Word Count: 10,115
Date: 4/22/05
Series: Season 1
Rating:K+
Category: Relationships
Pairing: Roslin / Adama
Warnings: None
Summary: How the heck could these two ever come together after the season
finale? My attempt to answer the question.
Spoilers/Disclaimers: Some spoilers for Kobol's Last Gleaming pt. 2
(Kudos, constructive criticism and chocolate can be sent to
chris-at-rhinoventures.com. Use @ instead of -at-, of course! B^)
"Download,
print or toss, download, print or toss—Gods, I hate this."
Alec
turned from his reading with a sympathetic glance. "Culling your memory allocation, Boss?"
"Yeaaah,"
Mayla blew the word out on a sigh. "It's
like trying to decide which of your children to disown."
Mayla
Coiros was a stillshot photographer. More
precisely, she had been the foremost freelance photojournalist on Aerilon and
well known throughout the Twelve Colonies.
Stillshots didn't have the cachet of video, but Mayla's work, imbued
with her particular combination of journalistic integrity, human insight and
pure artistry, had commanded high prices.
Even now, after the Colonies' destruction at the hands of the Cylons,
she continued working in her chosen medium, submitting shots of high-profile
celebrities to news services and documenting as much as possible of daily life
in the fleet.
She
met Alec Badel, himself a photographer of considerable ability, soon after
boarding the Shining Hand.
He quietly appointed himself her aide-slash-apprentice, not so much for
access to the cameras and equipment she'd wrangled on board, but to absorb as
much as he could of her process and viewpoint, particularly where it concerned
photographing people. They made
an odd pair, the sandy-haired, preoccupied older woman and the dark young man
with the warm smile, but a decidedly filial relationship had grown between
them. And Mayla relied on Alec, both as a sounding board and to
keep her organized.
Alec
set his book down and joined Mayla, looking over her shoulder at the screen of
the laptop into which she downloaded her digital pictures.
Mayla's current dilemma stemmed from the fact that computer memory and
storage, like everything else in the fleet, was at a premium.
"Your portable's not full up yet."
"No,
but it's getting there. I have
to persuade someone to give me some space on one of the shipboard computers,
damnit!"
Alec
snorted, "Now there's an impossible dream. But you don't really have to toss them, do you?
Can't you keep printing them out?"
She
raked her hair back from her forehead. "I
can print them, sure. But I'm
already practically sleeping with my cameras; I just don't have much room for
hard copies."
"You
can stick them in my bunk for now."
Alec was nothing if not loyal.
"Thanks,"
she grinned.
He
watched the grin fade as she continued to scroll through her work.
Following her eyes to the portable's screen, he saw that she was
working her way back in time from her most recent shots.
Most of the faces, young or old, military or civilian, wore the
uncertainty caused by the breakdown in relations between the government and
the military, the attempted assassination of Commander Adama and the power
plays and machinations that had followed his near-fatal shooting.
Mayla's photos vibrated with tension.
Alec frowned at his shoes, wondering how much of her brilliance would
ultimately be sacrificed to practicality.
"Damn."
He
looked up. "What
is--oh."
Though
the photo on Mayla's screen was a close, chest-and-up shot of two people with
background out of focus, Alec had no trouble placing the location or time: On
board the Cloud Nine, during the
Colonial Day celebrations following the Vice-Presidential Elections.
He
knew this because the two people were Colonial President Laura Roslin and
Commander William Adama, and they were dancing.
"You
haven't shown me this one before."
"Yeah,
well ... I wasn't going to submit it anywhere.
I haven't had a chance to get back to it until now."
Fascinated,
he studied the details, analyzing how Mayla captured the lines, the sense of
graceful motion in a still photo. The
President was smiling, while the Commander's lips were slightly parted.
Mayla had probably caught him in the middle of saying something.
Then sudden realization widened his eyes.
If
you didn't know anything about these two, you would swear that the dark,
rough-hewn man was leaning forward to kiss the elegantly lovely redhead in his
arms, and she was turning to him with a smile of sweet anticipation.
"Damn,"
he echoed her unconsciously. "Why
didn't you submit this one? The
news services would have gone crazy for it."
