Battlestar Galactica
Islanded In A Stream Of Stars

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Jacob Clifton: A+ | Grade It Now!
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All My Darling Daughters

Right now that's Caprica, and he shivers and quakes beneath her gaze, because if she signs on for this he won't ever have to question it again. "You haven't changed, Gaius," she says, still holding his hand. "Not really." The tears well up, but she knows now -- more than anybody, maybe -- that you can't just wish it away. You can't pretend that what they did, the two of them, doesn't matter. You can move on, take it into yourself, let it change you, let it settle, but you can't project it away. He hasn't changed. "I have." After Liam, she has. Home was her womb, and the bright future inside it that she always knew she was strong enough to bear. Home for Gaius is peace with his people, and God's love. All the things she wanted so long ago, before she changed. Gaius weeps, still caught in his own shit, wondering if she's right. Angel or demon, damned or redeemed, it doesn't matter; if it's true or not; if Caprica is too harsh or just harsh enough. The only thing that matters is that Gaius still has no idea.

Saul wanders into sickbay for some reason, looking worried, and there's a short grump-off before Doc Cottle ushers him over to the bedside of an Eight, whose injuries from the explosion are eerily similar to the time Boomer tried to kill herself. He goes to her, confused, and she reaches out her hand. He takes it immediately, and she thanks him: "For the privilege of finally being able to meet my father before I die." His eyes well with tears, but he tries not to be moved. It would be a betrayal, somehow. Of Liam, or Bill, or Kara, or humanity. Letting go of Caprica means letting go of this tender peace, doesn't it? Letting go of Liam means letting go of fatherhood. Something in him will break if he lets this girl get to him, as she lays dying. "You shouldn't be thanking me. I spent most of my life trying to kill your kind." His nose twitches; she starts to lose it. "Too much confusion," she says, a private joke; he stares, as she finds her relief, still holding his hand.

Hera continues to demand her mommy, even as Boomer's being slowly driven insane by the Raptor sounds and the space sounds; she flicks switches, trying not to hear. There comes a point in every parent's day, usually around three o'clock. Not every day, and hopefully not often, but into every parent's day this moment comes eventually, and we don't like to talk about it, but the fact is that some days, you have to be really fucking slow with your movements and monitor your vocal tone carefully, or they are going to put you in jail for murdering everybody. And an even bigger secret is that kids -- even infants, even just a few days old -- know this, and love it. It is their Olympics.

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Battlestar Galactica

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