Fic: Can't Get No
Title: Can't Get No
Characters/pairings: Saul/Ellen, Bill
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 749
Summary: He can't be losing it, on top of losing her. Play on, crazy song.
A/N: Challenge prompt "If music be the food of love, play on" at 13th_tribe. Lyric fragments belong to Bob Dylan. Many thanks to plaid_slytherin for kindly looking this over and soothing my fears.
Saul scrabbles awake, still reeling from the night before. That frakkin’ music won’t leave him alone. It dogs his dreams, taunts him with hints of phrases but flits away before he can grasp the whole thing. Since they hauled him out that hellhole he’s been walking a knife edge. But he can’t be losing it, on top of losing her -
…some way out…
“Let’s go,” Saul assumes she’s yelling over the music.
He grins, grabs their bottle and slaps some bills onto the counter, yells back “Where to?”
“I don’t care! Come on!” Ellen tugs on his wrist, but her grip breaks amidst the crowd. Marooned on some dance floor, he cranes his head this way and that, desperate for any trace. It’s no use. The mindless human tide has swallowed her whole, a sea of jostling limbs, sweat-tinged perfumes, booming bass and spinning colors that bewilders him worse than any dogfight.
Beside a door, a flash glints off blonde tresses he misses just as he blinks -
…too much confusion…
His reflection stares back at him, sunken and red-eyed. The cabinet squeals when Saul opens it for his razor. Passing over the shaving cream Ellen gave him, he rubs soap into a thin lather, shaves with short mechanical strokes. A rinse, then tanks, slacks, shoes, jacket. As he does up the buttons before the sink mirror, his eye wanders over worn patches and wrinkles, at last settling on the void behind and within him.
This hollow routine - how much longer can it hold? Something’s gotta give -
…any of it is worth…
He snarls. Books and papers scatter from his desk, but the cleared space doesn’t calm him any. Damn it all. The gods must be laughing at him. Saul slumps into his chair, burying his head in his hands.
Behind him, Ellen rubs his shoulders with deep, strong strokes. “What’s wrong?” she asks, bending close, and he can smell sandalwood and rose.
Eyes closed, he inhales deeply and relaxes into her touch. “Just… These past weeks, I tried to keep everyone together. Even broke Bill’s wishes about martial law. And for what? He’s up, but his son’s gone, along with a third of the Fleet. I failed.”
Her hands still, and squeeze tight. “No, Saul. You were strong, you did your duty. The ships jumped away on Bill’s watch, not yours.”
“But Lee -”
“Saul, look at me.” He does, and her fire burns away his shame. “Whatever they say, you did what you had to. You held us together. Remember that.”
He reaches out a hand -
…is but a joke…
The flask proves empty when he shakes it, so Saul tops it off, and since the bottle’s open, pours three fingers into a glass. He chases the whiskey with more, to build the buzz. Maybe drown out those snatches of song, too, if they won’t resolve into a whole.
He’s about to take the stand, but frak it all. Trial’s a frakking farce. Why let Baltar back on the ship only to waste everyone’s time with this dog and pony show? Traitor’s gonna wind up out an airlock anyway.
A brisk rap rings from the hatch. That’s his cue -
…not our fate…
“Ellen? You ready to leave?” he asks as he leans on the doorframe to the lab office.
“Not quite,” she answers. “You go on ahead. I’ll meet you at the bar.” His brow furrows. They haven’t enjoyed themselves outside of work since… since a while ago. “I promise,” she adds, looking away from the monitors to him.
Saul smiles. “I’ll hold you to it.” And he steps inside to give her a lingering kiss.
Her humming voice follows him as he turns -
…hour’s getting late
"Saul,” someone calls when he walks past a hatch, but he keeps going. He can’t face them, not after that humiliating frak-up. No, it’s off to Joe’s. Damn that lawyer and Lee Adama. They dared bring Ellen up like that, before the gods and everybody -
A hand falls on his shoulder before he can round the corner. “Hey.”
He wants to shrug it off, but it’s Bill, so he straightens and faces him. “Bill, I…” He falters, too many words waiting to burst through. His friend just smiles.
“Let’s go to my quarters. I could use a drink, too, after today.” Saul nods, grateful.
On the way Bill remarks, “We’re almost there.”
“Yeah,” he says wearily. Where - Bill’s quarters, trial’s end, the Ionian nebula - that doesn’t matter. For now he’ll just follow.