"Precisely
why I didn't submit it." At
his raised eyebrows, she sighed again. "Look,
Junior, the way I saw it there were only two possibilities.
Either Nothing was going on between Adama and Roslin, or Something was
going on. If it was Nothing, then
this picture would only be an embarrassment to two people with enough in their
lives to worry about. If it was Something ... then I figured that Something
deserved a better chance than it would get being dissected by public
speculation."
He
smiled delightedly. "You're
a romantic, Boss."
"Don't
let it get around." She
nibbled absently on the tip of an index finger.
"I still have to figure out what to do with this shot."
"What
to do with – Mayla, you can't be
thinking of throwing this one away! It's
beautiful!" Alec was
outraged at the thought.
"I
know, I know! But honestly, Alec,
what would I use it for if I kept it? And
is it a good idea to have it just lying around?"
He
rested his chin on his hands and thought furiously for a minute.
"Print it out," he said.
As she opened her mouth, he held up a hand to forestall her.
"Print out two copies. Send
one to the Commander and the other to the President.
That way you'll be giving it to the people best able to decide what
should happen to it."
Her
jaw remained dropped open for long moments.
"You want me ... to send this picture ... to the Commander and the
President. As things stand
between them now, after everything that's happened in the past month, you want
me to send them – Junior, have you stood in the same room with both Roslin
and Adama recently?"
"Well,
of course not."
"I
have. Liquid nitrogen would warm
the atmosphere between them, believe me."
He
grinned. "I do.
But there are three points that you may not have considered."
"Speak
on."
He
ticked them off on his fingers. "One.
You don't have to tell either of them that you've sent a copy to the
other. They may suspect, but they
won't know. Two.
As things stand between them now, they probably need a reminder of a
time when things were better. And
Three ... there is actually a third possibility."
"A
third—"
He
leaned forward and spoke in a near-whisper, "The possibility that Nothing
is happening between them, but Something might."
She
stared back at him for a time, then turned back to her portable.
"Right, it's confirmed. You
are certifiably insane. Go
quietly when they come for you, okay?"
He
laughed and returned to his book, leaving Mayla to her dilemma.
A
few minutes later, he heard her printer start up, and he smiled.
******
Commander
William Adama ran a stylus down the list of names and evaluations on his desk.
Across from him his flight instructor sat, reporting on the status of the new
pilot trainees.
"I
think we got lucky with this batch, sir."
Kara Thrace stretched her legs and crossed them at the ankles,
slouching a little. "Six
good prospects for either Viper or Raptor pilots.
Eight more don't have the reflexes but could probably handle shuttles
or tenders. Only four look likely
to wash out completely."
He
glanced down at her list. "That
leaves two."
"Yeah,
well ..." Starbuck wore a
gamine smile that threatened to mutate into a smirk.
"Those two I'm kinda keeping an eye on. If I'm right, they only joined up because of a desire for –
how shall I put this – the CAG's personal
attention."
One
corner of Adama's mouth twitched upwards.
"Really. Well, as
long as they aren't disruptive, that shouldn't be a problem. Recruits have had crushes on their CO's before."
He ignored Starbuck's barely-audible as
you should know. "You
might want to drop a quiet word in Lee's ear, but if these two women can prove
themselves, let them run."
She
was definitely smirking now. "Actually,
only one of them is a woman."
"Ah.
Make sure you let Lee know, then."
"Awwwww
... sometimes, Boss, you are just no fun."
He
traded grins with her, leaning back in his chair, only to be pulled up short
by a stabbing sensation in his left side.
He leaned forward again with an involuntary huff of pain.
"What
is it?" Starbuck sat up,
startled and concerned.
"It's
– just a spasm. It'll
pass." He tried to relax by
way of demonstration, but the pain jabbed again.
Her
eyes narrowed. "Were you
working out too much in the gym again?"
"No."
Two
nights ago she had come across him sitting doubled-over at one of the weight
machines. After helping him back
to his office, breezily reassuring everyone they met on the way, she had
proceeded to ream him out for trying to finish off what Boomer's bullets had
started. Seeing the fear hiding
behind the anger in her eyes, he had taken the lecture fairly quietly.
