![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
birthdays!
Am I late? I'm probably late. For Tris, anyway. PLZ FORGIVE.
Wishing the very best of birthdays to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hobviously and baggers!
(Written straight into update box with the SINCERE INTENTION OF BEING DRABBLES, but we all know how good I am at writing drabbles that actually have a decently small wordcounts, ie. massively craptacular.)
Ficlettes. They're birthday gifts, so they deserve the schmancy Frenchification.
I know that Tris supports my belief that there is not and never will be enough fic about Billy and Cancerprezlin. This is for her. I'm killing two birds with one stone. Um. Not literally. I AM NOT RON D MOORE. FOR WHICH WE ALL SAY THANKYA.
~ ~ ~
The day Billy is accepted to the political program at Caprica City University, his parents decide to throw a party. It's not all that impressive, as parties go; just them and him, sitting around the table drinking champagne that's probably just a little out of their price range, laughing and coming up with ever-more-implausible campaign slogans for when he runs for President of the Colonies. Edie drops in for an hour, slips him a small package, ruffles his hair and smiles distractedly. She's moving house, packing up her life into cardboard boxes and taking it all to Picon to be with Jack.
Billy's never really drunk much. His arms feel light after a single glass, and his voice sounds a bit louder.
When his parents are in bed he sits in the half-dark and opens the present from Edie; it's a pen, sleek and green and very old-fashioned. The tiny card with it just says: make your mark.
He reads the card five times and then smiles, warmth spreading down his chest.
Everybody has to start somewhere.
~
"A cocktail party?"
"Will you do me the honour, Mr. Keikaya?" Roslin makes an elegant, funny kind of bow.
"I -" Billy forces his fingers apart. He's always fiddled with his knuckles too much, a nervous habit. She picked up soon after meeting him, of course, and told him that a good politician never shows their moods with mannerisms. "Are you sure?"
"It's part of the position." She smiles, and he's at ease. "Listening to the right people, and listening to the people you don't really care about but have to be seen listening to."
"I can't believe you're almost as new to this business as me," he says, daring to tease. They clicked on day one, and if Billy believed in the gods he would be giving thanks that his first proper job is serving under a politician so likeable. He had braced himself for a rough time, a harsh public figure.
"Oh, gods, I'm sounding callous." She pushes her glasses up on her nose and something flickers across her smile, but then that passes and it's as warm as ever.
There is that about Laura Roslin. She always seems to be surprising herself.
Billy watches her and wonders how much she is hiding.
~
It's a good party.
Roslin wears deep, deep red and bows her head so that the light sings off her hair and stands a few inches to Adar's left as he talks to the head of the Trade Commission.
Her mouth doesn't move.
(Billy's seen magicians who can do that trick.)
He smiles to himself and tries to avoid being asked to dance.
~
His birthday is six days after the end of the world, when his life is spinning and hollow and so small that it won't fill even the smallest of cardboard boxes.
He wants to tell someone, and he feels horribly guilty for wanting to tell someone. The human race's priorities were just forced apart and reassembled. Nobody cares when he was born. Everyone's minds are ticking over with grief and determination and death, death, death.
He spends the day doing paperwork until his head pounds, and he doesn't ask for a painkiller because there are probably going to be far worse headaches in the future and for all he knows there could be only ten boxes of painkillers left in the entire universe.
He reads, and reads, and reports, and reads.
Black marks swirl on the printouts. Sawdust and acid rain throw a party behind his eyes.
~
The day Gaius Baltar is elected Vice President, Billy hears music again for the first time. He's never really liked jazz, but on that evening it sounds like the most wonderful thing in the world.
