![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dangermousieTitle: The limitation of knowledge
Fandom: BSG, Helo/Boomer
Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t profit, blah blah
Spoilers: Nothing for anything that hasn’t aired yet
Summary: The memories have the vividness of dreams and that same disconnect from reality. She remembers but none of it is real.
Sharon isn’t sure how she feels about humans. Not yet. She remembers feeling love for the Chief-moments of bliss that made her feel as if she was made of air, as if she could pilot a Raptor blindfolded, as if she could survive in the vacuum of space. She remembers flying missions with Helo, their training exercises a routine, their patrols more so. She remembers their bond as only a friendship: jokes, and card games, and quick glances on his part when he thought she wasn’t looking, or when he was so tired or drunk or both that he didn’t care if she was. She remembers her initial awe of Adama, and her sharing a bottle with Starbuck, and passing Gaeta in the Mess.
These feelings aren’t hers, they never were, but a separate layer of the other Sharon’s memories is an ever present undercurrent, whispering steadily in the back of her mind. She has learned to separate it out, to let it run parallel and controlled, but the echoes of it still leach past the barrier, blend with self.
The memories have the vividness of dreams and that same disconnect from reality. She remembers but none of it is real.
What she knows is a much smaller pool. She remembers Galen, Starbuck, Adama. Love and friendship and devotion and the comfort of a team. What she knows is the wet of Caprica, seeping inexorably past the protective suit. The taste of blood in her mouth from Six’s elegant fists. The feel of pain from the wound in her shoulder, Adama’s hands around her throat, Starbuck’s gun looming in her face.
What she knows is Helo.
She knows the sound he makes when she bites his lower lip, a half smothered moan into her mouth which does funny things to her knees. She knows what comes after. She knows the smile he gives her when he wakes up for the first time with her in his arms. She knows the pattern of their banter and the texture of their silences. There is a small scar from a half-forgotten training accident on his left shoulder and she spends time on making sure she knows it too. She knows the feel of his child inside her, more than she knows anything else, even herself.
She is an interchangeable unit to everyone. A Cylon model identical to her hundreds of sisters, her mission the only goal in her life. A toaster enemy to be destroyed, wiped out without mercy, no different from the rest. She is interchangeable to everyone but him. He speaks to her and calls her Sharon. He looks at her and sees the woman he loves. She believes she is real and unique and apart because he does.
She knows so little: discomfort and pain and fear. She knows of memories that aren’t real and friends that aren’t hers. She knows the four corners of her cell, and the spare cool metal of her bed, and the ungainly shape of the prison telephone, and the rough threads of the blankets on her cot. She knows of distrust and hate and her otherness that marks her like a brand.
She knows Helo, and love, and the feel of his hands on her skin, and the look in his eyes as he holds her, and it makes it all worthwhile.
Fandom: BSG, Helo/Boomer
Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t profit, blah blah
Spoilers: Nothing for anything that hasn’t aired yet
Summary: The memories have the vividness of dreams and that same disconnect from reality. She remembers but none of it is real.
Sharon isn’t sure how she feels about humans. Not yet. She remembers feeling love for the Chief-moments of bliss that made her feel as if she was made of air, as if she could pilot a Raptor blindfolded, as if she could survive in the vacuum of space. She remembers flying missions with Helo, their training exercises a routine, their patrols more so. She remembers their bond as only a friendship: jokes, and card games, and quick glances on his part when he thought she wasn’t looking, or when he was so tired or drunk or both that he didn’t care if she was. She remembers her initial awe of Adama, and her sharing a bottle with Starbuck, and passing Gaeta in the Mess.
These feelings aren’t hers, they never were, but a separate layer of the other Sharon’s memories is an ever present undercurrent, whispering steadily in the back of her mind. She has learned to separate it out, to let it run parallel and controlled, but the echoes of it still leach past the barrier, blend with self.
The memories have the vividness of dreams and that same disconnect from reality. She remembers but none of it is real.
What she knows is a much smaller pool. She remembers Galen, Starbuck, Adama. Love and friendship and devotion and the comfort of a team. What she knows is the wet of Caprica, seeping inexorably past the protective suit. The taste of blood in her mouth from Six’s elegant fists. The feel of pain from the wound in her shoulder, Adama’s hands around her throat, Starbuck’s gun looming in her face.
What she knows is Helo.
She knows the sound he makes when she bites his lower lip, a half smothered moan into her mouth which does funny things to her knees. She knows what comes after. She knows the smile he gives her when he wakes up for the first time with her in his arms. She knows the pattern of their banter and the texture of their silences. There is a small scar from a half-forgotten training accident on his left shoulder and she spends time on making sure she knows it too. She knows the feel of his child inside her, more than she knows anything else, even herself.
She is an interchangeable unit to everyone. A Cylon model identical to her hundreds of sisters, her mission the only goal in her life. A toaster enemy to be destroyed, wiped out without mercy, no different from the rest. She is interchangeable to everyone but him. He speaks to her and calls her Sharon. He looks at her and sees the woman he loves. She believes she is real and unique and apart because he does.
She knows so little: discomfort and pain and fear. She knows of memories that aren’t real and friends that aren’t hers. She knows the four corners of her cell, and the spare cool metal of her bed, and the ungainly shape of the prison telephone, and the rough threads of the blankets on her cot. She knows of distrust and hate and her otherness that marks her like a brand.
She knows Helo, and love, and the feel of his hands on her skin, and the look in his eyes as he holds her, and it makes it all worthwhile.