She
looked likely to start in on him again, though. "Damn it, and after you told me off on the same subject!
I'm calling Doc Cottle—"
"No
you're not, Lieutenant." The
steel in that denial caught her halfway out of her chair.
He sighed and softened his voice.
"Seriously. I'm
fine."
She
sat down again, but her eyes were still troubled.
Both
Kara and Lee, he knew, had been carrying a load of unwarranted guilt over the
shooting. Neither of them could
have changed Sharon Valerii's actions or their outcome, even if they hadn't
chosen to disobey his orders. But
they had so chosen, he had gotten shot, and so they felt guilty. The strict military disciplinarian in him agreed with them.
Fortunately,
a near-death experience can cut through a lot of crap.
All
those calling for Starbuck and Apollo's courts-martial were as doomed to
disappointment as those calling for Adama's.
The hard facts said that he needed his CAG and best pilot, just as the
fleet needed him. The deeper
truth was that he needed the only family he had left.
During his agonizing and ongoing recuperation, righteous anger would
have been a poor substitute for the people he loved.
They
stayed away from the subject of Laura Roslin as much as possible, though,
unless speaking on official terms. Kara
and Lee's actions he at least understood, though he still couldn't agree with
them. Roslin's ... were another
order of magnitude altogether.
The
awkward silence ended when the door buzzer announced an envelope-bearing
corpsman. "Mail for you,
Commander."
"I
wasn't expecting anything in hard copy."
"It
came over from the Shining Hand,
sir. Lt. Gaeta's been over
it."
Indeed,
a sheet attached to the envelope meticulously listed the various scans and
tests it had undergone to declare it safe for Adama's presence.
Adama smiled at Gaeta's silent editorial comment on commanders who
refused to let an aide screen their mail.
"Who's
it from?" Starbuck leaned
forward.
He
turned the envelope over as the door shut behind the corpsman.
"Mayla Coiros. Huh."
"You
know her?" Curious, Starbuck
got up moved to Adama's right side.
"Not
exactly. She's a photojournalist.
Shows up at most press conferences and official functions.
I have seen her work; she's extremely talented."
He looked up at Starbuck hanging over his shoulder.
"This is marked 'Confidential', you know."
She
gave him a cheerful leer. "Boss,
are you telling me that some photographer has sent you compromising pictures
and an extortion note, and I don't get to see?"
He
snorted. "I doubt that would
be this lady's style."
"Then
there's no problem with me looking."
She smiled in triumph.
He
shook his head and slit the envelope open.
Inside was a single photo underneath a brief, handwritten cover letter.
Dear
Commander, I came across this picture while clearing out some stored shots.
I thought that you might like to have it.
Sincerely yours, Mayla Coiros.
Adama's
first reaction to the photo was extremely human. Good gods.
That's how I looked?!!!
Not
to mention how she looked ....
And
Kara's getting an eyeful, great, just wonderful.
Well, at least she can't see my face right now.
Resigned, he braced himself for a Starbuckian comment, or at least a
smothered snicker.
Neither
came.
Surprised
by her uncharacteristic silence, he glanced up at her, only to see that her
eyes had again turned dark and troubled as she looked at the picture on his
desk. Hesitantly, she extended
one finger as if to touch the President's smiling image, then pulled it back.
She seemed suddenly aware that he was watching her, and pulled herself
back from where her thought had taken her.
"Oh,
uh ... sorry for being nosy, sir. Are
we finished?"
"I
believe so. Is something wrong,
Starbuck?"
"Nope,
not a thing. I just need to prep
for my next training session."
"Then
you're dismissed, Lieutenant."
"Thank
you sir." She started to
head out the door, then hesitated. "Boss?
Would you please call Doc Cottle for a checkup later?"
He
gave her a searching look, then a nod. "Very
well."
"Thanks."
A quick smile, and she was gone.
What
was that?
He
didn't kid himself; what he'd just seen was an extremely atypical reaction.
Starbuck, not cracking wise at a perfect opportunity?
