FIC: Mark (BSG, Gina/Cain, R)
Jun. 4th, 2006 08:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tellitslantTitle: Mark
Author: Kathryne,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tellitslant
Fandom: BSG
Pairing: Gina/Cain (Six/Gaius)
Rating: R
Spoilers: Pegasus
Notes: Written foraeonian in Round Three of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
getyourtoaster.
Summary: Six and her flaws.
You can't help comparing them, somehow, even though you know it's foolish. Foolish and emotional and pointless, and you almost wonder if there's a defect somewhere in your makeup, and you know you certainly can't ask anyone else what they think for fear of their response.
And yet sometimes, with her hands hot on your breasts or her breath damp on the inside of your thigh, you can't help but compare your two assignments.
You think she should be very different from the knowledge that comes to you second-hand, of fucking in the ocean breeze and vibrant colours of Caprica City, of his insatiability, of the ease with which you-and-not-you deceive him. Instead, you are almost disappointed by the speed with which she responds to you, to the same flirtatious coquetry that trapped him so surely.
Perhaps there is where it begins: you become complacent. You let the ease of one conquest influence the path of the other.
She is different, you think one morning, opening your eyes to the dull greyness of her quarters after a night of dreaming by the oceanfront. Her hair is tickling your shoulders and her hand is resting on your stomach, and you lean in to kiss the lines that not even sleep can completely erase from her face.
She is the same, you decide later that day, watching her whisk around a corner, so intent on her task that she doesn't register your presence, so focussed on doing everything properly that you don't think she'd have acknowledged you had she known you were there.
She is the same, she is the same, she is the same, you chant as day rolls into night rolls into new day and she flips atop you and pins you to the bed. There is no sound in the background except her breathing and yours, and yet as you arch into her and shudder against her hand, you think you hear the crashing of the surf.
After the cataclysm, you become even more convinced that they are the same, each of them unable to accurately measure their own importance. He is weaker in character, but her strengths are lessened by her single-minded intensity, her unwillingness to look beyond today.
Revenge, she says to you, her hands cold as she grasps your wrists tightly.
Survival, you think, sweeping your eyelashes down as you wonder how hard and how far she can run before you and the others find her.
And you forget that they are different. You fooled his genius-level intelligence; you forget that her training is in instinct, in bodily confessions, in reading people as opposed to data. You played to his ego; you forget that she has been schooled to conformity, to recognise anything out of step with the rest of the world.
You will forget, eventually, what misstep you took, how she finally found out your truth. Now you just know that it seems tiny, insignificant, a word misspoken or a gesture miscued. Whatever it was, you know, it is because you assumed she is the same.
She backhands you across the face and leaves you bleeding in your cell. She is different, you think.
When you finished your other assignment, you died.
She is different.
Author: Kathryne,
tellitslantFandom: BSG
Pairing: Gina/Cain (Six/Gaius)
Rating: R
Spoilers: Pegasus
Notes: Written for
aeonian in Round Three of getyourtoaster.Summary: Six and her flaws.
You can't help comparing them, somehow, even though you know it's foolish. Foolish and emotional and pointless, and you almost wonder if there's a defect somewhere in your makeup, and you know you certainly can't ask anyone else what they think for fear of their response.
And yet sometimes, with her hands hot on your breasts or her breath damp on the inside of your thigh, you can't help but compare your two assignments.
You think she should be very different from the knowledge that comes to you second-hand, of fucking in the ocean breeze and vibrant colours of Caprica City, of his insatiability, of the ease with which you-and-not-you deceive him. Instead, you are almost disappointed by the speed with which she responds to you, to the same flirtatious coquetry that trapped him so surely.
Perhaps there is where it begins: you become complacent. You let the ease of one conquest influence the path of the other.
She is different, you think one morning, opening your eyes to the dull greyness of her quarters after a night of dreaming by the oceanfront. Her hair is tickling your shoulders and her hand is resting on your stomach, and you lean in to kiss the lines that not even sleep can completely erase from her face.
She is the same, you decide later that day, watching her whisk around a corner, so intent on her task that she doesn't register your presence, so focussed on doing everything properly that you don't think she'd have acknowledged you had she known you were there.
She is the same, she is the same, she is the same, you chant as day rolls into night rolls into new day and she flips atop you and pins you to the bed. There is no sound in the background except her breathing and yours, and yet as you arch into her and shudder against her hand, you think you hear the crashing of the surf.
After the cataclysm, you become even more convinced that they are the same, each of them unable to accurately measure their own importance. He is weaker in character, but her strengths are lessened by her single-minded intensity, her unwillingness to look beyond today.
Revenge, she says to you, her hands cold as she grasps your wrists tightly.
Survival, you think, sweeping your eyelashes down as you wonder how hard and how far she can run before you and the others find her.
And you forget that they are different. You fooled his genius-level intelligence; you forget that her training is in instinct, in bodily confessions, in reading people as opposed to data. You played to his ego; you forget that she has been schooled to conformity, to recognise anything out of step with the rest of the world.
You will forget, eventually, what misstep you took, how she finally found out your truth. Now you just know that it seems tiny, insignificant, a word misspoken or a gesture miscued. Whatever it was, you know, it is because you assumed she is the same.
She backhands you across the face and leaves you bleeding in your cell. She is different, you think.
When you finished your other assignment, you died.
She is different.
