Specter

From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.--William Wordsworth

When Gaius dreams about her, she's an ethereal being that slips in and out of images like a ghost, teasing and taunting with her vixen's smile and her body made of long-limbed sin. He's glad to see her, because in dreams there are no questions without answers that plague him like a sickness, rotting from the inside until he's afraid there will be nothing left to see of him but his guilt.

How did I survive who are you what has happened oh Gods what have I done--

There is only her; voice like honey soaked in poison, whispering his name and some secrets about God and plans and truth. He doesn't care what she says, because it doesn't matter, not really. Not here, where there are violins playing in water and trees tipped with orange flames, the sound of arias somewhere in the distance.

There's no reason to fight her here, or question her existence or her continued presence in his life. She's not real but nothing is. It's all right to be mad in your sleep, he thinks, and he can smile at her and twine his fingers in her hair and slide his mouth up her soft neck and give in.

ooooooooOOOOoooooooo

When he's awake, he's rather convinced she's some demented succubus come to steal his soul. He'd ask her, has asked her, but all she does is laugh and stroke his hair and tell him that his soul is for God and no one else.

There must be something fascinating about madness, and if he wasn't so firmly entrenched within it, maybe Gaius would take a moment to figure out what it is. He's a scientist, after all, isn't he?

No. Traitor. You're a traitor.

He can still see the cloud, sometimes, when he half-closes his eyes and allows himself to fall back to that moment, standing before glass and watching the world end. It tilted and spun and there was rolling darkness and death and the sound of glass shattering, loud enough to drown the sea beyond the window.

Then there is that barely remembered something that he can't quite see, that gaping chasm where memory should be but isn't. It is then that she comes to him, with her siren's voice and her whispered promises about eternity and grace.

"Gaius," she says, and he wonders if she practices using that voice but that would mean she was real, wouldn't it? "You must stop fighting. You have a destiny. We all have a destiny. It is part of God's plan."

She seems so sure in the existence of God. Which, considering she's not really there, is quite the accomplishment. He tells her this, in a furiously muttered whisper so as not to disturb the others on the ship--they're looking at me like I'm mad, do they know what I've done or do they only see that I talk to ghosts who aren't there?--and his words fall ineffectual as dust.

"One day, you'll understand. I promise," she says confidently, leaning forward and kissing his forehead like she's bestowing some benediction. She smells good, he notices, and it's her scent and how can that be? Machines have no smell, they have no—

"I'm not what you think I am. You know me, Gaius. You know I am real. I am here to keep you safe. Don't you believe me?"

Gaius doesn't know what to say to that, so he stares past her into the vast emptiness of space as if the answers will suddenly appear there before him in glittering, perfect clarity. He pretends that she is not sitting beside him with her hand resting on his knee, long fingers climbing his leg and nails digging into his skin just like he always liked. He wishes someone else could see her. He wishes he couldn't. He wishes she'd never leave, and he wishes he could close his eyes and open them and this would be—

"Dr. Baltar?"

Compared to her voice, everyone else's sounds sharp and hurtful to his ears, like gunfire. It simply isn't fair that the only beauty, the only light left in his life is from a creature that doesn't exist, and the only thing that is soft and warm anymore is a lie.

"Do you tell yourself I don't exist to make yourself feel better?" she asks him, amused, and her voice is warm and sugar-tipped and he just wants her to stop talking.

"Yes?" Time to pretend he's everything the rest of their motley band of survivors think he is; smart, capable, just a little eccentric because he's a genius. He stands up to follow the young man—Billy something-or-other—and looks back towards the seat where she rests like a nightmare in a red dress, coiled up on soft sleek leather and a dangerous smile.

She crosses her legs beneath her red wisp of dress, the sinuous slide-on-slide of flesh and silk making his mouth suddenly dry, and murmurs "I'll be here when you get back." Her voice is low but it rings with bell-like resonance in his mind.

Part of him is terrified that she's not going to go away, and part of him is relieved. She's the only one who knows what he's done, and yet she stays at his side. It's not quite forgiveness, but perhaps it's as close as he is ever going to come.

Perhaps it is enough.