"I'm done," Tyrol says again, later, like he's reminding himself. Karl knows that'll never be an option for him. He wonders if Tyrol would be able say that if he'd been stranded on Caprica, if he knew what Karl knows. Because there are days when all Karl can think about is the running, the way he never thought it would stop, and the way Sharon never slowed down. How she kept him moving, breathing, hoping. Even in the middle of the Galactica, surrounded by people he knows, voices he remembers, he'd sometimes get caught up in the memory of rain and mud and the way Sharon's flightsuit felt under his fingers. Leather and cloth, soaked, Sharon shivering under him, the desperate grab of her fingers anchoring him. All the time, there's been the nagging knowledge – the rain, the dirt, the air was poison, eating away at them – him – leaving him gasping at night, sometimes, wondering what would happen if they ran out of anti-rad meds. And Sharon. She was life, there, when the rest of it was dead, dying, or hiding some secret harm. Could the Chief let go of that, any of it? Karl shakes his head and turns to kick the wall. "Fishbowl," he mutters, then wonders briefly if there are any fishbowls left. "What?" He gestures at the glass, at the guard beyond it, and Tyrol nods his understanding. "Guess you won't have to be hating it for much longer." The Pegasus has a Cylon. Is she in a room like this? Do they like to watch her, taunt her, let her look beyond her cell? Do they keep the lights on all day, stare at her like she's scum? Or is she in a dark little box, no windows, no light? He frowns. "Guess I won't." It's stale, in here. Nothing like Caprica, with the sunlight filtering through the leaves, or bouncing off the concrete walls. On the Pegasus, it's just fluorescent light and musty, recycled air, tainted with the kind of garbage that the Admiral apparently commands. It might not be radioactive rain on a toxic planet, but inside this cell, it might as well be the same thing. "What?" Tyrol asks again, his forehead creasing. "What is it?" Karl shrugs, staring at the creases in the Chief's shirt, the way the grey darkens into valleys. He wonders what the fabric would feel like, under his hands. He knows, logically – the same clothes, carefully washed and rewashed. Usually soft with wear, and now stiff with sweat and anger and violence. But he wonders – if he pulled Tyrol up from the bunk, if he pushed him backwards against the wall of this tainted ship, would the shirt feel different against his skin? Would Tyrol's hands grip at him, desperate, hungry, the way it had been with Sharon? He flashes back to running through the Galactica, pushing people aside, Tyrol telling him to move, come on, faster. It had been familiar, running, desperate, fear for himself, for Sharon. Like he was coming home, almost, after being static too long. And that's how he should die. Running. Karl walks forward, leans on the top bunk, and just looks down at Tyrol. "Think we'll get a last request?" Because he doesn't believe they'll get a pardon, no matter what Adama might try, might do. Tyrol's lips thin, a hard line. "We'll be lucky if she lets us die standing." Karl laughs, short, sharp. He's probably right. Still. "What would you ask for?" He watches as Tyrol's mouth loosens, slightly, as his eyes lose their focus. Eventually, he says, "A gun." Karl stares, surprised, and then laughs again. Tyrol. He can see why Sharon was drawn to him. "What about you? What would you ask for?" He turns around, his back against the bed frame, his back to Tyrol, and looks up at the ceiling. Remembering the fall of sunlight through Sharon's hair, the merging of brown and gold, he says, "I don't have a frakking clue." |
| Characters/Pairings:
Helo/Sharon, Helo/Tyrol Summary: Because there are days when all Karl can think about is the running. Notes: Spoilers up to Resurrection Ship Part 1. |