#Dee with natural hair is wild but she’s beautiful no matter if she’s in her cyber goth glam or regular clothes

[cloudy-whales]

Based on a post by @/the_angler_mann on Twitter/X

[thornbolts]

My Two Lives Ch. 7 - My First Friend

Previous Chapters:

[Chapter 1: Westfallen Blues]

[Chapter 2: From Student to Hunter]

[Chapter 3: The Doe and the Buck]

[Chapter 4: The Day the Wardrums Came]

[Chapter 5:  Hard Times in a Harder City]

[Chapter 6: The Fall of Stormwind]

It must've been around three days we were at sea then, a boat among the countless others sailing north toward Lordaeron. There was no below-deck, and any raging elements like the storms or the cold rain, we just had to endure with what clothing we were able to carry.

But it wasn't all bad. We were fortunate enough to have a mage apprentice on our ship. He couldn't do much more other than conjuring fire in his palms, but with the cooking supplies the other families aboard the ship brought along, we were able to boil seawater, gather the steam, let it cool down, and drink it. This way, we never wanted for clean water.

There wasn't much to do for entertainment on the boat other than cards and playing a bit of I Spy with the other ships sailing around us on this mass exodus. So we'd fill our days talking with the other people aboard the boat, getting to know their life stories. Hell, I think this was when I began to appreciate storytelling.

Yeah. During those nights where we couldn't see anything around us other than the lamplights on the other boats, we told stories and sometimes sang songs.

That mage apprentice I mentioned earlier? His name was Archie, but we called him Arch. He'd been studying hard with whatever magic books he could buy on a delivery boy's budget. His dream was to study in Dalaran eventually. Fire came naturally to him. But the other magic? Not so much. Nonetheless, he was a sweet guy. Said he wanted to become a mage to help the world, to use his power to protect--to ensure no other people would be hurt by things like war.

I chuckled at that. It was a lofty ideal for a kid whose eyes hadn't seen the worst of it. But I suppose we needed folks like him if we wanted this earth to be a better place for those that'd come after we're long gone.

Along the trip, a barber volunteered to cut people's hair and shave them if needed. He was a grizzled middle-aged man, maybe about my pa's age. He managed to get his barber's tools out of his shop when the evacuation notice came out. His name was Benton.

Alongside Benton was his daughter, Melody. She was about my age, maybe a year or two older. When my pop took up Benton's offer, Melody and I would be off on the other side of the boat, trying to shimmy away from both of our dads telling embarrassing stories about us as kids.

I remember the first time I spoke with her. And today, I'm still in contact with her, even though we lost it briefly when I was an angry specter wandering the forests of Tirisfal, but that's another story for later.

As Benton draped the barber's apron over my pop, my pop got right into telling the story about the Doe and the Buck, my first time out hunting after I got expelled from school in Stormwind. He was having a grand old time telling Benton how he got that expulsion letter and how Uncle Jasper escorted me back to the family hunting lodge. My ma was red in the face. I knew she'd be slapping pop the moment we all got off the boat.

I wish I could shut my ears, but I couldn't do much other than making my way to the opposite end of the boat to at least be able to hear myself think.

Melody waddled up right beside me and took a seat. We both awkwardly stared out into the ocean and at the other ships. At the time, the only interaction I had with kids my age was being the victim of constant bullying and having to fight even to be acknowledged. I was good at one thing, something that hunting taught me well: Staying quiet.

Must have been five minutes before she finally broke the ice, and she had the delicateness of a sledgehammer.

"S-so uh..." Melody stammered as she watched me chamber a bullet into and out of my rifle. "Your f-freckles are pretty."

I squinted, laying my rifle across my lap. My what? Did I hear her right?

"Thank ya kindly. I grew 'em myself." I tried to hide my accent, but it was blatantly obvious I wasn't from the city. And this conversation was already terribly awkward.

Her eyes widened as she heard me, and I thought she'd be another kid that'd get a kick out of the country speak. I closed my eyes and sucked air through my teeth, bracing for her to let all the laughs out. I was used to it at this point.

