pic for 1000 challenge, pumpkin muffin
Title: have you seen the muffin man?
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: hella
Notes: inspired by Say a Little Prayer For You from the Glee soundtrack and a picture of a pumpkin muffin, in accordance with the prophecy challenge. (picfor1000)
master fic post
If there was one thing Lieutenant Gaeta wanted more than anything, it was a pumpkin muffin. He imagined it constantly, the having of one, that bit of powdery hope, a remnant of home. The experience was just at the tip of his tongue. While working the comm, or during the more tedious moments in charting, he allowed his mind to examine the thing, to consider each of the qualities necessary to its perfection: the texture of it, for instance, and how the muffin existed spongiform and cakey both. Oh, the structural integrity! Something sweet, to share and to eat - he would divest it of its papers, the first and then the second, fingertips slicked with buttery oil. The idea in itself beat out any algae-based substitute. Modern science be damned!
All was quiet in the CIC. Flight practice for the nuggets had just ended, so the raptors were all in. The Admiral and XO were bent in gruff contemplation of star maps with the tentative sketchings of constellations: Aries, Taurus, Leo and the lot, a convoluted path to Earth.
Earth: a world of hope and, more importantly, a world with sky. What would have been interesting to note, had they all been observing this predicament instead of living it, was that they were all of them military men, all willing to leave their respective planets for months at a time to inhabit metal ships, but now here they were, crazy at the loss of land.
Not long ago, Dee would have smirked at him at slow times like these, seated elegantly across the control boards, and Gaeta would have spent the idle moments keying in engine calibrations and making eyes at Lieutenant Hoshi. Now, though, Gaeta just cracked his neck where he stood, flexed his fingers, and adjusted his leg. What had happened had been…unfortunate. All of it.
There were dreams. Waking dreams that took him at intervals, like the ebbing of water, blurring his reality. They were consistent: a house at the edge of a lake, hard wood and floor-to-ceiling windows. In these dreams Gaeta walked fluidly, sans uniform, free in the casual wear he didn’t own any longer; he imagined it folded and dormant in an abandoned apartment somewhere on old Caprica, maybe home to some roaches that had survived the nuclear winter.
He would open the eyes he hadn’t meant to close, only to squint against a white-bright sunlight. He'd be standing in the kitchen, hands dipped to the wrists in a bowl of batter. On the counter was a tin mold for cupcakes, or maybe those muffins, and good portion of each hallucination was expended carefully dolloping the mixture into paper wrappings.
Then he'd go out onto the deck. To Gaius Baltar.
For this reason, he’d first read the dreams as merely the supplications of a guilty conscience - penning another man in the neck was never pretty, especially as stationary was scarce these days; it was no wonder he sought absolution - but maybe it was something more perverse.
He went to Gaius on two good legs. Senior Officer of the Watch, and here he was baking for his-
“There’s the wifey,” Gaius murmured, wiping at the flour on Gaeta’s cheek. Gaeta felt himself falling into the role, feeling so proud of this man: doctor and scientist, president and saint.
“They’ll be out in fifteen minutes,” he said, and leaned in for a kiss.
Sometimes Gaeta was suspicious. He’d heard that Cylons created alternate realities, just as real as their own. So maybe...this realization came to him at the worst time, just as he was removing the jump tube at the necessary, controlled rate, crystal light shining blue against his human hand. He thought: what if I’m not? It certainly looks human. He remembered the group of cylons crowding Gaius’s presidential desk. Life was more precious the less of it you had. He powered up the FTL and made the jump.
The beep came. He went inside and removed the muffin tray from the oven, using a mitt because the tray was hot. He was a careful person, a methodical one..
But after he'd set them out to cool, they were gone.
“Noooo,” Gaeta cried. The feeling was tantamount to that time he'd stood up for them all and received a bullet for his efforts.
“It’s alright, darling,” Gaius said. “We’ll buy more at the grocery.” We’ll build you another one, you'll walk like new. Why had he married this man? Gaeta smeared his lipstick trying to avoid another kiss.
He could only partially control these daydreams, like there was someone in there with him, scrambling wires: a woman in a red dress, leaning, lithe, over the counter top. He caught her at it, finally. Between two fingers she held a muffin, examining with a child’s curiosity.
Gaeta’s anger was great with his fear of losing it all. He wasn’t proud, but he told himself it was his dream, his reality. Caprica was still down in the brig, Six was elsewhere, and this was an illusion, some guilty thought that begged exorcising. He attacked her with a couch pillow.
The fight was short. Gaius ran in at the sound of commotion, and Gaeta was horrified to find that Gaius knew this woman, even dared defend her. His husband. "Did you ever even love me?!"
He snapped back to reality, to the cool monochrome of the bridge. He mechanically logged a flight trajectory, a cool sweat on his brow. Just a dream, but next time he'd have to come prepared.
Again and again. He still baked, spent an obscene five minutes dripping batter into the tin and licking the excess from his fingers, relishing the spice he might never taste again. And every time, that woman came. Gaeta usually shot her with the pistol he'd started carrying under his cardigan. The muffin would fall from her hand, and roll onto the floor, a child’s toy, abandoned, and amidst Gaius’ panicky shouting, Gaeta ate it anyways.