Apologizing? Something was
bothering his girl, and that something had to do with Laura Roslin.
He
looked down at the smiling, vibrant woman in the photo.
She didn't look like that these days, he realized.
She looked tired, drawn. Pale.
The stresses of the Presidency, he'd thought.
Points
of data, drifting through his memory, seemed to catch on each other and link.
Roslin's exhaustion. Elosha's
near-constant attendance on her. The
murmurs of many in the fleet who called her the chosen leader, the one
foretold. Doc Cottle. Kara
looking like ... like she was afraid of losing a friend.
Turning
away from the disturbing photo, he ran his eyes over the spines of his books,
until his gaze was arrested by one particular title.
The
Pythian Prophecies: Text and Analyses
The
words solidified his thoughts like a seed crystal dropping into a solution.
No. No, she can't be –
it's not possible. Well, at least
not likely.
But
it fits,
it fits everything that's happened, everything she's said and done, everything
...
His
lips tightened, and he turned to key his comm unit. "Dualla."
"Yes
Commander?"
"I
need to speak to Major Cottle privately.
Get him on the line and put him through to my office."
"I
– yes sir. It may take some
time to track him down."
"I'll
wait."
"Yes
sir. Sir, is something – "
He
cut her off. "You have your
orders."
"Yes
Commander." Her tone was
extremely worried.
While
he waited, he pulled The Pythian Prophecies from the shelf and leafed
through it. The more he read, the
grimmer his face became.
"Major
Cottle, sir."
"Thank
you, Dualla. Put him
through." A beat.
"Doctor?"
"Yes,
Commander?" Doc also sounded
concerned. "Are your wounds
giving you trouble? I can shuttle
back over."
"Not
necessary, Doctor. I'm calling to
ask when President Roslin's next round of cancer treatments are
scheduled."
A
moment of silence, then, "Ah – Commander, I'm sure you know I can't
tell you that ... "
Adama
cut the comm.
Confirmation.
He
sat, staring at the book in his hands, feeling cold realization boil away in
the heat building up inside him. He
took a long, slow breath through his nose, looking for his customary control.
Once he found it, he hit the comm again.
"Dualla.
Get a shuttle ready for immediate departure.
Then contact Colonial One to
tell them that I'm on my way over to speak with the President.
If they get jumpy – " He gritted his teeth.
" – tell them I'll be alone and unarmed."
"Yes
sir. And ... if they're still
jumpy?"
"That
will be their problem. Adama
out."
His
side spasmed again as he strode into the corridor. He ignored it.
******
"Thank
you for calling so quickly, Doctor."
Laura Roslin massaged her temples, where an incipient headache was
gathering force. "You're
quite certain he knew before he called you?"
"Well,
suspected, certainly." Cottle's
voice was heavy with chagrin. "Madame
President, I must apologize. I feel as if I've betrayed medical confidence.
The Old Man caught me completely off guard."
"Yes
... he seems to have a talent for that," she sighed.
"Don't blame yourself. The
Commander is a very astute man; he was bound to figure it out
eventually." The massage
wasn't helping; she stopped and folded her hands.
"I'm afraid I have to sign off, Doctor.
I'll no doubt be getting another call very shortly. Thank you again for
the advance warning."
"Yes,
ma'am. I'll see you at your next
appointment."
She
looked up to meet Billy Keikeya's worried gaze. "How do you think he'll react?" he asked.
"Grill
me for the details and then lecture me, I expect."
She forced a smile.
"But
surely he must realize –"
A
soft chime from the comm interrupted Billy, followed by the voice of the
assistant that screened the President's calls.
"Ma'am?
I have Ship Security on the line for you."
"Put
them through."
"Madame
President? Medral here.
The Galactica just radioed
that Commander Adama is shuttling over. He's
apparently alone except for his pilot, but..." The man sounded distinctly
nervous, though controlled. "I'm
assembling an armed escort for his arrival, ma'am."
That
irritated her. "Mr. Medral,
the last time I checked, the Cylons were our enemies, not William Adama."
An
audible swallow, then, "Yes, ma'am."