"Your accent is cool too. Westfallen?" She piped up again, dragging her hand through the water.

Her words caught me off guard. I fumbled the bullet out of my hand, trying to snag it out of the air multiple times before it plopped into the ocean. I leaned over the edge, trying to see if I could plunge my hand into the water to get it back before it sank into the sunless depths.

"REM!" My pops shouted from the other side of the boat, his face covered in shaving cream as Benton paused, looking from my pops' chin to me. "What’re ya lookin’ fer in the water?! Mermaids? Don't make me come over there and tie ya ta the damn mast!”

"Sorry, pop." I leaned back into the boat, facing toward Melody again. "Westfallen. My grandpa and grandma lived there. My ma and pop moved us ta Elwynn when I was maybe three?"

"You mean you've always been outside of Stormwind?"

"Right up until the Orcs came and nearly killed us at our huntin' lodge," I said.

Melody paused, her gaze descending into the wooden boards. A few seconds went by before I realized I probably struck a nerve.

"Yeah. I don't suppose I'm special now considerin’." I glanced out to all the other ships packed to the rails with fellow refugees. 

I extended my fist out. This girl was the first one that didn't laugh at my voice when I spoke. She seemed nice, not at all like those bullies at the academy. I figured that... maybe I’d try the whole ‘making friends’ thing again. "Name's Remington. Rem fer short."

She bumped my fist and looked out toward the water. "Melody," she introduced. "Lost my mom in the attack. Now it's just dad and me." She motioned to Benton with the tip of her chin.

I went silent for a moment, staring at my reflection in the water as we drifted into the seemingly endless horizon. "I'm sorry," I finally mustered.

"Not your fault," Melody assured. "Say... What's with the rifle? Can you shoot?"

“We’re hunters.” I smirked, bracing the buttstock against the crook in my shoulder and looking down the scope at the ground. "Reckon I can shoot better than most soldiers." I was confident that I actually could. I wanted to prove it by pinging a seagull flying overhead, but that'd just make my family pissed.

"Always wanted to try it, you know? Shooting a gun, shooting a bow--never could." Melody sighed, clasping her hands behind her back and leaning on the mast.

"Why not?" I asked. "Walk on down ta any general store, and you'd find a rifle or bow somewhere on the shelf. Only a matter 'a findin' a spot ta practice."

"Finding a spot was always the hard part." Melody just smiled, lifting her eyes to the blue and yellow lion symbol atop our sail. "Never been outside Stormwind City until the Orcs came."

The thought of it was completely incomprehensible to me: Melody stayed confined in those constricting white walls, always in the thick of a busy populace where you couldn't even hear yourself think. No nature. No feeling of vast freedom. Not having to kill to eat and not having to fight to exist. The first thought that came to mind was that she was just pampered and privileged.

I just stared at her. I don't know how long I did before Benton chuckled.

"Looks like you talked the poor girl silly," Benton called out to Melody, wiping my father's face of any remaining shaving cream.

"They're already makin' friends." My pop smiled, scooping a hand into the seawater and rinsing his newly-shaved face with it. "At least one good thing has come outta those damned Orcs attackin'."

I scoffed, looking back out toward the blue horizon. I had an idea.

"Ya know anythin' about this Lordaeron place we're goin'?" I asked.

"I know there are forests! It's probably colder since it's way up north. There's this big city. It's called Capital City!" Melody declared. "It's where King Terenas lives."

"Capital City? What kinda name is that? It's so... boring." I snorted, peeling the brim of my hat over my face to shield it from the overhead sun.

"Looks like you were paying attention in class, Dee." Benton smiled, dunking his razor into the water and cleaning it off with a handkerchief.

"Unlike Rem," pops jabbed from the other end of the boat.

I rolled my eyes, looking back toward Melody. "If'n ya want, maybe I could take ya out shootin' when we get settled in Lordaeron?"

She grinned the widest smile I ever saw someone smile, genuine warmth and enthusiasm. "It's a promise then."

