cold_clarity: (six)
[personal profile] cold_clarity
so, over the past few weeks, I've busted out a few BSG drabbles for various inspiration-days at [livejournal.com profile] 13th_tribe and [livejournal.com profile] bsg_epics. reposting everything here for organization's sake.

enjoy!

------

Untitled
Leoben + Sam (gen)
PG
written for the prompt 'Leoben watching Sam play Pyramid' at [livejournal.com profile] 13th_tribe



Autumn. The practice field sprawls out in all directions, colorless beneath a blind sky. The wind stings his cheeks and turns his ears rubbery. His eyes water. Cold only to get colder still. He's lived one winter in this place and remembers mostly that it means his breath comes in clouds and that the world turns bright and bitter and quiet.

Not time for that, though. Not yet. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jacket and braces himself against another singing gust of wind.

Out on the field, miniatures of men toss and tumble and tussle on the cordoned off court. Half in red, the other half in blue, they move on court-space, their parameters demarcated by the four pyramids. Their jerseys flap and ripple in the wind.

Their game has mucked up trenches of mud. They've trampled dead grass down to nothing. Sodden dirt and clods of grass splatter their shins, their shoes. They look unbalanced, slightly; cleated feet sinking into the soft earth.

One of them hurls a ball and when it catches in a cage, the cage rattles. The man whoops, triumphant, and the others laugh and gesticulate.

They start again.

If there are rules, he can't follow them except in the game's objective: you've accomplished something if you get the ball in the cage.

More dashing, darting, weaving, shoving. A man in red bodychecks a man in blue; the man in blue drops to the ground. A sprawl. His jersey smeared, now, in brown and black. The man in red scores, ball in cage. More shouting; laughing, maybe. And expletives. The others crowd around. The man in red helps the man in blue stand and they embrace, suddenly congenial. Both filthy, now.

They all stomp off the field together, a collective motion back to the practice house. As they approach the doors, they see him. The man in red--the last to score--raises one muddy hand and smiles.

"Hey--uh. Jason, right?"

It isn't right, but he just smiles. "Good game."

"Scrimmage," says the man. "Work work, even in the off-season."

One of the others laughs. "Must be so hard for you, Anders--never on the bench."

"Frak off."

Teammates, they share a smile, and it makes something diffuse through his chest to witness it. A slow-spreading redness, dark and tight, and suddenly he's very warm, even against the season's unrelenting cold. None of them notice, moving en masse for the doors. The man in red--Anders--looks to him expectantly.

"You coming in? It's freezing out."

A nod. "Thank you," he says, when Anders holds the door for him.

The players shuffle around him, all kinetic energy, all of it bubbling over, even now, after the scrimmage. Beneath the fluorescent lights, they chase one another to the showers, indifferent to him. A rush to warmth. Cleanliness. Ablution.

Fragments of their conversation drift back to him.

"You know him?"

"Not really--he's in the PT office a lot. Yoga instructor, I think?"

"You would."

More laughter. A rising din of voices. The door to the showers opens and the echo of their conversation drowns them out completely.



-------

Untitled
Gaius Baltar (gen)
PG
written for [livejournal.com profile] astreamofstars' headcanon that Gaius's mother left his father when Gaius was young.


She's gone in the morning.

He lies in his bed, watching the sunrise bleed colorless and bright over the horizon out his window. The house is quiet, now, but his parents' fight remains like some ominous echo that only he can hear, ringing and resounding, filling up the silence. He doesn't move until his father shouts for him; his name almost lost among an impatient stream of curses and oaths.

"By Zeus's name, boy, I'll skin you alive if you aren't out here in ten minutes."

He tugs on clothes that scratch. That smell like soil and soap. He imagines her, arms wet to the elbows, scrubbing his shirts in the aluminum washbin. Stringing up the laundry, later, squinting into the sun. There is a burning in his throat and he stumbles out of his room just in time to hear his father holler again.

"You deaf, boy?"

In the entryway to the kitchen, he shuffles his feet. "No, sir."

Bright eyes, clear and sharp, narrow into a glare. "You come when I call you the first time, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get outside. 'Less you plan to starve the cows while you dwadle."

He nods and doesn't meet his father's eyes. It's the first time he can remember being glad for his duties, happy to throw himself into the mindless, exhausting effort of tending a farm. He works harder and faster than he ever has before, suddenly full to brimming with a frenetic tension that he cannot name--but that he knows will, without a doubt, consume him if he doesn't keep moving. He works until sweat stings his eyes, and then he works through that; blinking away tears.

As the sun traverses a cloudless sky, his shadow grows short in one direction and then long in the other. His shirt sticks to him, itchy and damp with sweat. It's not until the sun sinks close to the western horizon that he realizes he's thirsty--desperately so. He looks up from the red soil that he's tilling and does not see his father anywhere. He scrubs his brow.

