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Entry tags:
fic: BSG, Visceral, 13+ Lee angst. sigh. S2 spoilers. 2.01.
Disclaimer: not mine. Rating: eh, 13+
Spoilers: All of season one, and episode 2.01 "Scattered".
Genre: Angst. Gen. Episode insert.
Length: 1,013 words. I swear, this was MEANT to be a drabble. Damn you, Lee!
Notes: written under influence of Bowie, Gravity Kills and the Strange Days soundtrack. I'm going to bed now that Lee has shut up.
visceral
by ALC Punk!
He smells like blood.
Curiously enough, he remembers quite clearly that when he arrived on Galactica after the Cylons had destroyed his entire world that his father smelled like blood. They'd hugged, an awkward move for both of them.
He wonders if his father's blood is something he will always smell after momentous occasions, or if it's just happenstance.
The guards won't remove the shackles, and he wonders if the drying blood is some sort of penance--the sticky mess left on his arms because he dared to disagree, dared to disobey--if Colonel Tigh is even thinking such things.
All he knows is a crushing sense of defeat, the feeling that it's spinning all wrong (out of control, out of anyone's control). And he won't be able to get it back.
None of them will be able to recover from the tailspin and move on.
Not even Starbuck.
He tries not to consider that Kara is dead, that his father is dying, that Doc Cottle wasn't on board when they jumped.
Realistically, Lee can't not think.
And praying is out of the question. Not now, when the gods have systematically stripped away every possibility of belief in them.
The blood is tacky on his hands, drying into gunk on his knuckles and wrists, coating the cuffs in a physical reminder of the price of war. Lee doesn't think he was this philosophical, before. Back when he had ideals and causes to fight for.
But then, his world hadn't crashed to a halt, blood staining every inch of it before.
His father's blood stains his hands. And he wonders if it will ever not be his fault. If he'd just behaved a little more, pushed a little less. If he had been standing next to him when the shots were fired--his hands clench into fists.
Lee Adama used to have the patience of a saint.
He remembers Zak following him around, trying so hard to be just like him (just like their dad, and even then he'd hated the old man with a passion). Falling into trouble, but trying to be like Lee. Desperately hanging onto the coat-tails of his older brother. As if he tried hard enough, he would be him. Lee thinks he should have been able to stop him.
Stop his brother from trying to become a viper pilot (event number seven which changed his life, and he remembers getting in a bar fight and tasting his split lip at the funeral).
Sweat stains his shirts, soaks his skin and it's from worry and stress and the fact that the brig is just too damned hot. There's blood on his pants (blood gets everywhere, he remembers Kara telling him that once, them demonstrating two days later in a bar fight that left her laughing while her opponent nursed a broken nose and blackened eye, scarlet streaked down his shirt), but he can't get rid of it anymore than he can get the blood off his hands.
A strange thought hits him and he almost laughs, but doesn't, knowing the sound would be bitter. The lighter his father loaned him for the assault on the asteroid would be perfect to have right now.
He could burn his clothing in some sort of insane protest (Tom Zarek would be sure to approve).
It's a thought worthy of Starbuck, and it hits him that she might never come back. That she's gone on an insane mission from a woman he's not sure he believes in anymore (not that he has any belief left to give). As if some frakking arrow will save all of their lives, will make his father live.
And he's not even sure Kara will forgive him if she comes back.
His dressing-down of her in front of the hangar crew had been--if he's honest with himself, the entire scenario should have been professional, should have been a CAG setting the standard among his officers (not that any CAG could ever have kept Starbuck in line, but he had to try), his pilots. The people who are supposed to have standards and a duty beyond the next frak.
Instead, he'd made it personal. And he'd lost her respect, and a little of his own.
Lee can still taste the blood from her punch, wonders if she has the same problem, or if she's tasting her own death.
Not a thought he wants to consider, and he adds it to the pile along with the one of his father (so still and broken and slack, all life gone from him and he's a tiny man, suddenly) sprawled across the map table in the CIC.
Dualla's voice drifts across his memory, softly praying. She always smells like cinnamon and the electric tang of overloaded computer equipment that is the background everything on Galactica carries, no matter how hard the air scrubbers work to remove it. It's ironic that the one man who believed the gods were merely a useful symbol to inspire people is being prayed over.
There's no telling what the old man would have thought of that. Probably would have given his standard poker face and a platitude about people needing hope in the darkest hour.
Somehow, Lee thinks he could stand to hear that. Even if he still hates what his father has decided, even if he doesn't agree the old man is right. Just to hear his father say something would be enough. He considers whether this makes him soft. Whether the hatred that used to pulse under the surface has merely been redirected elsewhere, or whether it's simply waiting to errupt again.
Funny, how the world ending changes the way you think.
Turns black into silver and white into red. Makes hope turn to dust and love become jealousy. Lee doesn't want to consider what it all means.
Not now, while his arms are still covered in his father's blood, and he remembers being impulsively hugged (you're alive, son. Thank the gods.).
And he thinks, maybe his father believes in something after all.
-f-
Spoilers: All of season one, and episode 2.01 "Scattered".
Genre: Angst. Gen. Episode insert.