As Melody said that, I felt my chest swell up with excitement. I don't know how else to describe it. It was weird. For once, I actually got the chance to show someone what my pop taught me, maybe give someone a love of the wild.

We wouldn't hit Lordaeron for another week, but it was nice to know that I made the first friend I ever really had in my life. This friendship lasts even today in my second life. Melody and I write to one another still. Moved back into Stormwind City, and she’s got two beautiful sons.

We meet sometimes when we can, maybe once or twice a year to catch up in neutral territory, like Pandaria. A lot has happened, but despite faction lines now and me being the walking dead, we still treat each other like those times back on the boat and in Lordaeron.

My first friend. I’d kill for her.

[frostywindmademoan]

You Up For An Adventure?

A fic in which Michael is actually kind of romantic (I hesitate to call this an AU but it might as well be cause my boy is actually a sociopath)

Michael intently stared at the petite (Y/H/C) girl sitting at the bar who had a man on either side of her, leaning in, clearly captivated by whatever it was she was saying. She had a smart twinkle in her eye and the shadow of a smirk on her lips that juxtaposed the sour look that was plastered on Michael’s face. “What’s wrong with this one then?” John nodded towards Michael. “Been starin’ at (Y/N)  for nearly 10 minutes now.” Arthur gruffly responded. “Poor fucker.” John sighed. “I can hear you, you know? You’re both standing right beside me.” Michael snapped his eyes away from the girl at the bar to give his cousins a scathing look.

“The way you pine after her is pathetic mate. You young Blinders have a whole gaggle of silly girls who are looking for a bit of danger who chase after you lot, and yet it’s her you got it for.” Arthur slurred. “He’s right mate, it makes no sense. That girl ain’t after danger, she is danger. She’s got every man she walks by wrapped ‘round her little finger and she plays ‘em all. Men are a game for her. Girls like that’ll break your heart and laugh about it!” John berated him. “You think I don’t know that? She’s one of my best mates. I’ve seen first hand how she treats fools like those two at the bar with her right now.” Michael and (Y/N) had become close friends after being introduced about 3 or 4 months ago. Her older sister had been Ada’s best friend growing up, so all of the Shelbys were close to (Y/N), her sister, and her two older brothers. The whole family had handsome genetics, thus little (Y/N) grew up to be a beauty. Michael had met her as a result of Tommy needing a rival fooled into playing right into the Shelby’s plot by an innocent and pretty looking face. (Y/N) was cast by Tommy to play the role of the innocent, pretty face. Being around the same age as her had given Michael the chance to become her friend, but he quickly developed deeper feelings. Feelings he’s been trying to hide for months, but he was growing less, and less subtle as time marched on. He knew fancying her was ridiculous. She saw him as nothing more than a friend, but maybe that’s what made her so appealing. These days Michael rarely encountered a girl he wasn’t able to make swoon. (Y/N) was different, though.“Give it up mate. She ain’t interested in a relationship with you, or anyone for that matter.” John clapped Michael on the back before wandering off to the private booth, shortly followed by Arthur. Michael returned his attention to the bar.

(Y/N) happened to glance up and see Michael looking in her direction. She didn’t pay much mind to the angry look on his face or what that expression might mean. She had seen that look cast towards her so many times that she assumed that that must be the natural form of Michael’s face. (Y/N) had grown bored of the two blokes, whose names she hadn’t bothered to make note of, so she slipped down from the stool she had been perched on. “Thanks for the drink and the chat boys.” (Y/N) said as a means of excusing herself before walking off towards Michael. The two men shared a bit of a shocked look in response to the way she had so casually snubbed them. “Evening handsome.” She flashed Michael a dazzling smile. Handsome was her pet name for Michael. It was a play on what all those swooning Blinder chasing girls would whisper and giggle about as he walk by. Michael knew (Y/N) only called him that sarcastically, as a joke, but it still brought him great pleasure. She called him handsome instead of her usual go to term of endearment, ‘darling.’ She used ‘darling’ with everyone. It was part of her charm and helped rope people in. Having a different pet name made Michael feel special, sarcasm be damned. “No need to abandon Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum over there just for little old me.” Michael grinned. “What does that make you then? The Cheshire Cat?” she scoffed. “And you sweet little Alice.” This was one of the things Michael most enjoyed about (Y/N), the way she could give easy and witty banter. (Y/N) appreciated the same thing in Michael. All the other men who chatted her up seemed to assume that she was some sort of airhead. It was partially why she enjoyed yanking those men around so much. Michael was different, he held conversations of substance with her. “You up for an adventure handsome?” She asked. Michael’s lips spread into a wide smile. From time to time (Y/N) would suggest they go on an adventure, as if they were little kids playing make believe. (Y/N) made Michael feel innocent again. Around most people (Y/N) had an alluring nature. She was sly in the most irresistible of ways. The sprightly, almost whimsical, side of her was similar to the term handsome. It was exclusively reserved for Michael. “C’mon then.” She took his hand and pulled him out the door.

