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Nov. 7th, 2002 10:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonlettuceWell, I didn't write any of TPYP today, but I did end up doing another BSG piece. Apollo's pov this time:
Apollo, sitting, watching, fingers itching to reach out, to touch, to caress. Fingers itching to run over smooth skin, mapping every inch, soothing each imperfection. Fingers needing to touch, but held by his side. And Starbuck can see it, can see the fear in his eyes.
"I won't break, 'Pol."
And isn't that the crux of it all. Because Apollo's seen the scars, heard the nightmares. And that's what terrifies him, that for every scar Starbuck has, he wants to match it with one of his own. Wants to eradicate every trace of every person who has owned Starbuck in the past and replace it with his own. Mark for mark, scar for scar, brand for brand. And he doesn't know if he's strong enough not to. Doesn't know if he's strong enough to ignore the voice in the back of his mind urging him to claim Starbuck and claim him for all to see.
"Apollo."
The voice is soft, fingers reaching out to him, but not touching.
"I can't."
Because if he's not strong enough to ignore the urges, then at least he can be strong enough to admit it. But it doesn't stop the fingers from pressing gently again his cheek.
"Yes, you can."
And then...
"I trust you."
And that's the gift he knows Starbuck's never given to anyone else. Because even if they had his body they never had him. He moves, carefully, gently, muscles protesting at being held back for so long. Hands reaching out, fingertips barely grazing soft skin. And even with his eyes closed, he'd know this body. Pressing harder now, feeling, searching, tracing the faded white lines he knows are there.
"I..."
But his voice catch in his throat. There are no words, no consolations that can take this away.
"Shhh."
And a hand reaches out, threading through his hair, soothing, calming. But isn't this the wrong way around, shouldn't he be the one comforting? Shouldn't he be the one brushing the wetness off cheeks? Arms encircle him, body supporting his as the undertow continues to wash him out of a skin that feels too tight.
And he knows in this instant that everyone was wrong, even him. Knows in this instant that it's Starbuck who is the strong one. And Apollo's beginning to think that, maybe, he always was.
Apollo, sitting, watching, fingers itching to reach out, to touch, to caress. Fingers itching to run over smooth skin, mapping every inch, soothing each imperfection. Fingers needing to touch, but held by his side. And Starbuck can see it, can see the fear in his eyes.
"I won't break, 'Pol."
And isn't that the crux of it all. Because Apollo's seen the scars, heard the nightmares. And that's what terrifies him, that for every scar Starbuck has, he wants to match it with one of his own. Wants to eradicate every trace of every person who has owned Starbuck in the past and replace it with his own. Mark for mark, scar for scar, brand for brand. And he doesn't know if he's strong enough not to. Doesn't know if he's strong enough to ignore the voice in the back of his mind urging him to claim Starbuck and claim him for all to see.
"Apollo."
The voice is soft, fingers reaching out to him, but not touching.
"I can't."
Because if he's not strong enough to ignore the urges, then at least he can be strong enough to admit it. But it doesn't stop the fingers from pressing gently again his cheek.
"Yes, you can."
And then...
"I trust you."
And that's the gift he knows Starbuck's never given to anyone else. Because even if they had his body they never had him. He moves, carefully, gently, muscles protesting at being held back for so long. Hands reaching out, fingertips barely grazing soft skin. And even with his eyes closed, he'd know this body. Pressing harder now, feeling, searching, tracing the faded white lines he knows are there.
"I..."
But his voice catch in his throat. There are no words, no consolations that can take this away.
"Shhh."
And a hand reaches out, threading through his hair, soothing, calming. But isn't this the wrong way around, shouldn't he be the one comforting? Shouldn't he be the one brushing the wetness off cheeks? Arms encircle him, body supporting his as the undertow continues to wash him out of a skin that feels too tight.
And he knows in this instant that everyone was wrong, even him. Knows in this instant that it's Starbuck who is the strong one. And Apollo's beginning to think that, maybe, he always was.
