Siblings, Part Seven and Eight
Mar. 3rd, 2019 11:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fiveofnoneCaspar had done such a good job of distancing himself from the other Cylons on Atlantis that he didn’t know who to confide in about Ellen’s impromptu visit.
It made him wish, not for the first time, that the Sevens had survived. He never knew them (the Ones had destroyed the entire line during its incubation phase), but it would have been nice to have a younger brother. Someone to look up to him, perhaps. Instead, he was stuck with his younger sisters and his older, but not wiser, brothers.
He had already ruled out the Twos, not wanting a spiritual lecture. He unfortunately didn’t see any of the Sixes regularly except Julia, and like frak was he going to ask her for help. Her ridiculously obvious crush on Adia had thankfully abated, but she had nothing but positive things to say about the Final Five. She wouldn’t understand.
The Eights were an even worse choice. They fully lived up to their status as the baby of the family, waffling on their decisions more than any other model, throwing their vote in with whomever sweet-talked them or jangled something shiny in front of their eyes. He remembered Boomer — the only other sleeper agent — flip-flopping so goddamn much that he couldn’t keep track of whose side she was on most days.
Sharon Agathon was the exception to the rule.
She was the one Eight who knew what she wanted from almost the beginning of her existence and fought for it tooth-and-nail. In her case, it was a family with her human lover, Karl Agathon, and their daughter, Hera. Never once did she cower or cave to her former life as a Cylon operative. Caspar had to admit that he deeply admired her for that.
Unfortunately, the feeling was not mutual.
Sharon hated him for siding with the Cylons who kidnapped her daughter (twice!) and nearly killed her husband, and he couldn’t blame her for that. But Karl was a much more forgiving sort, and as Adia was a dear friend to them both, Sharon was forced to tolerate his presence on multiple occasions. Their interactions were limited to glares from Sharon and feigned indifference from Caspar. Occasionally he let slip a sarcastic comment or two, but he knew better than to poke the bear.
As luck would have it, the Agathons were visiting that very afternoon. Karl needed to discuss some Quorum initiatives with Adia, and Hera wanted to play with Princess and Anastasia. She had an obsessive interest in animals, as only a three-year-old could, and both creatures were tolerant enough to put up with her affection.
On the sheltered patio outside their cabin, Hera sat next to Princess and methodically dressed her up in different doll hats and scarves. One by one, she placed each article of clothing on the piglet, declared Princess “pretty” and then moved on to the next piece of fashion. Princess, for her part, was super into it, wagging her springy tail and keeping her head level so the hats would not fall off. Anastasia was far less enthused by this game. She retreated to Caspar’s chair after the first frilly bonnet, batting it around with her paws instead.
“God, that’s cute,” Sharon declared, watching her daughter from the other patio chair. She glanced at Caspar, eyebrows raised. “How’d you manage to get a pig so well-behaved?”
“Trade secret,” Caspar muttered. He was exhausted by his venture to the beach and the emotional reckoning that followed, which didn’t leave much energy for quips.
Sharon typically would have left it at that, but her eyes stayed on him regardless. “Everything okay with you? You look tired.”
Caspar felt tired. And vulnerable. It was disappointing that his sister could read him that well. “It’s the poncho, isn’t it?” He lifted up a corner of the knitted gray fabric that Adia insisted he wear today. “Adia tried to make me a sweater but the sleeves gave her too much trouble.”
“It’s not the poncho,” Sharon replied, although she smiled instinctively at her friend’s knitting efforts. “Although it does goes well with the circles under your eyes.” When Caspar tightened his mouth in response, she sighed and looked back at her daughter. “Never mind. I thought I’d be nice for once, but you obviously aren’t in the mood for it.”
It was true; Caspar was never in the mood for someone’s charity. But to his unpleasant surprise, the silence that followed wasn’t a relief. The urge to say something pressed up against his sternum until it was nearly unbearable. “Ellen Tigh tried to pay a visit and tell me all about my heritage or some bullshit like that,” he let out with a sharp exhale. “I got so mad I almost hit her. It’s left me feeling like garbage ever since and I don’t know how to deal with it.”
