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Ficlets, save one.
breathe
In. Out. She punches, in time to the rhythm of her lungs. The punching gives her something to concentrate on, a focus that distracts her from the inevitable thought; he's dead.
Like flying a viper in combat, drinking too many shots until she can't see, abusing the punching bag helps.
Biers had cornered her there, asking stupid questions and getting stupider answers.
Trying not to think about him, not to imagine him walking into farm after farm, and dying with the first bullet that hits. Same blank-staring eyes as the Cylon she'd killed in the museum. Lifeless.
She hits the bag extra hard, spins and tries to kick out, but she's been doing this too long and it falls short.
Staggering, she laughs a little before grabbing the bag and leaning into it, her breathing a little ragged. Once stable, she steps back and raises her arms again.
Time for another go round, and then she can sleep.
No dreams to haunt her exhausted mind and body, no worries over a man she barely knows.
In. Out. She punches, the bag shifts, and the dance carries on.
-=-
Liz and Sam, drinking
She's back from Atlantis for less than a week when there's a knock on her door.
Opening it, she finds a jeans-clad Sam Carter standing on the other side, "Either we go to a bar, or a store for alcohol," the colonel says, her tone no-nonsense.
"What?" For just a moment, Elizabeth has no idea what's going on.
"Neither of us has to work tomorrow," Sam replies.
Her brain catches up and Elizabeth almost sighs. She doesn't want girly-talk and a night out to relax in. She wants... She wants Atlantis, but she's obviously not going to get that anytime soon. "Store," she demands.
"Good."
Liz ducks back in for shoes and her wallet, and then she links an arm through Sam's. "You know, if we put our minds to it, we could take over the world."
"Tried that, once," Sam replies as she drags her down the street. There's a market four blocks over, and Liz makes a note to get something for them to actually eat, as well. "It was a little boring."
A chuckle escapes Elizabeth. "Obviously, you weren't doing it right."
"That's what they all say."
It looks like the day is turning up. For a time, Elizabeth shelves her worry over Atlantis and her need to be there, and simply concentrates on having fun. Halfway through the night, Sam Carter unwinds enough to actually tell her that the war isn't going well. Then she proceeds to get as drunk as possible. After covering her with a blanket and staggering her way to bed, Elizabeth reflects that she's not the only one with issues. Some people have even bigger ones.
She falls asleep, arm around her pillow, the thought of waking and finding Atlantis was nothing but a dream chasing her down into the dark.
-=-
Billy and Vir, drinking
"This is only my second," the strange-looking man says.
Billy, who hasn't even had a drink yet, blinks at him. "I wasn't asking."
"Oh." The man sticks out a hand, "Vir Cotto, attache to Amabassador Mollari."
Taking his hand, Billy shakes it, replying in kind, "Billy Keikeya, aide to President Roslin. Though I suppose she's also an Ambassador now." He frowns and absently takes the seat next to Vir.
"Oh, you're with the Colonial Refugees," Vir nods, as though this is information of great importance that only he knows.
"Yeah." It occurs to Billy that he and Vir are very much alike. Both flunkies to powerful people. He sighs, "Any recommendations?"
-=-
Martha Jones and Kara Thrace...
Martha has ten seconds to get out of the building before it goes up--he said run, and she's running. Ten seconds, and she has to be the only person to find someone unconscious. Dammit.
I'm not a hero, Martha wants to shout, angered by fate. But then again, look who she hangs around with.
The woman on the ground makes a noise, and that ten seconds is now eight before Martha grabs her arm. "Run," she snaps, hauling the woman up.
Against gravity, against her obvious half-unconscious state, the woman moves.
Six seconds, and Martha can see the doors.
They're not moving fast enough.
Four seconds, and the woman stumbles, almost taking them both down.
Martha swears at her, the woman answers back, and they both put on speed.
Two seconds.
It's Martha who almost trips at one second, and they fall into the glass doors and out of them as the explosion rocks their world. Martha skins both knees and thinks she's going to start charging him for her medical expenses. She's not the bloody National Health, after all.
-=-
Katee and Trucco, drinking.
"Ten shots," Katee challenges.
Michael just laughs--hard enough that when she reaches over and shoves him, he almost falls off the stool. He grabs the bar to steady himself, and reaches over to shove back.
"Hey!" Katee smacks his hand, "No shoving before your first shot."
"Fine, fine," he waves a hand at the bartender, settling in for what promises to be a very bad time. Or a very good one, depending.
-=-
Sam and Daniel, drinking, and watching Star Wars.
Sam Anders was slumped on one end of a brown couch. In his hand was a bottle of beer, the fourth or fifth he'd been handed over the course of the night. In front of him, on a rather large television screen, was a movie he'd been told he had to watch.
It wasn't anything he hadn't seen before--in real life. But there was something almost relaxing about watching fake people get shot at.
"Why am I here again?" he asked, as he watched them go up against a big round thing.
"Cultural exchange," Daniel said from his end of the couch. He waved his own bottle of beer, "Roslin thinks we need a better understanding of each others' cultures."
This was, actually, the second time Sam had asked. The first time, he'd been subjected to an hour-long lecture that had left him really glad there was beer. "Oh. But why am *I* here? I'm just a civillian. Shouldn't it be the officers, or something?"
"Well," leaning forward, Daniel grabbed another bottle of beer, relinquishing the empty one. "You are a well-known figure amongst your people."
"Kara's known better. Or Apollo." Sam downed the last of his beer and frowned at the screen. "Where are the female pilots?"