Dualla is small and neat and perfect, and very capable of taking the lead when they dance without making it obvious that she is doing so. He grins as she spins under his arm. Eventually he begs off to get a drink, and when he returns Gaeta is dancing with Dee and they're both hamming it up so ridiculously that he almost snorts ice. Lee Adama joins him, sipping at water and looking so smart in his dress uniform that Billy feels abruptly self-conscious, but they can exchange no more than a few words before Starbuck marches up and grabs the CAG's elbows, tugging him back out onto the dancefloor with a threatening look and a muttered comment about ridiculous captains who are a disgrace to the uniform and won't even remember when they've promised a girl a dance.
He almost doesn't notice her until she's at his elbow. It's another trick. One day he'll find the invisible wires. But for now he sets down his glass and is privately glad at the lightness in her eyes and the strain that this evening has lifted from her mouth.
"Will you do me the honour, Mr. Keikaya?"
She bows.
He laughs.
~
The night after she leaves, with Lee Adama and Elosha and Zarek - he does not like and will never like the fact that this enigmatic man with the sharp eyes and the odd dangerous half-smile is helping her in his place - he lies in his rack and thinks, with grim determination, about his family. About the pen that was in his tiny desk back on Caprica. About the card that -
He remembers something, and suddenly he's stumbling frantic across the room to find his battered leather folder. He slips his fingers under the lining and feels until the worn cardboard edge lies across the tip of his index finger. It's in too far to pull it out, but that's all right. It's there.
Make your mark, Billy Keikaya.
He considers saying a prayer for Edie, for his parents. For Roslin. He considers asking grace and protection from some vague wafting entities that, if they exist, let his race be hunted nearly to extinction.
He doesn't.
~
Adama says: she thinks you're going to be President some day.
He doesn't believe it in the Raptor and he doesn't believe it when they're trudging through the forests of Kobol and he doesn't believe it until the moment he steps awkwardly across the uneven ground - Madame President - and she smiles at him, slow and wondering and proud.
~ ~ ~
I was totally and utterly stumped as to what to write for Ash, because she has better taste than those of us still dwelling in the murky depths of unconditional masochistic love of BSG, and has moved on to new and shinier fandoms. About which she rambles most entertainingly, but about which I know little, for the most part :D SO. Rather than attempting to write for a fandom for which I have never seen the canon (I've done it before!) - Grey's fic. I have seen Season 1 only and that was a while ago don't hit me if I screw up.
~ ~ ~
Cristina lies in the on-call room and doesn't even try to sleep. No use. She just got out of a three-hour bypass that drained her of everything she had, leaving her this brittle vessel of sarcasm and adrenalin. She sends half-hearted glares at the back of Meredith's comatose head - the other girl had just mumbled something soft and collapsed into sleep immediately. Cristina rubs her stiff, tingling fingers together and makes lists in her head. Old habit.
The muscular movements of the foot are: dorsiflexion, plantarflexion, eversion, inversion.
Before her mother's next visit, she needs to: pick up her red coat from the drycleaners, book tickets to the opera, vacuum the living room, learn to cook more than three dishes.
The really fucking irritating things about Burke sleeping at her place are: the disapproving looks he gives her pantry shelves when he discovers she doesn't have turmeric, the songs he hums that get stuck in her head for days, the way she finds herself leaving the side of the bed empty when he's not there, and the fact that his toothbrush looks so domestic next to hers.
She protests this last with determined coolness.
~
But when he next stays the night, his toothbrush is another inch closer to hers. He hums and makes waffles and she stares into her coffee mug, forcing polite conversation out through her teeth and trying to sound appreciative. She wants to be alone with the space inside her head. But they're very good waffles.
"Why don't I just leave my toothbrush here? I can always buy another for my own place. Saves the hassle."
She buys him a toiletries bag. Blue. Sophisticated looking.
Somehow, the transported toothbrush ends up lying on the side of her sink again. She scowls through the terrifying wiry strands of her morning-hair and throws it back into the bag.
~
And so it goes. It's worse than a war over the toilet seat; not that Burke ever leaves the toilet seat up, no, of course not, he's a fucking gentleman. A fucking gentleman with a stubbonly recalcitrant toothbrush.
