The Rhythms of Love, The Colours of Commitment

The secret to her flying was the music she heard in her head the paintings that she saw when she flew.

The deep thrum of the engine was the bass. Her gun ports were the percussion. Her lyrics were the orders she issued and the reassurance she gave. Her artist's eye gave her line of sight to her target and she saw the hell-flowers that bloomed in the sky long before enemy ships conflagrated into spectacular balls of multi-hued fire.

Sometimes, the 'music' dictated how she flew – automatically rolling, banking, diving and breaking off when the piece rose, fell, crescendo or staccato.

Other times, she made her own music. Taking her craft, her skill and her prowess to artistic levels never before seen, musical arrangements created by the need to survive, fealty sworn and out-right desperation.

Xxx

Some songs he knew by heart just by the way she flew.

Easy, mellow clarinet/cello duets when they flew C.A.P. and long-range reconnaissance missions together – dipping, arching in perfect synchronicity, her alto the perfect compliment to his tenor.

Powerful, horn-driven codas were for when she led battles: pieces that radiated out of her cockpit and echoed off of the other Vipers and galvanized those under her command and within the sound of her voice.

Strong, gospel-inspired songs for when she was pissed and only the brutality of banking at high speeds and the chest-crushing, breath-stealing gravitational forces were enough to exhaust the anger and frustration that beat against her soul.

A mournful single piccolo/flute combination could be heard when she was in her own bird flying on her own time as she dwelled on and thought about whatever it was that could only be answered in the sky.

Primal drum beats pounded in her ears and dictated how the blood coursed through her veins after a battle, dogfight or mission; driving, propelling, releasing equally primal forces deep within her.

And sometime, just sometimes, he would look at her – in the air, in the bunks, standing in CIC – and know she was still. That she was silent. That auditorium was empty; the rehearsal hall vacant, that the music stands did not have any sheet music on them. That was when he knew they were together. He knew that when she was with him, like that, she did not need music to find her rhythm, instruments to play out her emotions or different styles of music to mirror the various facets of her life and psyche.

When she was silent, when she was with him; that was when she was the artist. Bold and insecure at the same time; possessing a capability to put to canvas, plan an operation or act decidedly, while looking for approval at the same time. Strong colours, powerful images all created with the intent of being judged, commented on and cherished for the thought and emotion that went into their creation.

She was a different person in private, but was still herself. That was the prize he earned when he finally learned to read her music – when it finally dawned on him why and how she could be such a great pilot but such a self-destructive individual.

When he learned to look at her paintings from the angle from which they were drawn, rather than how he perceived them, that was when the place he had in her soul moved to the building blocks of her heart. Violent thick bristled brush strokes combined with the delicacy it took to use a fan brush merged with the free-flying paint splatters and dark images to show a woman – who by her beliefs and need to survive – possessed a tiny kernel of hope that one day, she could deserve to be happy.

Xxx

It was an average day, during an average week in a completely unorthodox setting – humanity fleeing just so that it would survive – when she realized that he had her entire collection of her art hanging on every wall of his heart.

She was sliding out from underneath a Viper, covered n grease and grime. He was standing there, in his uniform, pristine and clean.

Without thinking she held out her hand at the same time he crouched down and reached for out to her. Their thumbs wrapped around each other and each of their fingers cradled the powerful muscle that connects the wrist to the hand. Pulling against each other, separate but equal force, they both rose and pulled each other into their personal spaces.

He knew what she was doing. He was accepting her as she was with no misguided notion of how or what she could or should be.

She knew what she was doing. This was the man she knew – who was the man he wanted to be – finally lived the life of his own choosing.

Two soul mates embraced each other with the entire flight crew looking on and bearing witness to a moment none of them would be able to specifically recall.

The past that forged the gap between them became the past. She could see the all the blame, long buried grudges and accusations empty out of his blue eyes once and for all.

He was speechless as he saw the transformation in the woman in front of him take place. Gone were the evidence of the midnight terrors of a facing loveless life, scepticism that her world was going to crash around her at any moment, and the essence of unworthiness that always corrupted the colour of her eyes.

Finding his voice, he spoke quietly as so only she could hear, guarding and protecting their moment.

"I am me, with you in my heart."

Tenderly moving his hands from where they clasped her fingers to her upper arms, he tipped his head and gently kissed her lips.

Pulling away, he held out his left hand. She did the same. Standing there, looking at her, she answered the question his eyes silently asked.

Pulling the silver band from her thumb, she laid it in his palm and curled his fingers around his brother's gift.

"That was from Zak. He told me it was time to give it to you and that you would know what to do with it."

Watching him accept what she gave him, she hugged him tightly; leaving an imprint of her body for him to carry for the rest of his day.

Drawing apart, the entire hanger bay fell away: the harsh whiteness, the sounds of machinery in use and the distant roar of space craft taking off and docking. Blue eyes drowned in green and strong personalities stepped back to allow the more shielded aspects of Lee and Kara to connect in the way that Apollo and Starbuck flew together, and Captain Thrace and Commander Adama served side-by-side.

Left hands still connected, he turned her palm up and dropped Zak's ring back into her hand.

The woman, who hoped to be loved, was. The artist needing approval had it. The music in her head that gave her the ability to out-fly anyone and anything had gained a deeper resonance.

Her hand was steady as she reached out to the man standing in front of her and locked her eyes with he who found his own identity outside his family name and came to terms with the darker aspects of his being, and slipped the ring onto the third finger of his left hand as far as it would go and waited for his answer.

"I do."

His two words answered both Zak's and her question; he sealed both promises with a languid brushing of his lips over hers.

With a rush, the hanger bay came back into sharp relief, sight, sounds and movement rushed back into focus. The needs of humanity's survival, having held back long enough for two souls, two hearts and two minds to come together as they were destined to be, beckoned once again.

"There will be a shuttle waiting for you when you get off shift and Kara, you will be on it."

Nodding her head in agreement, she let out a breath of relief as she watched him walk away. Lee Adama had let her propose to him, but hearing the possessiveness in his voice told her she belonged to him just as much as he belonged to her.

Picking up a wrench and a spanner, she dropped back down and scooted back underneath the Viper behind her. Her feet, planted flat against the metal deck, tapped out an accompaniment to the piano that was playing in her heart – the one instrument her mind refused to play.