"If
you people are so worried about one man, you may provide a single unarmed
courtesy escort. I refuse to have
fellow patriots aiming weapons at each other on this ship ever again.
Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes
ma'am." He sounded
positively abashed. Good.
"Very
well. Bring him here as soon as
he arrives."
Roslin
sat back to wait and contemplate her tenuous working relationship with
Commander William Adama. Their
original agreement, his propping up her Presidency in exchange for her
maintaining his pretense that he knew the location of Earth, had been
nullified the moment she revealed the facts to Kara Thrace.
She had both impugned his honor in the Lieutenant's eyes and infringed
on the control over military issues she had ceded to him. These were actions he could neither forget nor easily
forgive, she knew.
But
after the assassination attempt, he had still used one of his few lucid
periods after his first round of emergency surgeries to order Colonel Tigh to
release her from Galactica's brig
and see her reinstated as President. Tigh
had looked like he would rather swallow live explosives, but he'd done it.
Roslin often wondered what Adama had said to persuade him.
No
doubt, angry as he was, Adama still considered her a better alternative than
Tom Zarek. The convicted
terrorist and Right Honorable Representative of Sagittaron had seized his
opportunity to play the government supporters baying for Adama's resignation
against the military supporters baying for hers.
The appearance of unity was necessary to keep the entire fleet from
sliding into Zarek's hands, and they were still fighting battles on that
front.
And
so a new compromise was reached, with the two of them effectively covering
each other's back. But Adama made
it quietly clear that he took that position only under duress.
"Commander
Adama, ma'am."
"Send
him in."
Adama
swept into the room, shedding his Security escort. Roslin had no doubt that the escort had been dismissed as
irrelevant and massively ignored the entire way.
I
can sympathize with that feeling.
He
stood before her desk, and Roslin reminded herself that she was not the one
who had to come to attention. Not
that Adama came to attention, as
such; he just seemed to exist in that state much of the time.
"Madame
President." He nodded to
her, then turned to Billy. "Mr.
Keikeya, I need to speak to President Roslin privately."
Her
aide's face was a study in uncertainty, which Roslin decided to relieve.
"Give us the room for a bit please, Billy."
He
stood rather reluctantly. "I'll
be right outside, ma'am."
As
the door shut behind him, she smiled pleasantly. "Commander, I believe I know why you're here.
Won't you sit down?"
In
response, he silently laid a small book in front of her.
She looked down at a leather-bound copy of The Pythian Prophecies;
it looked like one of the antiques from his library.
Ah,
yes, very astute and extremely well-read, let's not forget that...
Certain
that his message had been received, he pulled a chair across from her and sat.
"How
long have you known?" He was
direct and straight to the point, as she'd expected.
"I
found out just before the Cylon destruction of the Colonies."
"Besides
Major Cottle and Starbuck, who else knows?"
"Billy,
of course, and Elosha." She
hesitated. "And ... Captain
Adama."
He
did not react to that revelation. "You
should have told me."
She
kept her face as impassive as his. "My
medical information is privileged, Commander, but I fully intended to inform
you before my ability to perform my duties looked in doubt.
Fleet security has not been impacted by –"
"I'm
not talking about fleet security."
The
voice was still quiet, but the intensity in his words brought her up short.
For the first time since he walked in, she looked directly into his
eyes.
The
anger behind his stone surface she had expected, but beyond that there was
tension, a rawness whose source she did not understand.
There is something else going on
here, but what?
"You
should have told me. You should
have trusted me enough to tell
me."
What,
trust a man who arrested me? She
tried to push those words out, but she couldn't pretend she didn't understand
his real meaning. Before the
coup, before she'd circumvented his authority with her revelations to
Starbuck, that was when she should
have trusted him.
"You're
right. I should have."
She lowered her eyes to the book in front of her.
"I'm sorry."
He
nodded acknowledgement, and his eyes followed hers. "And the ... visions?"
She
suspected he'd substituted visions
for another word, possibly hallucinations.
"I started taking Chamalla extract as a possible treatment for my
breast cancer. It hasn't been
effective as a cure, but there have been other effects.
Information ... given to me."
