author: claira (mail to clairad@gmail.com)
summary: gaeta/boomer. death. blood.
rating: pg-13
a/n: written for sloane, who wanted this pairing with the quote "after the verb 'to love,' 'to help' is the most beautiful verb in the world." - bertha von suttner.
with thanks the pen.

[ t h e   m o s t   b e a u t i f u l   v e r b ]

She doesn’t realise he’s there until he says her name, and she looks up and sees him framed by the bars of her cell. There are creases ironed neatly into the trousers of his uniform and his shoes shine with polish. She wonders, incongruously, how he finds the time.

“Sharon,” he says again, and she gets to her feet, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal bars.

“How is the Commander?”

“Dead,” he answers. “You did well.”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says helplessly. I’m Sharon Valerii. I was born on Troy.

“You gave me that gun,” she says.

He smiles. “Of course I did, Sharon,” he tells her, voice soft and gentle. “Everyone has a use.”

The guards are gone, she notices suddenly, and her body pulses with fear.

Quicker than lightening, he reaches out and yanks her towards him, and she hears her body slam sickeningly into the bars a second before the pain explodes through her body. One of his hands cups her cheek and he dips his head and kisses her, hard and brutal. His teeth bite into her bottom lip and she tries to pull back, but his other hand is tight against the back of her neck and she can’t move, can’t breathe, and her eyes sting with tears.

Then he draws back and she tries to wrench away, but his hands fist into the material of her flight suit before she can get far enough back into the safety of her cell. His mouth is glossy and red, and she can taste copper on her tongue.

“I always wanted to do that,” he says, licking his lips.

She can feel the blood dripping off her jawbone, and he runs a finger along her face and it comes away stained. He wipes it casually on his trousers, and then his hands come up and encircle her neck.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and there is something like sincerity in his eyes as his fingers flex.

You can’t fight destiny.

He smells of starch and crisp aftershave. This isn’t how she imagined dying.

*

[ b a c k ]