“Where we goin’ then?” Michael asked as (Y/N) continued to lead him by the hand through back streets and allies. She somehow knew all the little passage ways and out of the way places. “Not much farther now.” She replied. (Y/N) led him directly to a dirty and decrepit looking building. It looked like a place no one had paid any mind to for years and years. No one but (Y/N), that is. “Here we are!” She happily exclaimed. “Here? You must be joking.” Michael looked the building up and down. It looked as though it might completely fall apart at any moment. “Stop being a baby.” (Y/N) darted to the door that had been haphazardly boarded up. Her small frame easily slipped through a gap between two of the poorly placed boards. “Fuck it.” Michael sighed. It was in situations like this that Michael had first begun to fall for (Y/N). Running through abandoned streets, free and wild like this, was a stark contrast to the poised, decisive, and almost pernicious way both she and he acted around others. Michael had to pull one of the loosely nailed boards out of the way so that he could fit through the door. By the time he got inside (Y/N) had already begun ascending a winding staircase within. “C’mon!” She yelled. “This doesn’t seem safe!” Michael wearily eyed the broken down stairs. “You’re being a baby again!” She laughed. This was the true and genuine (Y/N), loose and unrestrained. When the war broke out she was still young, but all the men in her family had been shipped off to France. Even her brother who was a year shy of being of age. He forged documents so that he could enlist just like everyone else. He wasn’t even supposed to be in France. He never came home. None of the men ever made it back. Her mother, sister, and herself had to fend for themselves. Her childhood abruptly ended when her family was cut in half. This warped and skewed her view point. She saw men as fleeting things that would violently leave her life. (Y/N) never let them close enough for their inevitable departure to hurt her. Michael was somehow different. He was a companion to her, and she felt she didn’t have to hide from him her desire to make up for that lost childhood. In a way, Michael also had a desire to regain the innocence of his childhood. (Y/N) was an escape from the world of violence he had entered after reconnecting with his family. They were a good fit for each other.