Length: 1,013 words. I swear, this was MEANT to be a drabble. Damn you, Lee!
Notes: written under influence of Bowie, Gravity Kills and the Strange Days soundtrack. I'm going to bed now that Lee has shut up.
visceral
by ALC Punk!
He smells like blood.
Curiously enough, he remembers quite clearly that when he arrived on Galactica after the Cylons had destroyed his entire world that his father smelled like blood. They'd hugged, an awkward move for both of them.
He wonders if his father's blood is something he will always smell after momentous occasions, or if it's just happenstance.
The guards won't remove the shackles, and he wonders if the drying blood is some sort of penance--the sticky mess left on his arms because he dared to disagree, dared to disobey--if Colonel Tigh is even thinking such things.
All he knows is a crushing sense of defeat, the feeling that it's spinning all wrong (out of control, out of anyone's control). And he won't be able to get it back.
None of them will be able to recover from the tailspin and move on.
Not even Starbuck.
He tries not to consider that Kara is dead, that his father is dying, that Doc Cottle wasn't on board when they jumped.
Realistically, Lee can't not think.
And praying is out of the question. Not now, when the gods have systematically stripped away every possibility of belief in them.
The blood is tacky on his hands, drying into gunk on his knuckles and wrists, coating the cuffs in a physical reminder of the price of war. Lee doesn't think he was this philosophical, before. Back when he had ideals and causes to fight for.
But then, his world hadn't crashed to a halt, blood staining every inch of it before.
His father's blood stains his hands. And he wonders if it will ever not be his fault. If he'd just behaved a little more, pushed a little less. If he had been standing next to him when the shots were fired--his hands clench into fists.
Lee Adama used to have the patience of a saint.
He remembers Zak following him around, trying so hard to be just like him (just like their dad, and even then he'd hated the old man with a passion). Falling into trouble, but trying to be like Lee. Desperately hanging onto the coat-tails of his older brother. As if he tried hard enough, he would be him. Lee thinks he should have been able to stop him.
Stop his brother from trying to become a viper pilot (event number seven which changed his life, and he remembers getting in a bar fight and tasting his split lip at the funeral).
Sweat stains his shirts, soaks his skin and it's from worry and stress and the fact that the brig is just too damned hot. There's blood on his pants (blood gets everywhere, he remembers Kara telling him that once, them demonstrating two days later in a bar fight that left her laughing while her opponent nursed a broken nose and blackened eye, scarlet streaked down his shirt), but he can't get rid of it anymore than he can get the blood off his hands.
A strange thought hits him and he almost laughs, but doesn't, knowing the sound would be bitter. The lighter his father loaned him for the assault on the asteroid would be perfect to have right now.
He could burn his clothing in some sort of insane protest (Tom Zarek would be sure to approve).
It's a thought worthy of Starbuck, and it hits him that she might never come back. That she's gone on an insane mission from a woman he's not sure he believes in anymore (not that he has any belief left to give). As if some frakking arrow will save all of their lives, will make his father live.
And he's not even sure Kara will forgive him if she comes back.
His dressing-down of her in front of the hangar crew had been--if he's honest with himself, the entire scenario should have been professional, should have been a CAG setting the standard among his officers (not that any CAG could ever have kept Starbuck in line, but he had to try), his pilots. The people who are supposed to have standards and a duty beyond the next frak.
Instead, he'd made it personal. And he'd lost her respect, and a little of his own.
Lee can still taste the blood from her punch, wonders if she has the same problem, or if she's tasting her own death.
Not a thought he wants to consider, and he adds it to the pile along with the one of his father (so still and broken and slack, all life gone from him and he's a tiny man, suddenly) sprawled across the map table in the CIC.
Dualla's voice drifts across his memory, softly praying. She always smells like cinnamon and the electric tang of overloaded computer equipment that is the background everything on Galactica carries, no matter how hard the air scrubbers work to remove it. It's ironic that the one man who believed the gods were merely a useful symbol to inspire people is being prayed over.
There's no telling what the old man would have thought of that. Probably would have given his standard poker face and a platitude about people needing hope in the darkest hour.
Somehow, Lee thinks he could stand to hear that. Even if he still hates what his father has decided, even if he doesn't agree the old man is right. Just to hear his father say something would be enough. He considers whether this makes him soft. Whether the hatred that used to pulse under the surface has merely been redirected elsewhere, or whether it's simply waiting to errupt again.
Funny, how the world ending changes the way you think.
Turns black into silver and white into red. Makes hope turn to dust and love become jealousy. Lee doesn't want to consider what it all means.
Not now, while his arms are still covered in his father's blood, and he remembers being impulsively hugged (you're alive, son. Thank the gods.).
And he thinks, maybe his father believes in something after all.
-f-
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Well, I don't think I'll be doing all-angst all the time all that often. But, er, maybe?
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I love new BSG episodes and new fics to accompany them!
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I like Dee. Sigh. And I'd decided to try for 1000 words y then, and had to come up with something... ;)
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Extremely well done, hon. I loved it muchly. Brava.
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I'm still disturbed I had him in my head. Hrm.
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thank you =)