A short walk to the water pump. He drinks until he needs to stop for breath. Wets his hair, his neck. His face. His stomach rumbles, but no one's come to call him for dinner.

Abruptly, he realizes, no one will come to call him for dinner.

He squints at the setting sun and imagines that the long cast of light looked very much like this when he ate yesterday and the day before. He trudges back to the house, reeking of the day's work. The screen door clacks shut behind him as he steps into the kitchen, peeling off his boots.

His father stands at the stove and doesn't turn at the sound of the door.

"You finished everything?" There is a strange quality to his voice.

"Yes."

"Brushed down the cows?" The words sound thick and wet and--

Oh. His face, quite suddenly, gets hot. "Yes, sir."

"Go wash up then. And don't be long about it. Dinner's nearly done."

He doesn't say 'yes' again, just trudges off to the washroom. Standing under the shower spray, he turns the water up to as hot as he can stand it. It fills the tiny tiled room with steam and stings its thrumming rhythm out across his shoulders and his back. He blows water off of his lips and thinks about the kitchen, the house, and his father.

The shuddering recollection of an argument.

Now, the arrhythmic sounding of their disagreements fades rapidly into the quiet. Now, her absence looms like some great yawning void, swallowing up all else. He hiccoughs, a strange and strangled and helpless sound, and he tips his head against the slick tile wall. The water beats down incessant, incessant, and in the face of all of this, he cries.



-----

Untitled
D'Anna + another Three (gen)
PG
written for one of the Valentine's day prompts at [livejournal.com profile] bsg_epics. prompt from [livejournal.com profile] rirenec: D'Anna + Another Three - what does it mean?



Her sister's hair is darker than hers, snaking in glistening tendrils over her shoulders. Wet. A strange dislocation, this face that matches hers but now no longer reflects her.

In the bathroom mirror, her actual reflection looks surprised. The image there a more perfect match, suddenly. Pale in the humming fluorescent light. A fall of golden hair. She blinks.

She doesn't understand.

"What did you do?"

Her sister touches a wet curl. "It's dye."

"Dye?"

"A different color. I…wanted something different."

"Different from what?"

Her sister shakes her head. Casts her gaze aside. All around them, the tiled bathroom is white. There are streaks and stains in the porcelain sink, wet and spiraling their way towards the drain. The color of chestnut. It smells chemical.

"From what?" she asks again.

Her sister stares at some indistinct point on the white tile walls. "Everything."

A despondent answer. This figure and her dark, dark hair seems so very far away. Against this, she speaks with the sense that her words will go unheard:

"Sister--"

"Tell me something."

"What?"

"Why do you think we're here?"

"On Caprica?"

A noncommittal shrug. The bathroom lights hum and hum, incessant.

"It's our duty. We are the heralds of God's flood."

And now, a look. Pale eyes in a strange face. The uncanny familiar. Her sister's gaze to hers. "Do you think so?"

"Does it matter?"

A quiet intake of breath. An exhalation, a deflation, and her sister looks away again and at this she feels something bright and vibrant slipping away from the universe, extinguished.

"No," her sister answers. "I suppose it doesn't."

On bare feet, her sister moves past her. Over the threshold and out the door. She looks back to the sink and twists on the water and washes away the dye.


-----

Untitled
D'Anna/Caprica-Six
PG-13
written for one of the Valentine's day prompts at [livejournal.com profile] bsg_epics. prompt from [livejournal.com profile] nicole_anell: Caprica, special


It's not that she regards sex as anything particularly profound or divine--nor does she set any special store by the end result, enjoyable though it may be.

Yet, in spite of all that, she finds herself enamored of the moments that she shares with Caprica, giving herself over to a particular state of closeness. What Caprica asks of her, D'Anna knows she wouldn't deny. In spite of all her private philosophy regarding the utilitarian nature of love, she closes her eyes and lets her self dissolve.

In the afterglow, she falls back against the bedding, out of breath and chasing vague thoughts of starlight and heat and static storms. Muzzy, nonspecific impressions. An internal world seen through some close-clotting cloud--and she breathes out and her eyes flutter.

A rustle of the sheets, a weighty warmth. She looks to find Caprica leaning over her, meeting her at the hips, her legs between D'Anna's. A wide and dazzling smile. Her hair tickles D'Anna's face.

"What are you laughing at?" D'Anna asks.

The haze is clearing, now. She brings a hand up to Caprica's torso. Palms the smooth arc of her ribs. A new warmth diffuses through her, brighter, this time.

Caprica leans in, pressing their foreheads together. "You," she answers. "You're so overcome."

"I am not overcome."

Bearing all her weight down, now, Caprica laughs, tucking her face into D'Anna's neck. "Whatever you say."

"I do say."

"Okay."

