Part: 1 of 1.
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Word Count: 842.
Spoilers: Through 4x20 "Daybreak."
Excerpt: Sam doesn't know who did the arranging, not exactly, not the way he knows when a perfect serve is heading for the lower arc of the basket, but the answer is irrelevant.
Author's Note: For coffeesuperhero because she gives the best prompts (Lisel Mueller ♥), and for leiascully because she did the New York AU thing first and better.
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent.
"Monet Refuses the Operation," Lisel Mueller
It's all been arranged. Sam doesn't know who did the arranging, not exactly, not the way he knows when a perfect serve is heading for the lower arc of the basket, but the answer is irrelevant.
He wakes up first in a cozy sublet on the Lower East Side. They have rats, yes, and when the paint peels away from the walls it reveals shoddy plaster and a nest of rusted pipes, but they're two stories up from the tastiest drinks — and gayest bartenders — in the City. It's a trade-off.
He leans carefully into the spiral of his wife, curled into a dress shirt she'd commandeered after the events of the night before. The reflected morning sunlight is kind to the curves of her cheeks; but then again, no light isn't. Kara sleeps like a champion and for that Sam is grateful: She needs the rest.
She twists into his arms when he touches her, though, and opens her eyes. Sam tilts her head just slightly and presses his mouth to the warm hollow of her neck.
"Morning," she says, like she's about to laugh.
He lifts his head and smiles. "Want coffee?"
Now she really does laugh.
"I've got a fight tonight," she tells him. "You're on your own."
Kara's lips touch his briefly, and then she's rolling over, stuffing pillows under her shoulders and forgetting the world again. Sam rubs his hand across her spine, and gets himself out of bed.
On the way to work he very nearly trips over a tiny sheepdog, and catches sight of a pair of mothers teaching their children yoga in the park. It is one more Tuesday.
He wakes second with dirt in his eyes. Sam blinks, lifting his head from the ground, and frowns at the wheels of their Conestoga. If that axle would just hold until they get to the fort, he feels sure they can trade up for something sturdier. Kara has more than a few valuable weapons that are only robber-bait right now, and if they find anything that sparkles in California she'll get plenty of new toys.
She might get plenty of new toys anyway.
"Quit yammering, Samuel," she told him just the night before. "Put one foot in front of the other. Who knows if we'll even get to California?"
"We'll get there," he said, and pretended to ignore the flash of a smile she hid as she turned away.
Now she's curled into his chest, one fist clutching his collar. Must have gotten cold in the night. Sam kisses the top of her head, and goes to check the horses.
He wakes third and looks at himself in the glass, all lanky boy and sharp angles, until she ducks her head into the picture and rubs one shoulder with her hand.
"Amazing, isn't it?" she murmurs.
"Yeah," he tells her, not taking his eyes off their doubles, trying to catch what it is that's so different about her when she's just false light in a fabricated square.
"It's like there's another one of you," she says, and laughs.
He wakes fourth and the window of his cruiser reflects a perfect 0000cc. Starset on M91.
The wash of dust through the struts of his new project creates a sinusoidal sound, crossed with a square wave and some static and washing noisefully across the membranes in the sensors he calls ears. Kara hears it, enters, tweaks something, and the whole thing is ablaze like the alignment of an eclipse.
I thought so she says to him.
We'll call it a symphony he tells her.
They listen until the sky is 000040.
He wakes and smells food. The blood of the zebra is rich, filling his throat in one easy strike. It's the same way she took it down: Weakened, whimpering, it went out with one strike of her coated paw. He is hungry — so hungry.
The cubs fight over a meaty swath of thigh until she steps in, bats them away, gives it to him instead. His cubs glare as he feasts, but when he sucks the flow of ebbing life between his jaws it appears to them as if he is smiling. He leaves them scraps.
When the beating of the sun dwindles their activity to a lazy nap, he knocks her, gently, in the neck. Kill well made. She nuzzles him back.
They're together, always together. As far as he can remember.
he wakes sixth and he is a star
next to him she is a maelstrom of collapsing molecules, electrons on the rampage and matter losing weight
the sight of him is all things
sky the space belongs to him
and together they are infinite
It's all been arranged. Sam doesn't know who did the arranging, but that question and that answer are irrelevant. He could offer a dozen different theories — pure light, pure beauty, angels, us, the gods — but none of them add anything to the equation. All of them take something away. Perfection was never the same as understanding.
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