is neither, but she still retains the information. From one of the ones she murders, drugged and drowned in a night-time ocean, she learns that he really does prefer blondes.
But not enough, perhaps. He is cavalier. He is a swaggering little bird with a berry in its beak and a thousand other berries to choose from. It is a cruel feeling, helplessness. As he performs his interviews and flirts with secretaries, she wears God’s will with all the translucence of her designer suits. Her mission is almost done. It is warm and close at hand.
--
Two nights before the world will end, she eats a meal with him in his glass and stone house. Fish and the most exquisite berries, plucked tart and full and red. He says, “You know, I think I have them, I think they’re ready and I think I’ve made myself not only the richest, but the most influential private figure in the Colonies.” He laughs like a giddy girl.
“Congratulations,” she picks at the food. She sips her ambrosia, instead. She’d rather feel luminous tonight.
Gaius toasts himself, and includes her with a tip of the crystal rim. “You are a rare one,” he tells her over the green glow.
When she looks at him, she feels the red glow of sacrilege, she feels the hot tips of his mind and sex and fingers under her skin. She loves him, she knows. She feels it in a separate part of her long limbs, the part that feels heat and pain and the spread of cold ocean water over the pale oval of a dying woman’s face.
“I am unique,” she smiles, standing, then straddling him. She makes love to him for the last time, knowing how soon the world will end, how soon the glass and stone will fall into shards, then dust, under God’s will.