Once Michael had finally caught up with (Y/N), it was all the way up the stairs and onto the roof of the rickety building. Michael was hesitant to place his full weight on the feeble looking roof, but all hesitation disappeared when he saw (Y/N) lying on her back, gazing up. Her sleek hair seemed to glisten in the moonlight and was splayed out all around her, almost forming a halo surrounding her head. Her expression was relaxed and content. The ghost of a smile hung to her lips. Michael relaxed at the sight of her and followed suit, laying down next to her. The smog of the city made it hard to see many stars, but the full moon still shown vibrantly. “Isn’t she lovely?” (Y/N) hummed. “The moon is a she?” Michael turned his head to look at the profile of (Y/N)’s dimly lit face. “Yes, don’t you think so? ‘Mother moon’ has a nice ring to it.” She also turned her head to face Michael. She was close enough that she could see a sparkle in his eyes, despite the lack of light. She realized that they were merely an inch shy from being nose to nose. Suddenly, (Y/N) turned her head back to face upwards. Something in that moment had made her remember that Michael wasn’t some childlike companion, but a man. A handsome man at that. The way the Blinder girls giggled about him made sense. It was lucky that it was so dark, or else the flush that had spread up her neck and into her cheeks would have been seen. In that brief moment of closeness Michael’s heart had begun to race. He worked hard to not let it shatter when she turned away. “The sun is a man, eternally chasing after her.” (Y/N) continued the conversation about the moon. “She’s like you then. Always outrunning the men.” Michael said. Faintly, he could see her lips form into a smirk. “They’re pathetic, aren’t they? Those men who chat me up, thinking they can succeed where others have failed. Audacious fuckers.” She chuckled. “It’s cruel, what you do to them.” Michael now turned away from her to stare up. The irony of Michael of all people calling her cruel was not lost on (Y/N), but she chose to not draw attention to it. “Maybe it is cruel, but I’d rather be cruel than weak and hurt.” (Y/N)’s smirk fell into a hard line. “Is that what you think? That getting close to someone is weak?” Michael once again looked at her, baffled. “Not necessarily getting close to someone, but loving someone, yes. Placing your happiness in another person is ridiculous. People are fickle. They float in and out of your life and it’s stupid to become too attached.” Her tone was almost one of disgust. As if the very idea of love repulsed her. “People may leave, but what you shared with them stays forever.” Michael was a far cry from being a romantic, but it crushed him to hear (Y/N) speak this way. “You ever been in love?” She asked him. “I think so, yeah.” He whispered while staring intently at (Y/N), willing her to realize that he was referring to her. “I hear it hurts. That true?” She questioned him. “Yeah it’s true, but in a really great way. You’ve never been in love?” Michael was a bit shocked. She was an adult, surely in all her years she had fallen in love at least once. “No, never.” (Y/N) flatly responded. Michael’s heart grew heavy. It’s one thing to be a tease like everyone thinks (Y/N) is, but it’s an entirely different thing to be opposed to love entirely. Suddenly a thought came to him. “It’s an adventure.” He told her. “What?” She turned to face him. “Love. It’s an adventure. There is a chance that this whole building will crumble and hurt us, maybe even kill us, but we’re still here because the view makes it all worth it. Love is the same way.” Michael reasoned. “You make a decent point, handsome.” She couldn’t deny how marvelous his metaphor was. “How ‘bout it then? You up for an adventure?” Michael asked. (Y/N)’s heart began to pound. She didn’t know if she was up for it or not. She stared at him for awhile. Her eyes flit up and down as she examined every inch of his demeanor, as if the answer to the question was hidden somewhere in his face. Michael grew increasingly nervous as her silence continued. He had just as good as admitted to loving her. He feared that he might have scared her away. It was in the crease between Michael’s eyebrows that had folded with worry that (Y/N) found her answer to the question. To double check and make absolutely sure, she then examined his lips, pursed together in response to the tension that hung between Michael and herself. His lips were chapped and far from perfect, yet beautiful all the same. This is what assured her that she had indeed found the correct answer in him. “Yes, I’m up for it.” (Y/N) nearly gasped her answer. She hadn’t realized, but she had been holding her breath while looking at him. The heaviness within Michael’s heart lifted as it began to skip and jump. With a surge of confidence he closed the small distance between them, pressing his chapped lips against her smooth painted surface of her own lips. Michael placed a gentle hand on her cheek, willing her to stay in place within that perfect moment. (Y/N) shifted to be closer to him, grabbing ahold of the fabric of his shirt. “You won’t leave, will you?” She whispered against his lips. “No love, I’m not going anywhere.” Michael smiled. “Good, cause I’ll kill you if you do.” (Y/N) briefly matched his smile before placing her lips back onto his.

*feedback is greatly appreciated*

[bigskydreaming]

LOL because @solvola has got me all nostalgic for BSG again, I went hunting for some old Battlestar fic I wrote like....ugh ten years ago at least, lmao. I had to dig up my old livejournal to even find it still posted anywhere. But here Miguel, have some Lee being fucked up and unhealthy and torn between Dee and Kara without actually making any actionable decisions at all. Trigger warnings for suicidal ideation though, because well, its BSG and its Lee.

