Title: "Enumeration"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Rating/Classification: second person pov, Six/Sharon slash but mostly gen.
Disclaimer: I only frakking WISH I owned BSG.
Summary: There are no old men amongst the Cylons. Set somewhere in between S2's "Downloaded" and "Lay Down Your Burdens I."

Long after the human is gone, when God's children are carefully packing away the remnants of the settlement and preparing to step to a different, a brighter, future under the direction of their heroes, Sharon tells you about Gaius.

She shares as much as she can. Pilots and politicians do not have much cause to mix, but she tells you what's important: that he breathes, that he walks, that he sweats and bleeds. And when she exhausts those meager details, she moves on to talk about the name on the tags -- Kara Thrace -- about a deck chief that she loved, about her CAG and card games and illegal alcohol production. She explains what it all means to her even though you do not ask and do not care to.

Sharon talks until her voice is a rasp, a whisper that can barely be heard under the thunderous noise of the raiders and supply ships taking flight. In some moments, you mutinously wish she were still practicing sullen silence. Her uncivil disobedience is sometimes more welcome than the prattling homesickness for Galactica.

She calls the leader of their fleet "The Old Man" with a kind of reverence you only reserve for God. For there are no old men amongst the Cylons. There is no age and no wisdom that comes from it.

"You were on Caprica for two years," she notes as you duck through the brush together, taking a few precious minutes away from the worshipful syncophants who hang on your every word but also watch your every move. "Two years and you loved Dr. Baltar, didn't you?"

"Yes." You can taste the affirmative like the salt of his skin. "Yes. I did."

"Didn't you love anything else? Pyramid matches? Ice cream? Toe nail polish?" Her questions are mostly teasing now and she ducks a handful of pebbles that you throw at her as you reply in kind, "Shoes, Sharon. I adored shoes. I had an impressive collection."

Her lips twitch into a rare smile. "Then maybe you're more human than you think. More woman than Cylon."

"You know, perhaps I always was," you allow.

You have that luxury now…and you have someone to share it with.

Sharon's skin is soft under your hands. Smooth, not stubbled and pock-marked and sharp. You catch her mouth with your own and wonder whose tongue holds the tang of metal. Perhaps both of you are flavored like machinery and neither your Gaius nor her chief took notice. You cup her throat in your hands, knowing you could crush her windpipe in an instant and also knowing that to do so would be unholy, unconscionable. Her head spills back against your fingertips and she gasps "Six," like it is not a number but is your name.

A raider soars overhead, barely visible in the gaps of the treetops.

You hear it. You hear "Six" again and again.

And, for the first time in a long time, you are counted.

And accountable.


March 19, 2006.

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