A beat of silence. D'Anna can feel the rise and fall of Caprica's breathing. Absently, she traces the ridges of Caprica's spine. Draws her fingers up to touch her hair. The arc of her shoulder is smooth and strong and, for no specific reason except that she wants to, D'Anna presses her mouth there. Caprica laughs again and the entrenched warmth in D'Anna's chest flares hotter. A subdued sense of nervous energy.

"Caprica," she murmurs.

Caprica shifts--her weight gone. She lays beside D'Anna, now, one arm draped in a languorous gesture over D'Anna's stomach.

"Yes?"

D'Anna looks up at the ceiling above them. No projections, now. No place but this moment. She feels weird and weightless without Caprica against her. "I..." A pause. The heat knots itself behind her sternum, in her gut. She finds Caprica's hand with her own, twines their fingers together. "Nothing."

When she looks at Caprica again, Caprica gazes back, serious and searching. "Nothing?"

D'Anna disentangles her hand. Cups Caprica's jaw. The heat presses tighter and tighter, until there seems to be no room within her for anything else. "Nothing."

Caprica catches her hand. Kisses her fingers. Her palm. Her wrist. When she moves closer, finally, to kiss D'Anna's mouth, the heat unfurls like a dazzling cloud, a stardust stream, and D'Anna arches up to meet her. She draws up one leg, skims a hand down between them. Caprica gasps into her mouth and D'Anna thinks that in this they have found the most particular and perfect state of bliss.



----

Untitled
D'Anna + Gaius (gen)
PG
written for one of the Valentine's day prompts over at [livejournal.com profile] bsg_epics. prompt from [livejournal.com profile] astreamofstars: Gaius - I do not love you except because I love you.


She's sitting alone on the jagged shore when he finds her. The grey waves crash and roar some several feet below them, hissing against the rocks, in and out, in and out. She hears him coming, his footfalls cautious and out of tempo with the seething sea.

The wind buffets her, tugging at her hair. Twisting. She doesn't look at him.

In time, he kneels to sit beside her.

"You really mean to stay," he says.

"I do."

"You'll die."

She looks at him. The sound of the tide and the wind fills her ears. The blind sky rolls over them. "I'll die anyway."

"We all die anyway."

Back to the sea. Gunmetal grey, sprawling out and out to the horizon. She is aware of a vast emptiness; the infinite silence of the universe. "You all die anyway."

"I suppose that makes you one of us, then."

She blows out a breath and doesn't answer. Blinks into the wind's briny sting.

He's still looking at her. "Would it matter if I said I didn't want you to? That I'd…like very much for you to come back with us."

"For what?" She gestures to the colorless seascape. "Look at this. This was our Eden; yours and mine. I have no place with you, now."

The wind howls, a singe against her cheeks and her eyes.

"D'Anna. So long as you live, you have a place in this universe."

Her mouth twists. "I forgot. You've found God." She tugs a hand through her hair and sighs. "It doesn't matter, Gaius. Your brave new world is not for me."

"Caprica--"

"Do not talk to me about Caprica."

He sucks in a shuddering breath. "Very well then." A pause. "I…see you will not be swayed. So let me at least say this: humans fear death for a reason. We fear death for the same reason we fear darkness--we cannot see it. We do not know what lies within it. An animal imperfection, to fear the unknown, I know." A watery inhale. He continues. "But…more than that, we fear hurt. We don't know what happens to the dead, but we know what happens to the ones who survive them. We fear death because we fear outliving the things we love--we fear the hurt that comes with inexplicable absence."

She looks at him. His eyes are glassy. He hesitates with the last.

"I…care for you quite earnestly, D'Anna. I fear the inexplicable state of a universe absent of you."

This, a confession to which she does not know how she is meant to react. She says instead: "I am already gone. Not dead yet, but gone. All my constituent parts--" Her mouth thins. She breathes out. "You should go back. They'll leave without you."

He leans in and kisses her. A chaste gesture, his lips to the corner of her mouth. She doesn't move.

He stands, and goes, his footsteps receding until there is no sound of him left anymore.

From:
Anonymous( )Anonymous This account has disabled anonymous posting.
OpenID( )OpenID You can comment on this post while signed in with an account from many other sites, once you have confirmed your email address. Sign in using OpenID.
User
Account name:
Password:
If you don't have an account you can create one now.
Subject:
HTML doesn't work in the subject.

Message:

If you are unable to use this captcha for any reason, please contact us by email at support@dreamwidth.org


 
Notice: This account is set to log the IP addresses of everyone who comments.
Links will be displayed as unclickable URLs to help prevent spam.

Profile

cold_clarity: (Default)
cold_clarity

August 2017

S M T W T F S
  12345
6789101112
13 141516171819
20212223242526
2728293031  

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 21st, 2017 05:26 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios