NOTES: This story wanted to be written: I woke up with in in my head one morning and it only took half a day to write.

Fitful

She nearly suggests that they share a rack. It's gonna get frakking cold tonight.

A glimpse of his eyes and she refrains. He looks (bruised betrayed suckered) exhausted beyond renewal.

It's unusual restraint for her (perhaps she's going soft) but the rules have changed, even if the game is more or less the same.

"I'll take the floor," he says, glancing out at the setting sun.

Kara huffs out a stream of cigar smoke. (gotta cut back don't have too many) "Very gentlemanly."

The figure in the other worn armchair pauses. He's caught by a memory (frak you Sharon-or-whatever-you-were frak you back to your frakking toaster friends) and she opens her mouth to add that he wouldn't fit in the rack in this place anyway.

"I wouldn't fit in your rack anyway," his mouth curves in the (bitter sweet pained) smile that she's become accustomed to seeing in him. It hurts. (the cylons have a way of making us all look like idiots) But she smiles, relieved that the moment has passed.

Kara doesn't like moments. (that bum knee of yours is looking pretty good and the other one's not so bad either) They can leave surprises where you're not expecting them.

No more surprises.

The Arrow of Apollo is heavy in her hands, the weight of hope and belief and trust. The President asked her, challenged her, tore the veil from her eyes and changed her perspective of the world.

But Kara's still not sure why she did it.

Betrayal for betrayal? (I believed in you believed in Earth)

Hope of a future? (I'm dying)

To prove she's not just trouble with tits and two legs? (I need every pilot I have even the screw-ups)

She doesn't know. She can't be sure.

She did what she thought she had to, and got way more than she bargained for.

(she never thought she'd have a weakness for Adamas)

Helo stares out the window behind her as shadows crawl across the floor. (he churns with the loss of what he thought was love) He has his own thoughts and doesn't share them. Their communion only goes so far.

She stubs out the cigar and rises, stripping off her jacket and tossing it on the chair. "I'm out." (too much thinking not enough acting) "Get some sleep."

He glances up from his (useless pointless hopeless) shadow-watching. Smiles. (weary bittersweet rueful) "You, too."

Tomorrow, they're on the move again. Get a ship, get back to Galactica, hand over the arrow, face the music. (could do it in her sleep)

Sleep is fitful.

- fin -