BSG fic: Hope, 1/1
Nov. 30th, 2005 12:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dangermousieTitle: Hope
Fandom: BSG
Spoilers: Through 2.07
Author's Note: This was written for a BSG ficathon where the request was for Helo/Sharon, a brighter future, a kiss or more than a kiss, and no death, graphic violence, or evil!sharon.
Sharon’s nails are immaculately clean. Her hair is carefully pulled back. The thin blanket is folded neatly, and the pillow is placed just so on the bed. If she was still the cadet she remembers through the lens of the other Sharon, she’d probably get a commendation or two. It isn’t because she is fond of regulations, of course. All this order makes the bare room even more bare, deprived of messy clutter that would make it more…alive. It’s just that there isn’t much to occupy one’s time when you are in the brig, in isolation, and the main conversationalist you have is an occasional and twitchy doctor who stares at you as if you are an improbable mix of a laboratory toad and all he’s hoped for in life.
She doesn’t mind it too much though. After the excitement of Caprica and Kobol, she doesn’t mind that the highlight of her day is usually trying to determine how long her present clothes will last. It’s not as if she’s had a life of scintillating leisure before, and she’s lasted a lot longer than any rational part of her brain thought she would. She could have been shot on the ground, pushed out of the airlock in space. Shot, strangled, spaced out. Dead, dead, dead. But I am not, she thinks as she picks at the loose rough threads of the blanket. So, not too bad.
Of course, that is what she repeats to herself when cracks assemble in her careful logic. The key to not being disappointed is not to expect the unlikely. Helo. She hasn’t seen him since she was brought in, and they talked through a clunky telephone and a barrier of glass. It’s been more than a few days and she thinks he has probably been denied permission to visit her. She is not quite hard-headed enough to believe he has no desire to see her now that he is home, or at least as much of home as is left.
Here her careful considerations break down and she stares with blank eyes at the walls for a bit, and then she straightens the room again, occupying her hands, if not her mind. It is while she is busy with straightening the already taut sheets that she hears the slightly off-kilter noise that precedes the opening of the door. It is not meal time, and she looks up, surprised, at Dr. Baltar. Only it’s not him. Helo walks across the threshold and for an instant, surprise holds her immobile and mute. He is wearing a uniform that must be someone else’s: its shoulders are too big and it doesn’t fit quite right. His face is limned with exhaustion, his hair a mess, and there are shadows the size of coins under his eyes. She notices all that, or would, if she wasn’t busy with other matters: his hands on hers, his lips on hers, his eyes on hers.
He is telling her that he had to talk them into letting him see her. And that now he can visit her whenever he likes. He is telling her other things too. She listens.
His hands touch her face and she hears the sound of his indrawn breath.
For the first time in more days than she cares to remember, she allows herself another human emotion: hope.
Fandom: BSG
Spoilers: Through 2.07
Author's Note: This was written for a BSG ficathon where the request was for Helo/Sharon, a brighter future, a kiss or more than a kiss, and no death, graphic violence, or evil!sharon.
Sharon’s nails are immaculately clean. Her hair is carefully pulled back. The thin blanket is folded neatly, and the pillow is placed just so on the bed. If she was still the cadet she remembers through the lens of the other Sharon, she’d probably get a commendation or two. It isn’t because she is fond of regulations, of course. All this order makes the bare room even more bare, deprived of messy clutter that would make it more…alive. It’s just that there isn’t much to occupy one’s time when you are in the brig, in isolation, and the main conversationalist you have is an occasional and twitchy doctor who stares at you as if you are an improbable mix of a laboratory toad and all he’s hoped for in life.
She doesn’t mind it too much though. After the excitement of Caprica and Kobol, she doesn’t mind that the highlight of her day is usually trying to determine how long her present clothes will last. It’s not as if she’s had a life of scintillating leisure before, and she’s lasted a lot longer than any rational part of her brain thought she would. She could have been shot on the ground, pushed out of the airlock in space. Shot, strangled, spaced out. Dead, dead, dead. But I am not, she thinks as she picks at the loose rough threads of the blanket. So, not too bad.
Of course, that is what she repeats to herself when cracks assemble in her careful logic. The key to not being disappointed is not to expect the unlikely. Helo. She hasn’t seen him since she was brought in, and they talked through a clunky telephone and a barrier of glass. It’s been more than a few days and she thinks he has probably been denied permission to visit her. She is not quite hard-headed enough to believe he has no desire to see her now that he is home, or at least as much of home as is left.
Here her careful considerations break down and she stares with blank eyes at the walls for a bit, and then she straightens the room again, occupying her hands, if not her mind. It is while she is busy with straightening the already taut sheets that she hears the slightly off-kilter noise that precedes the opening of the door. It is not meal time, and she looks up, surprised, at Dr. Baltar. Only it’s not him. Helo walks across the threshold and for an instant, surprise holds her immobile and mute. He is wearing a uniform that must be someone else’s: its shoulders are too big and it doesn’t fit quite right. His face is limned with exhaustion, his hair a mess, and there are shadows the size of coins under his eyes. She notices all that, or would, if she wasn’t busy with other matters: his hands on hers, his lips on hers, his eyes on hers.
He is telling her that he had to talk them into letting him see her. And that now he can visit her whenever he likes. He is telling her other things too. She listens.
His hands touch her face and she hears the sound of his indrawn breath.
For the first time in more days than she cares to remember, she allows herself another human emotion: hope.