He kept his gaze on Hera’s fashion show while the words came tumbling out, but he could see Sharon staring at him from his peripheral vision. She didn’t say anything for a while, her pretty, youthful face a blank, before she sighed and slumped back in her seat. “Well, shit. That must have sucked.”
The empathy surprised him. He looked at her cautiously, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Not a fan of hers?”
“Hardly. She tried the same thing with me the second she was back on Galactica. ‘Oh, Sharon, I can’t wait to spend time with my granddaughter.’” She mimicked a syrupy sweet voice before pretending to gag. “That woman can’t take care of a houseplant, like hell am I going to let her play happy family with Hera. Or me, for that matter.”
Sharon’s confident disdain was reassuring. The heaviness on Caspar’s shoulders eased a little. “You aren’t curious at all about why she made you?”
His sister shrugged. “Not particularly. If I ever get curious, I can always download another Eight’s memories, I know at least a couple of them went to see her…” She trailed off, catching the sour look on Caspar’s face. “I guess that’s not an option for you. Sorry.”
Caspar slouched in his chair. “What makes you think that I want to know about that, anyway?”
“Because you wouldn’t be brooding over it, otherwise.” Caspar glared at her, but she leaned towards him anyway, her dark eyes serious and concerned. “Look, as much as I hated Boomer, it wasn’t fair that she was given those false memories. And it wasn’t fair to you, either. You deserve to know about your origins, more than any of us.”
He bristled instinctively at her sympathy, but her words resonated within him. If he was going to detangle the truth from the lies, he needed to know what the Final Five intended for him in the first place.
“I really, really don’t want to talk to Ellen,” he said tiredly.
“Yeah, I know.” She looked him over, her gaze caught on the collar of his poncho. “What about asking Adia to go with you?”
“You want me to drag her into this mess?” he demanded, but she was already shaking her head, brushing aside his anger.
“It’s not dragging her into anything, she’ll want to help you. And it’s what Karl does for me.” She waved a hand at their respective partners, who were using the shared outdoor cooking station as a makeshift work table. “You know that they’re better at that sort of thing than we are.”
Caspar looked over at the pair in question and felt a sting of envy. Not because he assumed anything other than a platonic relationship between the Captain and his girl, but because of the easy way that they conversed with one another, all smiles and friendly gestures. He was terrible at that sort of thing, that… that openness. Sharon was right; a meeting with Ellen would be bearable if he had Adia there, in his corner.
It was still a lot to ask. He gave Sharon the faintest of nods, an acknowledgement without committing to anything. “Thanks,” he added. This was the longest that they’d spoken without devolving into barbs and icy glares. He owed her that much.
A corner of her mouth turned up into a smile, before before she could say anything, Hera had decided to join their conversation. She walked up to Caspar with Princess in tow. The piglet had a polka-dot scarf draped over her head like a movie starlet. “Uncle Caspar, look at Princess. She’s pretty.”
Princess snorted in agreement, and Caspar had to stifle a laugh with the back of his hand. “Yes,” he agreed with mock seriousness. “Very pretty. You have a real eye for fashion, Hera.”
Grabbing another scarf, Hera climbed up onto Caspar’s lap. “Your turn,” she said, wrapping the fabric around his head. He allowed it without complaint; he loved his niece more than any other member of his family. He also felt guilty over going along with the plan to use her as bait at the end of the war, which meant that he more or less spoiled her rotten.
“All done!” she said proudly, once the scarf was sloppily tied below his chin. Princess oinked and hopped up onto Caspar’s lap as well, and then Anastasia decided that she didn’t want to be left out of the fun and climbed up onto his shoulder, settling there like a prim, adorably fuzzy gargoyle.
Sharon laughed long and hard at the sight, much to Caspar’s chagrin. “I take it back, you don’t look tired anymore. You look like somebody’s grandmother.”
“Ha ha,” Caspar deadpanned. “Take advantage of my inconvenienced state, why don’t you.”