The boyfriends she has had who never left the toilet seat up are: nonexistent.
Clearly, he's an alien.
~
She passes him in the hallway, running to a code, barely noticing the painful slap of her aching feet against the hard floor. He nods. She's gone before his chin falls.
~
One cold morning she wakes before her alarm, when the dawn light is just stretching grey and thin through the gap between her curtains, which she has never been able to force closed all the way. She sits up and wraps herself in what is probably an unfair majority of the blankets, and watches him. His nose is half-buried in the crack where their pillows meet, and there is the beginning of a morning shadow on his chin.
When she catches herself with her fingertips hovering over his cheek, she throws back the blankets and forces herself out into the cold room. She walks to the bathroom on unsteady feet, toes curled in against the cold, and gasps as she splashes water onto her face.
The things she hates about winter are: the torture of early mornings, whole weeks without seeing the sun, shivering through her scrubs despite the harsh lights of the hospital.
His toothbrush is in the bag. She gnaws on her lip and shifts from foot to frozen foot on the tiles before carefully tipping the bag over so that the toothbrush lies across the open zipper. The head is poking out, encroaching on her soap dish.
That's all she's giving him.
For now.
~
The reasons she won't give him up are: he'll drench her waffles in syrup without even asking, her stomach will flutter ridiculously at the tilting private smile he gives her from across the hospital cafeteria, and sometimes his voice is the only thing that will talk her down from the jittery high; his hands the only thing that keep her from snapping.
Wishing the very best of birthdays to
hobviously and baggers!(Written straight into update box with the SINCERE INTENTION OF BEING DRABBLES, but we all know how good I am at writing drabbles that actually have a decently small wordcounts, ie. massively craptacular.)
Ficlettes. They're birthday gifts, so they deserve the schmancy Frenchification.
I know that Tris supports my belief that there is not and never will be enough fic about Billy and Cancerprezlin. This is for her. I'm killing two birds with one stone. Um. Not literally. I AM NOT RON D MOORE. FOR WHICH WE ALL SAY THANKYA.
~ ~ ~
The day Billy is accepted to the political program at Caprica City University, his parents decide to throw a party. It's not all that impressive, as parties go; just them and him, sitting around the table drinking champagne that's probably just a little out of their price range, laughing and coming up with ever-more-implausible campaign slogans for when he runs for President of the Colonies. Edie drops in for an hour, slips him a small package, ruffles his hair and smiles distractedly. She's moving house, packing up her life into cardboard boxes and taking it all to Picon to be with Jack.
Billy's never really drunk much. His arms feel light after a single glass, and his voice sounds a bit louder.
When his parents are in bed he sits in the half-dark and opens the present from Edie; it's a pen, sleek and green and very old-fashioned. The tiny card with it just says: make your mark.
He reads the card five times and then smiles, warmth spreading down his chest.
Everybody has to start somewhere.
~
"A cocktail party?"
"Will you do me the honour, Mr. Keikaya?" Roslin makes an elegant, funny kind of bow.
"I -" Billy forces his fingers apart. He's always fiddled with his knuckles too much, a nervous habit. She picked up soon after meeting him, of course, and told him that a good politician never shows their moods with mannerisms. "Are you sure?"
"It's part of the position." She smiles, and he's at ease. "Listening to the right people, and listening to the people you don't really care about but have to be seen listening to."
"I can't believe you're almost as new to this business as me," he says, daring to tease. They clicked on day one, and if Billy believed in the gods he would be giving thanks that his first proper job is serving under a politician so likeable. He had braced himself for a rough time, a harsh public figure.
"Oh, gods, I'm sounding callous." She pushes her glasses up on her nose and something flickers across her smile, but then that passes and it's as warm as ever.
There is that about Laura Roslin. She always seems to be surprising herself.
Billy watches her and wonders how much she is hiding.
~
It's a good party.