Characters/pairings: Saul/Ellen, Bill
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 749
Summary: He can't be losing it, on top of losing her. Play on, crazy song.
A/N: Challenge prompt "If music be the food of love, play on" at 13th_tribe. Lyric fragments belong to Bob Dylan. Many thanks to plaid_slytherin for kindly looking this over and soothing my fears.
Saul scrabbles awake, still reeling from the night before. That frakkin’ music won’t leave him alone. It dogs his dreams, taunts him with hints of phrases but flits away before he can grasp the whole thing. Since they hauled him out that hellhole he’s been walking a knife edge. But he can’t be losing it, on top of losing her -
…some way out…
“Let’s go,” Saul assumes she’s yelling over the music.
He grins, grabs their bottle and slaps some bills onto the counter, yells back “Where to?”
“I don’t care! Come on!” Ellen tugs on his wrist, but her grip breaks amidst the crowd. Marooned on some dance floor, he cranes his head this way and that, desperate for any trace. It’s no use. The mindless human tide has swallowed her whole, a sea of jostling limbs, sweat-tinged perfumes, booming bass and spinning colors that bewilders him worse than any dogfight.
Beside a door, a flash glints off blonde tresses he misses just as he blinks -
…too much confusion…
His reflection stares back at him, sunken and red-eyed. The cabinet squeals when Saul opens it for his razor. Passing over the shaving cream Ellen gave him, he rubs soap into a thin lather, shaves with short mechanical strokes. A rinse, then tanks, slacks, shoes, jacket. As he does up the buttons before the sink mirror, his eye wanders over worn patches and wrinkles, at last settling on the void behind and within him.
This hollow routine - how much longer can it hold? Something’s gotta give -
…any of it is worth…
He snarls. Books and papers scatter from his desk, but the cleared space doesn’t calm him any. Damn it all. The gods must be laughing at him. Saul slumps into his chair, burying his head in his hands.
Behind him, Ellen rubs his shoulders with deep, strong strokes. “What’s wrong?” she asks, bending close, and he can smell sandalwood and rose.
Eyes closed, he inhales deeply and relaxes into her touch. “Just… These past weeks, I tried to keep everyone together. Even broke Bill’s wishes about martial law. And for what? He’s up, but his son’s gone, along with a third of the Fleet. I failed.”
Her hands still, and squeeze tight. “No, Saul. You were strong, you did your duty. The ships jumped away on Bill’s watch, not yours.”
“But Lee -”
“Saul, look at me.” He does, and her fire burns away his shame. “Whatever they say, you did what you had to. You held us together. Remember that.”
He reaches out a hand -
…is but a joke…
The flask proves empty when he shakes it, so Saul tops it off, and since the bottle’s open, pours three fingers into a glass. He chases the whiskey with more, to build the buzz. Maybe drown out those snatches of song, too, if they won’t resolve into a whole.
He’s about to take the stand, but frak it all. Trial’s a frakking farce. Why let Baltar back on the ship only to waste everyone’s time with this dog and pony show? Traitor’s gonna wind up out an airlock anyway.
A brisk rap rings from the hatch. That’s his cue -
…not our fate…
“Ellen? You ready to leave?” he asks as he leans on the doorframe to the lab office.
“Not quite,” she answers. “You go on ahead. I’ll meet you at the bar.” His brow furrows. They haven’t enjoyed themselves outside of work since… since a while ago. “I promise,” she adds, looking away from the monitors to him.
Saul smiles. “I’ll hold you to it.” And he steps inside to give her a lingering kiss.
Her humming voice follows him as he turns -
…hour’s getting late
"Saul,” someone calls when he walks past a hatch, but he keeps going. He can’t face them, not after that humiliating frak-up. No, it’s off to Joe’s. Damn that lawyer and Lee Adama. They dared bring Ellen up like that, before the gods and everybody -
A hand falls on his shoulder before he can round the corner. “Hey.”
He wants to shrug it off, but it’s Bill, so he straightens and faces him. “Bill, I…” He falters, too many words waiting to burst through. His friend just smiles.
“Let’s go to my quarters. I could use a drink, too, after today.” Saul nods, grateful.
On the way Bill remarks, “We’re almost there.”
“Yeah,” he says wearily. Where - Bill’s quarters, trial’s end, the Ionian nebula - that doesn’t matter. For now he’ll just follow.