His sister smiled at him with genuine affection. “Hey. What are little sisters for?”
It made him wish, not for the first time, that the Sevens had survived. He never knew them (the Ones had destroyed the entire line during its incubation phase), but it would have been nice to have a younger brother. Someone to look up to him, perhaps. Instead, he was stuck with his younger sisters and his older, but not wiser, brothers.
He had already ruled out the Twos, not wanting a spiritual lecture. He unfortunately didn’t see any of the Sixes regularly except Julia, and like frak was he going to ask her for help. Her ridiculously obvious crush on Adia had thankfully abated, but she had nothing but positive things to say about the Final Five. She wouldn’t understand.
The Eights were an even worse choice. They fully lived up to their status as the baby of the family, waffling on their decisions more than any other model, throwing their vote in with whomever sweet-talked them or jangled something shiny in front of their eyes. He remembered Boomer — the only other sleeper agent — flip-flopping so goddamn much that he couldn’t keep track of whose side she was on most days.
Sharon Agathon was the exception to the rule.
She was the one Eight who knew what she wanted from almost the beginning of her existence and fought for it tooth-and-nail. In her case, it was a family with her human lover, Karl Agathon, and their daughter, Hera. Never once did she cower or cave to her former life as a Cylon operative. Caspar had to admit that he deeply admired her for that.
Unfortunately, the feeling was not mutual.
Sharon hated him for siding with the Cylons who kidnapped her daughter (twice!) and nearly killed her husband, and he couldn’t blame her for that. But Karl was a much more forgiving sort, and as Adia was a dear friend to them both, Sharon was forced to tolerate his presence on multiple occasions. Their interactions were limited to glares from Sharon and feigned indifference from Caspar. Occasionally he let slip a sarcastic comment or two, but he knew better than to poke the bear.
As luck would have it, the Agathons were visiting that very afternoon. Karl needed to discuss some Quorum initiatives with Adia, and Hera wanted to play with Princess and Anastasia. She had an obsessive interest in animals, as only a three-year-old could, and both creatures were tolerant enough to put up with her affection.
On the sheltered patio outside their cabin, Hera sat next to Princess and methodically dressed her up in different doll hats and scarves. One by one, she placed each article of clothing on the piglet, declared Princess “pretty” and then moved on to the next piece of fashion. Princess, for her part, was super into it, wagging her springy tail and keeping her head level so the hats would not fall off. Anastasia was far less enthused by this game. She retreated to Caspar’s chair after the first frilly bonnet, batting it around with her paws instead.
“God, that’s cute,” Sharon declared, watching her daughter from the other patio chair. She glanced at Caspar, eyebrows raised. “How’d you manage to get a pig so well-behaved?”
“Trade secret,” Caspar muttered. He was exhausted by his venture to the beach and the emotional reckoning that followed, which didn’t leave much energy for quips.
Sharon typically would have left it at that, but her eyes stayed on him regardless. “Everything okay with you? You look tired.”
Caspar felt tired. And vulnerable. It was disappointing that his sister could read him that well. “It’s the poncho, isn’t it?” He lifted up a corner of the knitted gray fabric that Adia insisted he wear today. “Adia tried to make me a sweater but the sleeves gave her too much trouble.”
“It’s not the poncho,” Sharon replied, although she smiled instinctively at her friend’s knitting efforts. “Although it does goes well with the circles under your eyes.” When Caspar tightened his mouth in response, she sighed and looked back at her daughter. “Never mind. I thought I’d be nice for once, but you obviously aren’t in the mood for it.”
It was true; Caspar was never in the mood for someone’s charity. But to his unpleasant surprise, the silence that followed wasn’t a relief. The urge to say something pressed up against his sternum until it was nearly unbearable. “Ellen Tigh tried to pay a visit and tell me all about my heritage or some bullshit like that,” he let out with a sharp exhale. “I got so mad I almost hit her. It’s left me feeling like garbage ever since and I don’t know how to deal with it.”