Roslin wears deep, deep red and bows her head so that the light sings off her hair and stands a few inches to Adar's left as he talks to the head of the Trade Commission.
Her mouth doesn't move.
(Billy's seen magicians who can do that trick.)
He smiles to himself and tries to avoid being asked to dance.
~
His birthday is six days after the end of the world, when his life is spinning and hollow and so small that it won't fill even the smallest of cardboard boxes.
He wants to tell someone, and he feels horribly guilty for wanting to tell someone. The human race's priorities were just forced apart and reassembled. Nobody cares when he was born. Everyone's minds are ticking over with grief and determination and death, death, death.
He spends the day doing paperwork until his head pounds, and he doesn't ask for a painkiller because there are probably going to be far worse headaches in the future and for all he knows there could be only ten boxes of painkillers left in the entire universe.
He reads, and reads, and reports, and reads.
Black marks swirl on the printouts. Sawdust and acid rain throw a party behind his eyes.
~
The day Gaius Baltar is elected Vice President, Billy hears music again for the first time. He's never really liked jazz, but on that evening it sounds like the most wonderful thing in the world.
Dualla is small and neat and perfect, and very capable of taking the lead when they dance without making it obvious that she is doing so. He grins as she spins under his arm. Eventually he begs off to get a drink, and when he returns Gaeta is dancing with Dee and they're both hamming it up so ridiculously that he almost snorts ice. Lee Adama joins him, sipping at water and looking so smart in his dress uniform that Billy feels abruptly self-conscious, but they can exchange no more than a few words before Starbuck marches up and grabs the CAG's elbows, tugging him back out onto the dancefloor with a threatening look and a muttered comment about ridiculous captains who are a disgrace to the uniform and won't even remember when they've promised a girl a dance.
He almost doesn't notice her until she's at his elbow. It's another trick. One day he'll find the invisible wires. But for now he sets down his glass and is privately glad at the lightness in her eyes and the strain that this evening has lifted from her mouth.
"Will you do me the honour, Mr. Keikaya?"
She bows.
He laughs.
~
The night after she leaves, with Lee Adama and Elosha and Zarek - he does not like and will never like the fact that this enigmatic man with the sharp eyes and the odd dangerous half-smile is helping her in his place - he lies in his rack and thinks, with grim determination, about his family. About the pen that was in his tiny desk back on Caprica. About the card that -
He remembers something, and suddenly he's stumbling frantic across the room to find his battered leather folder. He slips his fingers under the lining and feels until the worn cardboard edge lies across the tip of his index finger. It's in too far to pull it out, but that's all right. It's there.
Make your mark, Billy Keikaya.
He considers saying a prayer for Edie, for his parents. For Roslin. He considers asking grace and protection from some vague wafting entities that, if they exist, let his race be hunted nearly to extinction.
He doesn't.
~
Adama says: she thinks you're going to be President some day.
He doesn't believe it in the Raptor and he doesn't believe it when they're trudging through the forests of Kobol and he doesn't believe it until the moment he steps awkwardly across the uneven ground - Madame President - and she smiles at him, slow and wondering and proud.
~ ~ ~
I was totally and utterly stumped as to what to write for Ash, because she has better taste than those of us still dwelling in the murky depths of unconditional masochistic love of BSG, and has moved on to new and shinier fandoms. About which she rambles most entertainingly, but about which I know little, for the most part :D SO. Rather than attempting to write for a fandom for which I have never seen the canon (I've done it before!) - Grey's fic. I have seen Season 1 only and that was a while ago don't hit me if I screw up.
~ ~ ~
Cristina lies in the on-call room and doesn't even try to sleep. No use. She just got out of a three-hour bypass that drained her of everything she had, leaving her this brittle vessel of sarcasm and adrenalin. She sends half-hearted glares at the back of Meredith's comatose head - the other girl had just mumbled something soft and collapsed into sleep immediately. Cristina rubs her stiff, tingling fingers together and makes lists in her head. Old habit.
