Battlestar Galactica/Doctor Who, Kara/Martha, stupid frakkin men
“So you’re really from Earth. It’s really true.”
Martha nodded. “London, specifically.”
“Fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak,” muttered the other woman, drawing deep on a cigar that smelled like the TARDIS overheating and shaking her head with that seen-it-all, done-it-all, might-as-well-hang-it-up-now way.
Some things were universal, wherever there were people. Spirits, for example. Despite its name, Martha though Ambrosia tasted like Glasgow rotgut that even that little chavette chippie would turn her nose up at. But this hotshot, this Kara, slugged it like water in a desert. Which space was, in a way, especially when you were lost and the ragtag fleet wasn’t much of an oasis.
“And I’d love to take you there, but that doesn’t seem to be an option right now,” said Martha, taking another drink and finding it went down a little easier the second time. Probably it would on the third as well. She was sure she’d find out.
“Left you, did he?” sneered Kara. Her derision wasn’t aimed at Martha. “Frakkin’ men. Won’t ever ask for frakkin’ directions.”
“He’s not even really a—“
Kara turned around in sudden attention. “Oh. I had a couple of those too. No difference really, godsdammit.”
“Well, he’s not a Cylon, if that’s what you’re thinking.” It had taken Martha a little while to really understand that complexity of that issue – oh, the Cybermen-looking creatures were straightforward enough, but the fear that the others inspired gave her a shiver. She could almost sympathize with that “skinjob” and “toaster” business, if it hadn’t struck her as tastelessly racist. Still, identity politics took on vast new dimensions once you left the nursery of Earth and started seeing divisions among humans for the playground rubbish it really was.
“Didn’t think so. You can’t really tell though. Not until it’s too late. Learned that the hard way.”
Martha made a noncommittal noise and reached for the bottle again, to see Kara’s glazed but bright eyes gleaming wicked.
“Does he frak like one anyway?”
“What?”
Kara rolled her eyes.
“No!” Martha cried. “I mean…we haven’t…”
“Yeah? No shit. They’re all out for just one thing—humans, skinjobs, whatever your flyboy in the blue toilet stall is. But,” Kara grinned. “Ya know, that’s alright. Because I’m out for the same thing half the time. And they do it pretty good, I gotta admit. That’s one way you can tell. Their spines light up. Bein’ a girl, you don’t get to do ‘em from behind really, but if you twist around just right, you can see it. It’s wild.”
“Really? Is…the…er….you know, all the parts…the same?” Martha’s medical education sometimes failed her utterly when alcohol, hormones, and contact embarrassment were involved.
“Yeah. Yeah. It’s real hard to tell. Hey, how do I know you’re really a human?”
“I don’t think my spine lights up. I’ve never looked. I’ve only got one heart…not like the Doctor.”
“Why do you call him that?”
“I don’t have anything else to call him.”
“Ha, you got in the bunk with him, you’d come up with all sorts of things. So if you’re really a human, why don’t you show me?”
“What?” Martha blinked, something in her hoping she hadn’t misunderstood.
Kara lunged, twisting sinuously, and catching Martha up underneath her, soldier’s hands wild but skilled in Martha’s spiky hair, undoing that style she worked so hard to make look casual. Her mouth tasted of smoke, and ambrosia, and machine oil, and it wasn’t unpleasant at all; it was the taste of one of those sleek, efficient, fast ships.
It was the sort of situation you didn’t let yourself think about. Martha just slipped her slim hands under Kara’s tanks, feeling firm breasts that rode high on a sound frame of muscle and scars. A boxer’s instincts. Martha never had a chance, but she tried—with grappling over skin that grew slick with sweat, with scrambling to get Kara’s knickers off first as calloused fingers invaded her own and smeared her wetness up her thighs, pushing her apart and open as they writhed.
“You’re frakking gorgeous, you know that,” panted Kara, pushing her thigh in between Martha’s, searching for the urgent friction that would make the Earth woman arch and scream. They wrestled across the damp sheets, all hair and muscles and nails and mouths—rough and raw and human and homeless, female and complete.