He kept his gaze on Hera’s fashion show while the words came tumbling out, but he could see Sharon staring at him from his peripheral vision. She didn’t say anything for a while, her pretty, youthful face a blank, before she sighed and slumped back in her seat. “Well, shit. That must have sucked.”
The empathy surprised him. He looked at her cautiously, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Not a fan of hers?”
“Hardly. She tried the same thing with me the second she was back on Galactica. ‘Oh, Sharon, I can’t wait to spend time with my granddaughter.’” She mimicked a syrupy sweet voice before pretending to gag. “That woman can’t take care of a houseplant, like hell am I going to let her play happy family with Hera. Or me, for that matter.”
Sharon’s confident disdain was reassuring. The heaviness on Caspar’s shoulders eased a little. “You aren’t curious at all about why she made you?”
His sister shrugged. “Not particularly. If I ever get curious, I can always download another Eight’s memories, I know at least a couple of them went to see her…” She trailed off, catching the sour look on Caspar’s face. “I guess that’s not an option for you. Sorry.”
Caspar slouched in his chair. “What makes you think that I want to know about that, anyway?”
“Because you wouldn’t be brooding over it, otherwise.” Caspar glared at her, but she leaned towards him anyway, her dark eyes serious and concerned. “Look, as much as I hated Boomer, it wasn’t fair that she was given those false memories. And it wasn’t fair to you, either. You deserve to know about your origins, more than any of us.”
He bristled instinctively at her sympathy, but her words resonated within him. If he was going to detangle the truth from the lies, he needed to know what the Final Five intended for him in the first place.
“I really, really don’t want to talk to Ellen,” he said tiredly.
“Yeah, I know.” She looked him over, her gaze caught on the collar of his poncho. “What about asking Adia to go with you?”
“You want me to drag her into this mess?” he demanded, but she was already shaking her head, brushing aside his anger.
“It’s not dragging her into anything, she’ll want to help you. And it’s what Karl does for me.” She waved a hand at their respective partners, who were using the shared outdoor cooking station as a makeshift work table. “You know that they’re better at that sort of thing than we are.”
Caspar looked over at the pair in question and felt a sting of envy. Not because he assumed anything other than a platonic relationship between the Captain and his girl, but because of the easy way that they conversed with one another, all smiles and friendly gestures. He was terrible at that sort of thing, that… that openness. Sharon was right; a meeting with Ellen would be bearable if he had Adia there, in his corner.
It was still a lot to ask. He gave Sharon the faintest of nods, an acknowledgement without committing to anything. “Thanks,” he added. This was the longest that they’d spoken without devolving into barbs and icy glares. He owed her that much.
A corner of her mouth turned up into a smile, before before she could say anything, Hera had decided to join their conversation. She walked up to Caspar with Princess in tow. The piglet had a polka-dot scarf draped over her head like a movie starlet. “Uncle Caspar, look at Princess. She’s pretty.”
Princess snorted in agreement, and Caspar had to stifle a laugh with the back of his hand. “Yes,” he agreed with mock seriousness. “Very pretty. You have a real eye for fashion, Hera.”
Grabbing another scarf, Hera climbed up onto Caspar’s lap. “Your turn,” she said, wrapping the fabric around his head. He allowed it without complaint; he loved his niece more than any other member of his family. He also felt guilty over going along with the plan to use her as bait at the end of the war, which meant that he more or less spoiled her rotten.
“All done!” she said proudly, once the scarf was sloppily tied below his chin. Princess oinked and hopped up onto Caspar’s lap as well, and then Anastasia decided that she didn’t want to be left out of the fun and climbed up onto his shoulder, settling there like a prim, adorably fuzzy gargoyle.
Sharon laughed long and hard at the sight, much to Caspar’s chagrin. “I take it back, you don’t look tired anymore. You look like somebody’s grandmother.”
“Ha ha,” Caspar deadpanned. “Take advantage of my inconvenienced state, why don’t you.”
His sister smiled at him with genuine affection. “Hey. What are little sisters for?”