It’s easy to fall in love with Dee. Quickest way? Strap into a Viper, eject into the vast tomb of space, and wage suicidal war on endless legions of Cylons. That’s how Lee did it. It starts with the shrill whine of an alarm, a barking voice that blares “This is not a drill” from mounted wall speakers. A dead sprint through the corridors, a preflight check so ingrained by now its not even second nature, it’s replaced his first – he actually has to stop and remind himself to breathe. Countdown to ignition that blurs by so fast it seems rather pointless. The weight of the world presses down tight on his chest, a real, literal physical weight; G-forces slam him back in his seat and hold him there, glued tight as thrusters engage. Sharp sudden velocity. Speeds that would rip the skin right off his bones if not for the airtight canopy so small and shrink wrapped around him it practically demands a claustrophobic reaction. Seconds whiz by, the dark at the end of the tunnel grows bigger, blacker, hungrier, threatens to swallow him whole and then he’s through it and he’s out there. A tiny speck lost in that impossibly big canvas. One meant to contain planets, stars, entire galaxies – nothing so small and insignificant as him. Racetrack’s screaming in his radio and a Raider’s plunging straight towards him and there’s no more time for feeling humble. Now he’s supposed to be Apollo, supposed to be a god, and that makes him just want to laugh. A high, sharp hysterical thing he manages to turn into a carefully controlled order. He tells Crashdown to watch his six, there’s a Cylon gunning right for his tail, snaps at Hot Dog to brake hard right, there’s a whole damn wave of the bastards headed straight on an intercept course for him. And gods, but if there’s a bigger frakkin’ hypocrite in this whole fleet he’d love to meet them. He’s been banking to the left and quick as Jupiter’s lightning he dives to the right and backwards in a barrel roll. A tight, controlled spin and he’s behind the Raider and level with it. Snaps his guns over and across and thick, heavy armor piercing rounds spatter its wing like rain drops; rain sent from the heavens by a god, harsh and punishing enough to break the wing right off, knocking the whole Raider into a tailspin that takes it out of the fight. It’s done for. Good hunting Apollo, voices praise him from his radio, but he just barks at them to look alive, there’s plenty more where that came from. His mind fragments, compartmentalizes. There’s a part that tracks the Raiders across the stark vista of space, a focused, calculating part that’s just waiting for the perfect moment to strike each one. There’s a part that keeps his eyes darting from his nine to his three and back again, quick, jittery glances that dance him safely through a storm of enemy fire; a part that holds his voice collected and in control, calmly snapping orders to his pilots while they bob and dodge, duck and weave across the heavens. There’s a part that glances down to where his hands are gripped tight around the controls, slick with sweat and white knuckled from the strain – and it panics, shakes, what if he loses his grip, what if that lever jams, what if he puts too much pressure on the brake at exactly the wrong moment. Why have they never streamlined the control system, why so complicated, so many things that can go wrong? Even though he knows damn well why, knows the adrenaline, the fear, the complex mechanisms designed to keep the mind sharp and the body on edge, its all necessary, a pilot can’t get too complacent or a pilot gets dead. Flying’s fifty percent instinct, fifty percent skill and a hundred percent gods-blessed luck. He’s known this since he was fifteen years old but it doesn’t keep his heart from slamming into his ribcage with enough force he figures he could punch through a basestar with it. And then its over, it’s done. All the Raiders are gone, either dead or fled, and he really couldn’t give a damn which at the moment. He’s too busy trying to make sure he didn’t crap his pants during the fight. Chatter’s buzzing loud over the comm systems, phantom voices congratulating him, praising him, and he’s such a frakkin’ farce it makes him want to puke. Instead he sweeps back around, searching for any lingering hints of a Cylon presence, but they’re really gone, and they’re really alone again. Somehow during the chaos he put a moon between himself and Galactica and it just now sinks in that he can’t see it anymore, just black empty space as far as the eye can see. Once more panic sets in, breath starts getting hoarse, shoulders start to shake, and he realizes, this is how he’s going to die. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but this is where he’ll be when it finally happens, this is what it’s going to look like. And then his radio comes to life again. This time there’s only one voice, her voice. Petty Officer Dualla, her words crackling with static and laced with gentle concern as she calls the A-Ok for the pilots - for him - to come back aboard. There’s nothing sweet or dulcet about her tones, at times it’s scratchy, almost coarse, but listening to it he’s sure he’s never heard anything more beautiful in his life. His breathing slows; his eyes stop watering, he looks down and watches the white around his knuckles fade away as he lets her voice guide him home. Back through the launch doors and gently atop the landing pad, down, down and he’s out of the cockpit. Artificial gravity reasserts itself and he shifts from foot to foot, testing his weight, testing the firmness beneath him til he’s sure he can stand straight, and it’s only then that he can breathe again. He’s back, and its over, and somehow he beat the odds again and lived to fight another day. ‘Welcome home, pilots’ she signs off cheerfully, and in that moment he wants nothing more than to hug Petty Officer Dualla and plant a great big kiss right on her lips. The moment passes. But that’s only the first time. Alarms sound again, day after day after day. Vipers launch into space, week after week after week. The battles get harder, the distances get further, the despair gets thicker, so thick it’s tangible, its palpable, its damn near edible, and there’s enough of it for the whole fleet to choke on. He’s lost count of the times he’s sat here, right in this same spot – because really, in space who can tell the difference anyways – convinced that this is it, he’s finally dead but he’s been living in hell for so long he can’t even tell the difference. And each time her voice speaks up and proves him wrong. Strong, steady, without deviation. Utterly reliable no matter how many times his guidance systems crash or his engines misfire. Always there to welcome him home, and every time it makes him want to hug her and kiss her and never let go. And each time, the moment passes, and its back to business - until the day it doesn’t. And just like that, he’s in love with Dee. And he knows he’s more than a little in love with Kara too, and so he wills it a passing fancy and waits for it to go away. Until the day it doesn’t. And it’s not rational, and it doesn’t make sense, but its space and nothing makes sense in space. Every direction is the same as any direction and up might as well be down, and somehow time passes and there’s a proposal and he’s down on bended knee. And it’s not even until later he realizes it’s him that did the proposing and it’s her that said the yes - and maybe there was a hint of uncertainty in her eyes, and maybe there was a voice in the back of his head that whispered Kara. But its space, and they’re all hopelessly lost anyways. Right? So here he is, in this tiny space they share together, doting husband and loving wife. The knot in his throat thickens, revulsion and self-contempt lending it weight and substance. He leans over the sink and splashes water on his face, looks up in the mirror and stares back at himself with bloodshot eyes. Except it’s not himself, but its not some stranger, it’s….its some other Lee. Familiar yet strange, and gods, but he doesn’t know how he got here. Hair messy and unkept, eyes watering from all the liquor he chased down his throat at the bar. Shirtless, chest marked with tiny nicks and scratches, and he runs one hand across them, self consciously. Not Dee’s work, never Dee’s work, because Dee makes love; its Kara who makes him fight for every scrap of pleasure he can get from her. And just like that, reality’s reality, and it hits him hard. He’s cheating on his wife, he’s having an affair, he, Lee Adama of the uptight rules and regulations, ‘paragon of values and morality,’ president of the do it because its right club is betraying his wife, his marriage, his gods – and even that knowledge isn’t enough to make him stop. A sudden, wild thought chases the self-hatred around his brain, what would his mother say if she could see him now. He slams his eyes shut and pictures her in mind’s eye, gentle, stern – faceless. He can barely remember what his own mother looks like. Like the waters of the river Lethe, the vast dark empty of space has worn that away until only a memory of a memory is left. Like rain, he can’t remember the feel of rain on his face – even though they’ve stopped planet side more than once. Can’t remember what a child’s laughter sounds like, real laughter, genuine, innocent, free of cares and worries. Can’t remember what it feels like to sink down into a chair and