Less Right Angle
There's a scratch in the metal above Kara's head. It's shallow, barely discernable, in the shape of a question mark.
When she can't sleep, she reaches up, traces its shape. Sometimes she completes the curve, adds the dot that should be there.
She wonders what the question is. Maybe there's more than one.
She noticed it her third week on the Galactica, after a long talk with the old man about pyramid and Zak and the tactical officers. He'd offered her a cup of coffee, and she'd taken it, unthinking.
Afterwards, she'd lain in her bunk and stared up, thought about all the things she wanted to tell him, and all the things she'd never dare talk about.
And the scratch, the hook and line of it, revealed itself to her eyes.
She didn't like it, then, and thought about sneaking a can of paint in, to cover up the mark.
She left it there, instead, and over time, she learned to appreciate it.
She's often exhausted enough to fall into unconsciousness as soon as she lands in her bunk, but every once in a while, her insomnia returns.
She lies in her bed, listens to the hum of the ship's workings, the air cycling in and out, the muted snufflings of the other officers asleep.
Her head feels full, and she reaches up to follow the familiar line of the question mark. The apex of the scratch, that horizontal peak, is jagged. Almost an angle, as if whatever made the mark jerked to a halt, instead of curving round.
>From the other side of the room, Lee murmurs, words too faint to discern. She turns her head, listens to the rustle of cloth, and watches the curtain of his bunk bulge, his elbow stick out from under the bottom.
She places the imaginary dot at the end of her question mark. Bites her lip, then reaches to the side of her mattress. Digs out a set of cards, and swings out of her bunk.
Lee doesn't so much as twitch when she pulls the curtain back, and she crouches, puts her hand on his shoulder.
His eyes fly open immediately, and she shakes her head at the alarm of his expression. He blinks, and his wariness subsides, his jaw relaxes.
She shows him the pack of cards, nods her head to the hatch.
He raises his eyebrows, studies her face for a moment. Then he sighs, almost theatrically, and sits up.
She leads him to the rec room, deserted at this hour. She picks a table at random, drags a chair up with her foot.
He slides another chair over, straddles it and folds his arms over the back of it.
She shuffles the cards, deals hands to the both of them.
"You okay?" he asks.
Kara shrugs. "Couldn't sleep."
He watches her as she sets the remainder of the cards aside, picks up his hand.
"Stakes?"
She ponders, then smiles. "Only your pride."
They play for an hour and half, short gestures and muffled laughs taking the place of words.
It doesn't happen often. Once every two or three weeks.
They don't keep score, not really.
Everything seems to break even.
She wakes when Lee taps her elbow. He catches her wrist when her arm swings out, and she's two seconds away from throwing a punch with her other arm, because she was sleeping, damn it.
Lee lets out a huff of breath, and she looks at him, then. There's something behind his eyes, something she can't name, but she recognizes it.
She sits up, starts to dig the cards out from under her mattress.
"Wait," he whispers, and waves a sheaf of papers at her.
She squints. "The rosters?"
"Yeah."
"Homework?"
She rolls her eyes, but gets up anyway, and follows Lee to the ready room.
While Lee scribbles the schedule onto the board, she traverses the room, peering under chairs.
"What're you looking for?" he asks. His voice echoes loudly in the room, despite his hushed tone.
She stops by the third row, cranes her neck. "Saw one of the nuggets playing with--ha!" She scoots into the row, scoops a lightweight rubber ball from under one of the seats.
Lee looks at her skeptically, and she tosses the ball from hand to hand. It fits perfectly into her palm, and she envisions two more, wishes she had them to juggle.
"Could you--" Lee holds up the papers again, and she lopes to the front to take them.
It's quick work. She reads off the names and Lee writes them down. They rearrange a few pilots, make sure the nuggets are paired with more experienced pilots. All to the staccato of the rubber ball, which she bounces on the floor with her left hand.
As Lee makes the proper notations on his report for the LSO, she tosses the ball against the board. Lee glances up, irked, and she sticks her tongue at him. Bounces the ball of the board again, and again, until Lee drops his pencil and grabs the ball, mid-air.
"Hey!"
Lee smirks at her, then sighs. Looks at the schedule. "Get some sleep," he says. "You've got training tomorrow morning."
"And you have patrol." She tries to snatch the ball out of his hands, but he enfolds it in his palms.
Her fingers pry at his closed fists, and they stand there for a minute, in a stalemate.
The intercom opens to static, then someone calls the LSO to CIC.
Lee sighs, hands her the ball. "I'd better file the new schedule."
"Right." She watches him leave, then turns to the board. Picks up the eraser, and wipes it clean.
She stares up at the question mark. Reaches, traces it with her index finger.
Rise right, then down to a point. Curve left again, then slope diagonally.
The hatch to quarters clanks open, and light filters dimly through the curtain of her bunk.
She listens to the rustle of cloth as Lee settles back into his bunk.
She taps her finger against the metal above her, completes the question with a flourish.
She closes her eyes, and lets herself drift into sleep.
Until the next time.