These people, they don't know what the frak they're talking about. Not that she'll give him the time of day, but at least they're still married. That gives him some privileges.
He uses that word lightly. It's not a good thing to be around Kara, not any more. He knows how things look: he volunteered for this mission to stay by his wife's side. That's part of it but not the whole story.
No. He's here to distance himself from Tory and Galen and Saul. Not another frakking minute with those three. Cylons? Frak that: he's Sam, just Sam: nothing else makes sense. He knows what he knows—that's not a lot—but if he believes in one thing it's his wife. I say I'll do something, I do it, she told him back on Caprica. If anyone can find Earth, it's Kara.
*
She won't look at him or turn to talk to him. Calls him Ensign like he's no one, like they've never been intimate. She won't tell him what's wrong, won't acknowledge him, does everything in her power to mock and hurt him. Throws all those carefully-crafted discussions they had about their marriage back in his face. The way she's acting now reminds him of the things she said to him after New Caprica. And I look at you, and I want to tear your eyes out for looking at me. She told him that, calm and cool. I just want to hurt someone and it might as well be you. So you should probably go before that happens.
But she only gets to tell him that kind of thing once. He's not stupid enough to stand around and take it a second time, grabs the brush out of her hand, forces her to look at him. Maybe she looks but doesn't see, but all he can do is hold their arms together so their tattoos match. That's real. It's the only thing left that is real. She won't talk to him, won't touch him, doesn't care about him. Calls him a dumb motherfrakker, says she only married him because it was safe and it was easy and he was just pathetic enough to go along with it, but she's lying. Lying as she shoves him away until his back's against the door, as she goads him into an almost-kiss, as she challenges him to make her feel something. To feel anything. Frak or fight? I dare you to make me feel something, Kara, he wants to say. I dare you.
He's action, not words. That's his strength and he's not sure he succeeds this time—Kara doesn't say—but he feels. Afterward, leg draped around her sheet-clad body, she finally opens up. It took a challenge to make it happen—she had to coax and hurt and torment him into it—and it was worth it. But her words, man, they chill him, and after she asks if their marriage was real, she asks if he feels different.
Kara, he wants to say, I'm a frakking Cylon. I don't know what or how to feel any more.
Looking at the wall, she tells him everything seems so far away. The way things feel, the way they taste, like she's watching herself but not really experiencing it. Not living it. Like her body's just this alien thing she's still attached to. She asks if it seems crazy to him.
Gods, she has no frakking idea how crazy it doesn't sound.
no subject
He uses that word lightly. It's not a good thing to be around Kara, not any more. He knows how things look: he volunteered for this mission to stay by his wife's side. That's part of it but not the whole story.
No. He's here to distance himself from Tory and Galen and Saul. Not another frakking minute with those three. Cylons? Frak that: he's Sam, just Sam: nothing else makes sense. He knows what he knows—that's not a lot—but if he believes in one thing it's his wife. I say I'll do something, I do it, she told him back on Caprica. If anyone can find Earth, it's Kara.
*
She won't look at him or turn to talk to him. Calls him Ensign like he's no one, like they've never been intimate. She won't tell him what's wrong, won't acknowledge him, does everything in her power to mock and hurt him. Throws all those carefully-crafted discussions they had about their marriage back in his face. The way she's acting now reminds him of the things she said to him after New Caprica. And I look at you, and I want to tear your eyes out for looking at me. She told him that, calm and cool. I just want to hurt someone and it might as well be you. So you should probably go before that happens.
But she only gets to tell him that kind of thing once. He's not stupid enough to stand around and take it a second time, grabs the brush out of her hand, forces her to look at him. Maybe she looks but doesn't see, but all he can do is hold their arms together so their tattoos match. That's real. It's the only thing left that is real. She won't talk to him, won't touch him, doesn't care about him. Calls him a dumb motherfrakker, says she only married him because it was safe and it was easy and he was just pathetic enough to go along with it, but she's lying. Lying as she shoves him away until his back's against the door, as she goads him into an almost-kiss, as she challenges him to make her feel something. To feel anything. Frak or fight? I dare you to make me feel something, Kara, he wants to say. I dare you.
He's action, not words. That's his strength and he's not sure he succeeds this time—Kara doesn't say—but he feels. Afterward, leg draped around her sheet-clad body, she finally opens up. It took a challenge to make it happen—she had to coax and hurt and torment him into it—and it was worth it. But her words, man, they chill him, and after she asks if their marriage was real, she asks if he feels different.
Kara, he wants to say, I'm a frakking Cylon. I don't know what or how to feel any more.
Looking at the wall, she tells him everything seems so far away. The way things feel, the way they taste, like she's watching herself but not really experiencing it. Not living it. Like her body's just this alien thing she's still attached to. She asks if it seems crazy to him.
Gods, she has no frakking idea how crazy it doesn't sound.