The muscular movements of the foot are: dorsiflexion, plantarflexion, eversion, inversion.
Before her mother's next visit, she needs to: pick up her red coat from the drycleaners, book tickets to the opera, vacuum the living room, learn to cook more than three dishes.
The really fucking irritating things about Burke sleeping at her place are: the disapproving looks he gives her pantry shelves when he discovers she doesn't have turmeric, the songs he hums that get stuck in her head for days, the way she finds herself leaving the side of the bed empty when he's not there, and the fact that his toothbrush looks so domestic next to hers.
She protests this last with determined coolness.
~
But when he next stays the night, his toothbrush is another inch closer to hers. He hums and makes waffles and she stares into her coffee mug, forcing polite conversation out through her teeth and trying to sound appreciative. She wants to be alone with the space inside her head. But they're very good waffles.
"Why don't I just leave my toothbrush here? I can always buy another for my own place. Saves the hassle."
She buys him a toiletries bag. Blue. Sophisticated looking.
Somehow, the transported toothbrush ends up lying on the side of her sink again. She scowls through the terrifying wiry strands of her morning-hair and throws it back into the bag.
~
And so it goes. It's worse than a war over the toilet seat; not that Burke ever leaves the toilet seat up, no, of course not, he's a fucking gentleman. A fucking gentleman with a stubbonly recalcitrant toothbrush.
The boyfriends she has had who never left the toilet seat up are: nonexistent.
Clearly, he's an alien.
~
She passes him in the hallway, running to a code, barely noticing the painful slap of her aching feet against the hard floor. He nods. She's gone before his chin falls.
~
One cold morning she wakes before her alarm, when the dawn light is just stretching grey and thin through the gap between her curtains, which she has never been able to force closed all the way. She sits up and wraps herself in what is probably an unfair majority of the blankets, and watches him. His nose is half-buried in the crack where their pillows meet, and there is the beginning of a morning shadow on his chin.
When she catches herself with her fingertips hovering over his cheek, she throws back the blankets and forces herself out into the cold room. She walks to the bathroom on unsteady feet, toes curled in against the cold, and gasps as she splashes water onto her face.
The things she hates about winter are: the torture of early mornings, whole weeks without seeing the sun, shivering through her scrubs despite the harsh lights of the hospital.
His toothbrush is in the bag. She gnaws on her lip and shifts from foot to frozen foot on the tiles before carefully tipping the bag over so that the toothbrush lies across the open zipper. The head is poking out, encroaching on her soap dish.
That's all she's giving him.
For now.
~
The reasons she won't give him up are: he'll drench her waffles in syrup without even asking, her stomach will flutter ridiculously at the tilting private smile he gives her from across the hospital cafeteria, and sometimes his voice is the only thing that will talk her down from the jittery high; his hands the only thing that keep her from snapping.
no subject
Also, the Cristina one was great, except you spelled her name wrong. Her Cristina has no 'h'
no subject
...oops. *changes in a hurry* You see what happens when I tackle things with no knowledge of the fandom and only hazy recollection of the canon itself. Thank you.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Because she smiles at him, slow and wondering and proud is the best thing ever.
Thank you. ♥
(I'll be back to read the GA fic later. :] )
no subject
no subject
It hasn't even started screening here yet. And I, uh, don't have a television.
And I have a lovely download speed that slows downanddownanddown and eventually just freezes when I try and get it to DL anything larger than a fanvid. So no delightful piracy for me.
SAN FRANCISCO. THIS JULY. DVDS WILL BE PURCHASED. BANK ACCOUNTS WILL BE DRAINED.
And I'm glad you liked the fics :) It was lovely to have an excuse to write Billy and Roslin.
no subject
no subject
ASDJKLKJGFDSDFGJK!!
THANK YOU!
asdjkgfdsfgjjdsfjdgs!!!!!!
no subject
Billy is just so natural and needs a hug
And Cristina... oh so perfect.
no subject