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03 August 2007 @ 09:50 pm
 
Here is the second fic I have written so far.  Once again in the BSG2003 fandom.  Beta help appreciated for flow, style, grammar, and BSG timeline inconsistencies.  It could be a little AU, but since there isn't anything I can find to suggest it never happened I don't know if that would be accurate.  Thanks!

Title: Spoils of Victory
Fandom: BSG 2003
Characters: Starbuck/Tigh
Warnings: The thought of these two may freak people out.
Rating: Lets go with R, for safety
Spoilers: through S3
Disclaimer(s):  I couldn't have thought these characters up if I tried so I'm just playing with these.  They aren't mine.  RDM came up with it, I'm just joyriding.


They drank.  Drank until they were so gone they were all the way back on New Caprica.  The heady warmth of alcohol pulsed memories to the surface and she could see the tent without closing her eyes, solid and real and waiting.  She had even tried to think of it as home.  There was something invested in that tent with its clutter, the smell of Sam after a game, which had seeped below her skin.  She really, honestly tried to make it their home and not just the place she slept and frakked.  Then everything had gone to hell.

The after times were the worst.  After the Cylons came back; after she was dragged from the tent screaming every dirty insult she could think of; after she found herself in a cage and could only hope she fought hard and died fast.  She would be walking down a corridor or getting dressed when the memory, complete with vivid colors wrapped in stereo sound, would push her to her knees unable to breathe.  Grabbing an old pocket knife she dug the blunt blade into her hand.  Focusing on the pain she forced the memory back into the depths of her cracking mind until it was gone leaving her gasping for air.  Showboat had pulled her back to her feet the first time.  Of course, Showboat hadn't been Showboat then.  Just another New Caprica refugee sleeping on the deck as they hauled ass away from the Cylons.  Someone who might have been a friend.  There had been a knowing glance and a hushed 'Watch out Kara'.  It was a silent confirmation that people (Lee, the Admiral) couldn't know about the cracks she'd ended up with.  She had managed to control the mental fraks (hard, fast, without so much as a kiss first) so very few had seen her sudden meltdowns.  Once Lee found out, he would peg her ass to the deck.  If she couldn't fly, she would be left with nothing but an invisible tent and a pathetic pocket knife.  Sadly, there was very little wood on a Battlestar for a fire.

At times it was almost comedic the way life would suddenly swirl like a broken ride at a bad carnival.  Hot Dog had looked around confused, focused on her for a moment before his head swiveled around him again as though waiting for something to jump out of the bulkhead at him.  With something like fear, he stepped back and mumbled something about being needed on deck before practically running the opposite direction.  She shook her head to clear it and realized that Hot Dog wasn't trapped on New Caprica with her - she was trapped on Galactica with him (where was an airlock when you desperately needed one).  The realization caused her to giggle a little on the manic side before searching out Tigh in earnest.

They were far from well walked corridors.  It was as much night as could be had on a Battlestar.  The small room was barely big enough to hold both of them.  They couldn't go to the Rec Room.  No.  Tonight they couldn't be seen.  It had been nearly two weeks since their last purging.  His nightmares must have become as sharp as hers because he had been looking for her too.  He had grasped for the bottle as though for air.  The delirium shone slickly on him leaving her no other choice.  She took a long swig and prayed the Gods' would help the lesser amount of rotgut quash tonight's demons.  Tigh licked his lips looking at the bottle with desperation.  He inhaled to say something.  She gave him a slight shake of her head pushing the bottle into his open hand steadying it.  Neither could remember who reached out first.  Eventually she felt her back against a bulkhead beating a frantic tattoo.  She heard him sigh softly into her hair.  A sob welled up within her and she opened her mouth to call to him, but snapped it shut abruptly remembering this wasn't either of the men she wanted.  And she wasn't the woman he was thinking of.  She was much more sober than she wanted to be. 

The corridors were deserted.  She dug her hands into her pockets, her right closing over the pocket knife.  It was quiet aside from the gentle thrumming of the hulking ship.  The liquor still gently hushed her blood.  She stopped and closed her eyes.  The tent stood before her becoming ever more tangible.  There was someone inside and a familiar scent wafted around her.  So close.  So close.  She forced herself to open her eyes and walked back to her rack.  If she was lucky, when she had crawled in and closed her eyes, the tent would still be there.


 
 
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