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: hella
Notes: inspired by Say a Little Prayer For You from the Glee soundtrack and a picture of a pumpkin muffin, in accordance with the prophecy challenge. (picfor1000)
master fic post
If there was one thing Lieutenant Gaeta wanted more than anything, it was a pumpkin muffin. He imagined it constantly, the having of one, that bit of powdery hope, a remnant of home. The experience was just at the tip of his tongue. While working the comm, or during the more tedious moments in charting, he allowed his mind to examine the thing, to consider each of the qualities necessary to its perfection: the texture of it, for instance, and how the muffin existed spongiform and cakey both. Oh, the structural integrity! Something sweet, to share and to eat - he would divest it of its papers, the first and then the second, fingertips slicked with buttery oil. The idea in itself beat out any algae-based substitute. Modern science be damned!
All was quiet in the CIC. Flight practice for the nuggets had just ended, so the raptors were all in. The Admiral and XO were bent in gruff contemplation of star maps with the tentative sketchings of constellations: Aries, Taurus, Leo and the lot, a convoluted path to Earth.
Earth: a world of hope and, more importantly, a world with sky. What would have been interesting to note, had they all been observing this predicament instead of living it, was that they were all of them military men, all willing to leave their respective planets for months at a time to inhabit metal ships, but now here they were, crazy at the loss of land.
Not long ago, Dee would have smirked at him at slow times like these, seated elegantly across the control boards, and Gaeta would have spent the idle moments keying in engine calibrations and making eyes at Lieutenant Hoshi. Now, though, Gaeta just cracked his neck where he stood, flexed his fingers, and adjusted his leg. What had happened had been…unfortunate. All of it.
There were dreams. Waking dreams that took him at intervals, like the ebbing of water, blurring his reality. They were consistent: a house at the edge of a lake, hard wood and floor-to-ceiling windows. In these dreams Gaeta walked fluidly, sans uniform, free in the casual wear he didn’t own any longer; he imagined it folded and dormant in an abandoned apartment somewhere on old Caprica, maybe home to some roaches that had survived the nuclear winter.
He would open the eyes he hadn’t meant to close, only to squint against a white-bright sunlight. He'd be standing in the kitchen, hands dipped to the wrists in a bowl of batter. On the counter was a tin mold for cupcakes, or maybe those muffins, and good portion of each hallucination was expended carefully dolloping the mixture into paper wrappings.
Then he'd go out onto the deck. To Gaius Baltar.
For this reason, he’d first read the dreams as merely the supplications of a guilty conscience - penning another man in the neck was never pretty, especially as stationary was scarce these days; it was no wonder he sought absolution - but maybe it was something more perverse.
He went to Gaius on two good legs. Senior Officer of the Watch, and here he was baking for his-
“There’s the wifey,” Gaius murmured, wiping at the flour on Gaeta’s cheek. Gaeta felt himself falling into the role, feeling so proud of this man: doctor and scientist, president and saint.
“They’ll be out in fifteen minutes,” he said, and leaned in for a kiss.
Sometimes Gaeta was suspicious. He’d heard that Cylons created alternate realities, just as real as their own. So maybe...this realization came to him at the worst time, just as he was removing the jump tube at the necessary, controlled rate, crystal light shining blue against his human hand. He thought: what if I’m not? It certainly looks human. He remembered the group of cylons crowding Gaius’s presidential desk. Life was more precious the less of it you had. He powered up the FTL and made the jump.
The beep came. He went inside and removed the muffin tray from the oven, using a mitt because the tray was hot. He was a careful person, a methodical one..
But after he'd set them out to cool, they were gone.
“Noooo,” Gaeta cried. The feeling was tantamount to that time he'd stood up for them all and received a bullet for his efforts.
“It’s alright, darling,” Gaius said. “We’ll buy more at the grocery.” We’ll build you another one, you'll walk like new. Why had he married this man? Gaeta smeared his lipstick trying to avoid another kiss.
He could only partially control these daydreams, like there was someone in there with him, scrambling wires: a woman in a red dress, leaning, lithe, over the counter top. He caught her at it, finally. Between two fingers she held a muffin, examining with a child’s curiosity.
Gaeta’s anger was great with his fear of losing it all. He wasn’t proud, but he told himself it was his dream, his reality. Caprica was still down in the brig, Six was elsewhere, and this was an illusion, some guilty thought that begged exorcising. He attacked her with a couch pillow.
The fight was short. Gaius ran in at the sound of commotion, and Gaeta was horrified to find that Gaius knew this woman, even dared defend her. His husband. "Did you ever even love me?!"
He snapped back to reality, to the cool monochrome of the bridge. He mechanically logged a flight trajectory, a cool sweat on his brow. Just a dream, but next time he'd have to come prepared.
Again and again. He still baked, spent an obscene five minutes dripping batter into the tin and licking the excess from his fingers, relishing the spice he might never taste again. And every time, that woman came. Gaeta usually shot her with the pistol he'd started carrying under his cardigan. The muffin would fall from her hand, and roll onto the floor, a child’s toy, abandoned, and amidst Gaius’ panicky shouting, Gaeta ate it anyways.