Song Beneath the Song
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Disclaimer: Moore’s the man who should have queered them anyway.
Summary: Kat and Racetrack aren’t like the other girls.
Anyone else, they would have kissed good-bye, good luck, and gods keep you until we meet again. Hell, anyone else wouldn’t keep calling the other by her call sign after a sixteen month love affair, but Kat and Racetrack weren’t like the other girls.
Besides, they said good-bye every night, covered in each other’s sweat before passing out almost on top of each other. Started off as one of Kat’s stupid-ass jokes, but Racetrack got into it. So every night they said good-bye, don’t let the frakking toasters bite, rolled over, and went to sleep.
What, they were going to ditch a decent bunk to sleep in two smaller, colder ones? They were little enough, and it was cozier. Everyone was supposed to get all paired up anyway, and like Racetrack said, even girlfrakkers had the right to a shitty bunk.
Like anyone cared. Margaret and Louanne were the military loyalists in a group with no loyalty, and that only because Margaret and Louanne had nowhere else to go, and nothing better to imagine. Louanne Katraine had been frakking girls and frakking up since she was thirteen and had no intention of getting trapped on the surface with close-minded Gemenese and other freaks; Margaret Edmonson was third-generation Colonial military. If she’d been even a little better, she figured, the old man and her could talk about loving it. But she was small and not cute. Not ugly, but not cute. Just kind of a wiry Raptor pilot, good enough but not good, loyal enough but not capable of that kind of suicidal loyalty that made Starbuck Starbuck, or hell, even Boomer…
…of course, neither of those bitches were all that loyal in the end, but Racetrack didn’t think about that so often.
They weren’t like the other girls. Sometimes they were. Somewhere, hidden in the mess of someone’s bunk, they found a fashion catalog. Probably a dead girl’s, or left behind, they didn’t know. They didn’t care. It was a beautiful catalog, with slick-glossy pages and beautiful girls in clothes that were made of silk and satin and beads and chiffon. They looked at it and thought about all the places they never would have went on their own.
“I could wear this shit,” Kat said, looking over Racetrack’s shoulder while she combed out Racetrack’s hair and rebraided it for her upcoming duty. “That bright pink one, I’d wear that.”
“With all that shit on it?” Racetrack asked, snorting. Her people didn’t do all this bangly gold crap, or the foof. It just wasn’t military, or sensible. But it was pretty. “I like the red one.”
“Yeah, that’s hot,” Kat said. “But pink and red don’t go. You should wear…hmm. Maybe the gold one?”
“I couldn’t wear that,” Racetrack said, secretly coveting it.
“Sure you could. It’s all about–” and Kat paused to suck on Racetrack’s neck, “Attitude, chica.”
Attitude. They had that. More than enough between them. They could fight like the boys, booze harder than anyone who wasn’t frakking Tigh, and frak until they were dripping with sex and sweat and couldn’t even move, they were so sore and tired. They kept flying, kept moving.
They weren’t going to stop swimming and die.
Let Lee Adama take up eating and sitting by himself on the Beast. Getting fatter and meaner and bitchier every minute, and everyone knew it. They…they were gonna live and they were gonna do it the best way they knew how in a shithole situation like this.
“If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna do it knowing I frakked the girl, and drank the cheapest rotgut and smoked the last cigarette and shot every last toaster I could,” Kat said loudly one night, three fingers knuckle-deep in Racetrack. “You gonna come soon?”
“Yeah, if you stop talking,” Racetrack said, trying to sound bored even though her whole body was arching up, needing the connection between those fingers and her soaking wet cunt, needing it bad. “Yap yap yap. You trying to run for president or something?”
Kat laughed and pumped harder, watching Racetrack scramble at the sheets, trying so hard not to come that she came harder than she meant to. They were smart enough to know they were playing dumb, but not smart enough to know it was the only way to stop from being scared.
Everyone knew; everyone acted like they didn’t know. So Kat and Racetrack acted like they didn’t know either, at least not in public. It was their thing, and they did it their way.
They weren’t sentimental, anyway. People who said “I love you,” or so said Racetrack, were just setting themselves up for the pain. Look at Dee. Chained to the fat asshole and unable to kick him in the puffy butt and tell him to exercise or frak off? No thanks. That was all love’s fault.
They were just there for each other. Sort of. It was the kind of thing they did. Racetrack had nightmares for a while, about Cloud Nine. Kat held her close and smoothed her hair and told her to tough up, she had worse dreams about Scar, about the son of a bitch not missing, about him killing her and Starbuck. Cloud Nine was nothing to frakking worry about. And Racetrack knew the place where all Kat’s worry went, right above her ass, and so she massaged it away.
It didn’t meant Racetrack needed a medal. Didn’t mean Kat was going to get down on her knees and ask Racetrack to be hers. It was comfortable, the way they were. They knew it wasn’t going to make it past a tomorrow someday, so frak it. Why waste time?
So when the day finally came, the old man telling them they were going back to New Caprica to get everyone and get their asses back to Earth, Racetrack told Kat that it was happening.
Like she was excited. And hell, she was, and Kat was, and they were finally going to have a moment to do something that was worth a good frakking damn.
And then Kat went and said it.
“Don’t die or nothing.”
“Die? Frak you, flyjockey,” Racetrack said. “You watch your own ass.”
“Okay, I can, but you know. I mean it. Who else knows how to use a Raptor around here?” Kat said. There was tension everywhere, she just wanted to unsay what she said, but it was said and Racetrack looked as itchy as she did.
And they couldn’t stop talking.
“Yeah, well, you don’t be stupid,” Racetrack said. “You’re good, but you don’t need to be stupid just to show everyone your skills.”
Kat snorted. “Raptor pilots are pussies,” she said.
“Yeah, so? Viper jockeys are cockbites,” Racetrack retorted, glaring and biting her lip. “Just. Don’t frakking die, okay?”
“Fine, I’ll try. Don’t frakking die either, okay?” Kat snapped. “Shit, I’ll be glad when we get our people back, so I know there’s less of a weepy sap running the Raptor scrubs.”
Racetrack was finding it harder to breathe, thinking that Louanne needed to cool it or they’d just break, shatter into thin shards like a Viper after the toasters hit it, debris like a Cylon raider maybe.
“Yeah, I know,” Racetrack said. “So let’s go, soldier. Those people on the surface don’t have time for your smart mouth, and neither do I.”
To their surprise, that was what Kat did, and the two of them left the ready room, heading for the flight deck and the tomorrow they’d been trying to prepare for.
Sixteen months. Shit, thought Kat, and frak, thought Racetrack. Felt like a day.