just drift off to sleep, relaxed, no concerns, secure in the knowledge he’s on leave for a whole week and he’s going to see Gianne tomorrow. Can’t remember what it feels like to be him, to be Lee, when he knew who he was and he was damn proud to be him. Maybe that Lee could have been the Apollo everyone needs now, but he’s not him, oh gods, he’s not him at all. Just a pale, cheap imitation of the original. There’s enough scorn in that thought to jerk his head back up to the mirror, study himself, study that face in front of him hard. Scrutinize every last each for a hint of plasticity, metallic numbness – a sign of something unreal, something fake. Maybe he’s really not Lee, maybe he’s just another Boomer. A frakkin’ toaster that doesn’t even know it’s a toaster, just goes around living and breathing and dying like everyone else, a weapon waiting to be primed and activated so it can attack or maybe even self destruct. Hell, even if he was, there’s no way he could actually know. The thought sends a chill down his spine, but as chills go its not nearly cold enough. The thought not nearly frightening enough. Just one more reason to stop pretending, to just…..stop. Just head out the nearest airlock, don’t come back the next time they drop planet-side, maybe just jump down a Raider’s guns, go out a ‘hero’, with a bang. And all that right there’s just one more way he’s not Lee Adama, not any more. Fabric rustles behind him, there’s footsteps against the ground and shadows on the wall. He doesn’t know when she came in the room, how long she’s been standing there just watching him. Long enough, though, right? Shouldn’t she be able to see what he sees in the mirror? She comes to stand behind him, and he shuts his eyes before he can see her. He doesn’t want to see her, doesn’t want to look in those big, dark eyes of her and face the worry and betrayal he’ll find in equal measure there. He’s such a coward, but as long as no one else can see it in his eyes, as long as no one else calls him on it, he’ll keep on pretending. He’ll go on being their precious Apollo even though he knows that’s not going to be good enough, they need him to be more than that now -he- needs himself to be more than that. “Lee?” She questions softly, that beautiful, strong voice - and just like that, he knows he can never leave her. Starbuck or no Starbuck, he needs this, he needs her, one single word and that’s all it takes and he’s hanging to it like a lifeline, clinging to it with all his strength, like it’s the only thing that can save him. And maybe it is. She’s guided him home enough times, maybe she can do it again. Maybe she can bring him all the way back home, back to when he was really Lee. Time freezes, trapped in the echo of her voice, and just like the proverb wild hope springs eternal. Maybe he really could be Lee again, maybe he could be the Apollo they all need. And he knows its not right, he knows its not rational. He’s not that far gone. Lee’s not a stupid man, he knows what he’s doing. He knows he’s put her on a pedestal, fallen in love with an ideal that’s as superficial and arbitrary as the name Apollo, and if the damn President of all Twelve Colonies can say they need him, then why can’t he need her? It’s not fair to her – gods, he knows its not fair, but where’s the fair in twelve home worlds lying dead and radioactive in their wake? Where’s the fair in all the dead friends, lovers, family, where’s the fair in great expectations and looking to one man, one woman, one vision, one anything to be the salvation for an entire race? Where’s the fair in Boomer not being Boomer and Chief drunk at the bar while Cally watches the baby and Helo being so in love with Sharon and she’s not really even Sharon? Where’s the frakkin’ fair in any of it? “Lee?” She asks again, resting a hand on his back. He flinches, but just for a moment. Then leans back into it, the rough, calloused skin of her hand, worn down from years of selfless service to her people. Eyes still closed, the back of his eyelids starts to look like space, tiny pinpricks of white shining through. He’s so frakked up and she’s so frakked up and they’re all such a frakked up people – but then, they always have been, haven’t they? He reaches behind him and pulls her tight up against his body, and its not an act. He might love Starbuck but he knows damn well he’s in love with Dee, and maybe that really can be enough. She’s rigid and unimpressed at first but then she gives in and lets him draw her close, and he can feel her looking up at him but his eyes are still closed, waiting for her to say something else – lost in the black, waiting for her voice to find him and prove he’s still alive, so she can guide him home again.