"There aren't any."
Sam blinked, then looked at Daniel, "There aren't? Why not?"
"Uh, well, that's a cultural difference, right there." said Daniel. He seemed to settle into a lecturing mode, which was spoiled when he gestured and spilled a little beer. Not that he noticed. "Until recently, women were considered the weaker sex, to be protected and cared-for. It wasn't until the 1970s that women, as a whole, rose up against that and tried to make things equal. Not that they have. Although women like Sam are certainly furthering the cause."
Huh. Pointing with his empty bottle, Sam replied, "You spilled a little beer, there, man."
Daniel blinked at him.
"I believe, Daniel Jackson," said the third man in the room, comfortably ensconced in the easy chair, "that Samuel T. Anders is not the man to discuss cultural differences with."
"Oh."
Sam pointed at the screen, where Princess Leia was barking orders. "She, for instance, would make a really good viper pilot. And she's hot."
"Even in the white dress?"
"Yeah."
Teal'c, for his part, merely remained silent, but grinned widely as the Death Star exploded.
-=-
The first time Helo smacks Starbuck and/or vice versa
"Never bet against Starbuck, baby!"
She's like a bright shiny star, and Helo watches her from a table, almost gawking at the newest addition to Galactica's crew. She's reigning over the triad table like there's no tomorrow.
All night,she plays, cigar in her mouth, smirk on her lips, until the others fold and leave her the winner. She makes more mocking commentary on their prowess, then gathers her booty. As she walks from the room, she passes Helo, stops and slaps his shoulder. "The view's better from up close, honey."
He reaches out and smacks her ass as she walks by, "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."
And then she turns back and dives at him. She kicks his ass, but it's all good, in the end.
-=-
Cally and Travis, drinking
"Did you have to blow me up?" Travis asked as he dropped onto the chair across from her. He was sooty and tired-looking.
Cally shrugged, "Time ran short. Besides, it's nothing you haven't survived before."
"Yes, well, aren't you afraid this will bring back traumatic memories?"
"I don't know, has it?"
"Of course."
She rolled her eyes, "Poor you."
"Poor me, yes." He leaned forward and grabbed her drink, downing most of it and then burping rather obnoxiously before looking at her with his single eye. "I suppose you'll want me to pay for this, now?"
"Maybe I'm feeling generous." Cally leaned back in her own chair and propped a boot on the table.
"Has it occurred to you that we're getting old?"
"You're barely fifty. That's not old, that's just mature."
Of course she knew his age. Travis scowled harder at her. "And you're--"
"However old I am. What's the matter, feeling your age, Travis? Want to retire and have a nice nap before joining your year-mates at shuffelboard?"
"No," he glared and slammed her mug down.
It broke, scattering broken glass and pottery across his lap and the table. Cally laughed, and relaxed further into her seat. "Next round's on you. Obviously."
Muttering imprecations at her, he got up and stalked off to clean himself. And order the next round.
-=-
Kara/Anders, wedding night
They're married.
With the sweat cooling on her skin, and Sam half-asleep sprawled under her, it kind of hits her in the gut. Kara Thrace asked Sam Anders to marry her, he said yes, and now a priest has heard their vows in the early morning sun while the Admiral beamed at her and the river flowed by.
It's crazy and insane, and she doesn't know which of them was happier...
She IS happy. It scares the frak out her, but she is happy. There's something about this that clicks in her mind, that says this is right.
Almost too right. Too easy.
Life isn't supposed to be easy for Starbuck. She's known that for years--Leoben said it best, life is pain. If she can't believe in that, what can she believe in?
"Hey." Sam's fingers slide through her hair, tugging at the ends, "You're thinking too hard for a married woman."
"Nah, Mama always said I didn't do any thinkin' at all."
"Your mama was wrong," Sam replies, tone lazy. He smiles up at her, and the light in his eyes makes her want to run.
"Maybe."
"Definitely," his hands cup her shoulders and he pulls her back down against him. "Go to sleep, Kara."
She wiggles a little, amused at his order. "You gonna be in charge now?"
"Only if you want."
Hell. She's tired, anyway. Even if she doesn't want to think about this, about the openness in his eyes. "Sam..."
The muscles under her shift and tense, and he gains a stillness she isn't ready for, "Kara?"
"Nothing." She pushes up and kisses him sloppily before settling down against him. "Go to sleep."
-=-
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Heh.
I'm sure this was y'know, helpful commentary and whatnot.
(And yay for the Katee/Trucco!)
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Thaaaaaaankyou.
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Some of them may end up being expanded. Sigh. Woe, for being at work.
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I like Kara. When Ron isn't saying things that make me want to hit him with a frying pan.
(bah! I keep trying not to write it, too)
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*happily stares at your icon for a while* Damn, our fandom has the best women.
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Weir and Carter getting drunk together would really be worth the price of admission. Maybe next season they can do it all the time.
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However, what you say is truth. If they teamed up, they would no doubt have a longer career (and lifespan) than any of their less practical and driven previous teammates. (Except Servalan, who seems to be able to survive anything.)
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They can! Y'know, if women actually talk to each other. So far, the Skiffy writers don't think so.
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Well, no more now.
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They are very pretty, of course. Even when all sweaty and dirty and beaten up from getting shot at.
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And I'm surprised, because I thought I had done the wedding night. But, no, I've just done the morning after--and that was before we found out how they got married. *stops rambling, and grins*
Thank you =)