anders. (ex_machine300) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2013-07-02 21:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, kara thrace / starbuck, sam anders / longshot |
Who: THE THRACES -- ie, Kara Thrace & Sam Anders
Where: By an airstrip outside of the city
When: Now, why not!
What: Possibilities
Rating: V for Vanilla (or, yannoe, PG-13 for some language)
Being out of a country she barely knew more than she was in it was fine enough for Kara because if she wasn’t regularly risking her life, she didn’t know how to behave much less socialize with those in the Tower or in the midst of their activities. As it was, being with other mercenaries for hire and pilots gave her the comfort of that same old language -- the grunts, the hand signals, the looks provided over the top of the Aviators -- though she often felt Sam’s absence. It was a cold ball of steel in the gut. It was the warmth of his hand at the small of her back. It was his teeth on her shoulder and his resultant smirk or their legs tangled in the sheets come morning.
It was easy falling back in love with Samuel T. Anders.
Norway was cold. Finland wet. Denmark bereft of colour. And while she was satisfied in blood and destruction, she found she could not acclimate to the longing punch of the routine of structure which drove her through her day of flying and bombing and shooting. Wash, rinse, repeat.
It was why Sam received a text -- a few words, as close to a plea as she’d ever approach -- and she hoped when her plane landed in Newark, he’d be there waiting.
Letting Kara do her thing was part and parcel of loving Kara Thrace. Being Mr Kara Thrace didn't change that; the dynamics, in some respect, were as they ever were, pared down to their most basic. They were no dark stars drawn to each other in the emptiness of night; he was a satellite that swung around her blazing star, and if she went supernova from time to time, that's just the way it was. He could stay where he was and love her as she burned and tore and went off the radar for however many weeks. She would come back in her own time, in her own way.
-- a fact which didn't make the incoming text any less surprising. A summons wasn't the norm -- usually one found the other in their bed, and the pieces would fall naturally into place -- but who was he to question or over-think anything to do with them?
So as the plane descended, there he was, waiting behind the metal gates, sunset and the aircraft's silhouette mirrored by his glasses as he waited with an admirable measure of patience.
Handing the plane off to the ground crew didn’t take long -- a post-trip inspection and a few signatures on a clipboard -- before she tied the arms of her flightsuit around her waist and traversed the tarmac. As hot asphalt gave way to the cool environs of the warehouse beyond, she recognized a familiar silhouette and picked up a jog. Then a full-out frakking sprint before catapulting into his arms trusting in him just as much as that extra-Cylon strength, to hold them both up.
In his ear -- “Hey.”
Easily (greedily) caught, one hand firm against her backside as her legs tightened around his waist, the other warm against her nape, flicking a strand of gold away before he tugged her earlobe. "Hey baby," came with no attempt to be a gentleman about this welcome collision of limbs, of hearts and breath that fanned across her cheek before he kissed her, teeth and hunger driving him. He missed her. He didn't know how to pine, but gods did he miss her.
"I got your text."
“Good boy.”
A few wolf whistles from her crewmates were met with amusement -- a smile pressed to Sam’s mouth, fingers grasping and hungry along his shoulders -- before she drew breath and propped her forehead against his. All the tension and the longing was replaced with emotion of a different sort. Her fingertips left his shoulder to trace the ligature of his jaw. “How’s Mars?”
“Far away and red.” A loose salute was thrown in the direction of the catcalls before he whirled her around, keeping his own breadth between she and them; and after a second longer, more considering kiss, he set her upon her own two feet, making a grab for her bag of possessions. “How’s Scandinavia?”
“Here I was up reading my nights away so I would know and you’re saying far away and red. NASA’s working on warp speed too, Sam. You know …” She pulled her glasses up to perch on the top of her head and let herself indulge -- she held his hand, intertwining their fingers.
“Scandinavia is cold. We got the payload, though. Two weeks leave.”
A dry remark on how he knew little and less about matters such as warp speed (and how many things could have been avoided if sub-luminal speeds weren’t the only the things he and the others had known how to operate) was caught behind his teeth as Kara continued to speak. “The luxurious life of a soldier,” was his reply. His teeth brushed her knuckles. “What will you do to occupy your free time? You can read your nights away while on duty.”
“You.” She smiled, hitting his hip with hers as they walked. “If you don’t spend two weeks in a limp and hiding your marks, I’m not doing my job.” Then just as suddenly as the text came, just as suddenly as she had thrown herself into his arms, she pulled him through a door and out into the fading sunshine.
“I need to tell you something.”
“-- yeah?” was only half-distracted, as his distraction was Kara in the deepening light. A pause then as he shifted her bag to hang loosely from his shoulder. “Having some Mars envy, sir?”
She pursed her lips, reaching out to pinch his bicep and only latently realising that there was something inherently girlish about her action. Was there something temerous in her … something which balked at telling him what she noticed in Bergen?
“I’m late.”
And it was immediately clear that these two significant words had a belated effect on Sam, who wasn’t particularly accustomed to thinking -- to letting himself think -- of such terms. The obliviousness was evident in the openly questioning expression on his face, the faint crease of his brow. “What, to the --” Mars party, he’d meant to say, but then it clicked into place.
Oh.
Her brow furrowed. Kara, who struggled between desperately wanting a child with Sam and a distaste for anything which marked her out as inherently feminine, decided to give him the benefit of the doubt for half a moment before she attacked.
“My period, Sam.”
Again with the mental oh as he made a quick study of her face. Kara when coloured by uncertainty bordered on lethal. A good thing, then, that this didn’t faze him -- Sam took a firm grasp of her hand, peering across at her.
“That’s okay, right?”
“It’s always late. I mean, when it isn’t happening, I’m just …” everywhere. “But it’s even later. And it’s weird that it’s that late so, Sam. I wanted to tell you that it was late.” But it wasn’t the jubilation she sought. It wasn’t the collusion she’d fantasized about and jerked her hand away from him.
“I thought it was okay.”
It was. “It is,” was gruff, his momentary frown directed at the reflexive gesture and his now empty hand. It had been a long time since they’d both accepted that they each had their own (often incredibly frakking childish) way of coping, of rationalising things that weren’t meant to be possible, but he was damned if he was going to let his own blip of insecurity feed into whatever maelstrom was now thickening behind Kara’s eyes.
He drew near, grabbed her, hauled her back into his arms. “It is, you idiot.”
All of that bristling energy -- all of that instinct that drew her tight, that prepared her for the onslaught -- slithered and slid out of her and as her fists against his chest melted, she offered the prelude to a timid smile. “I thought it was.”
Then -- “I didn’t want to take a test alone.”
The tension in her was palpable, threatening to steal his own breath away until -- that smile. He offered her a grin of his own, more open and full.
“Guess we need to find you a stick to pee on, then.”
“You’re such a classy mother-frakker. Mmmm, talk to me like that some more.” That happiness -- the anxious excitement that had previously driven her to text him -- fueled her to reach down and pinch a handful of his backside.
“If we’re --” she swallowed, rising onto her toes to kiss him. “You can pee on a stick, too. Wouldn’t want you to be left out.”
His return chuckle rumbled against her lips even as he bumped his hip against hers. Then, with a tweak of her nose -- “I’ll pee on whatever stick you want, baby. Because I’m a gentleman like that.” A beat -- then, unable to help himself, unable to suppress the natural urge for a moment longer, he let his fingers ghost across the folds of her flightsuit, its arms tied across her waist. He was irreverent at the best of times, but now there was more than a little awe in his eyes. And he had to say it, just to cement it in his mind as a possibility (rather than a far-fetched dream): “Godsdamn, your period is late and we might be pregnant.”