"By
the Gods?"
Here
was a sticking point, she knew. "That
is what I believe, and what Elosha believes."
He
shook his head. "I thought
you were using the prophecies, as I'd used the legend of Earth.
I never dreamed—"
"—that
I might be living them?" Her
lips crimped. "So to
speak."
"Rumors
have gotten out, you know. You're
gaining what can only be described as spiritual followers."
"I
know." She would not back
away from this. "But as you
so eloquently explained to me, people need something to live for."
His
brow furrowed. For such a
hardened realist, moving in the realm of Gods and prophecy had to be acutely
uncomfortable. She was seeking
for a way to convey her new reality when something Billy had said came back to
her.
"Tradition,
duty, honor ... they're more than words to these people.
They're a way of life. If
you want them to accept your authority as President, you need to make them see
the situation in those terms."
Maybe
she could explain it to him. She
suddenly very much wanted him to understand.
"Commander,
our survival hangs by a thread, and we two know better than anyone how thin
that thread is. When everyone
around you was lost to despair, you stood on that deck among the living and
the dead and offered hope. Hope
based on a lie, yes, but you still gave our people something they desperately
needed, and who could say you were wrong to do so?"
She
leaned forward eagerly. "If
I have been given a chance, however slim, however strange, to make that hope a
reality, then isn't it my obligation to try, for whatever time I have
left?"
His
next question seemed pulled from him. "How
... long?"
She
tried to read his eyes, but he was no longer looking directly at her.
"Probably no more than five or six months."
His
lips twisted, but not in anger, she sensed.
The anger seemed to be leaking away from him, but the tension grew.
"Truly,
it doesn't matter." She
smiled sadly. "In the face
of the billions who have already died, should I use the breath I have left to
complain that I'm not going to be around as long as I expected?
That would be the height of ingratitude."
Her expression turned somber as her gaze dropped to his left side. "After all, there are no guarantees for any of us."
He
took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
The furrows on his face had deepened.
He looked—bleak was the
only word she could come up with.
She
had a question of her own. "Was
it Lt. Thrace who told you?"
"No.
At least, not in words."
"I
see. Well ... I'm not sorry you
found out. However it
happened."
He
nodded and started to stand. Whatever
was locked inside him by that tension seemed fated to remain hidden.
Roslin bit her lip in disappointment —
--
And plunged without warning into vision.
Intense sensory input that had nothing to do with the room she was in
flooded through her.
First
she felt strong arms, cradling her against a lean, hard chest.
Then a warm mouth was savoring hers and being savored in achingly sweet
response. A brief moment of
separation showed her dark blue eyes heated with passion, then the mouth
traced a scorching path along her jaw and down her throat.
A low, husky voice breathed her name against her skin...
"Madame
President?"
As
abruptly as the vision had possessed her, it vanished.
She was left trembling, nearly gasping, almost as badly shaken as she'd
been after her fatal diagnosis.
Because
her partner in that altered reality, the owner of the arms, chest, mouth, eyes
and voice, was sitting directly across
from her, concern deepening on his face.
"Is
something wrong?" He rose
from his chair. For one lunatic
second, she was convinced he meant to come around the desk and take her in his
arms. She squoze her eyes shut,
trying desperately to throw off confusion and bring herself back to
here-and-now.
"Nothing's
wrong. I'm fine."
Her reflexive denial felt tissue-thin.
When she opened her eyes and saw the set of his jaw, she knew it
certainly hadn't convinced him.
"I'm
sorry, Commander." She
swallowed hard and gathered every bit of self-control she could summon.
"It was ... just a twinge."
He
apparently didn't like that answer any better, but he let it go.
"Should I have your aide call Dr. Cottle?"
"No
... no. I'll handle that.
Thank you for your concern."
Her nerve endings were jangling with awareness of him; she knew her
eyes had to be enormous. She had
to end this. "I shouldn't
keep you from your duties any longer."
It
was a clear dismissal, but he hesitated at the door. "You'll keep me informed." Spoken not as a question, but as statement carved in granite.
"Yes,
of course."
He
nodded and left. It seemed that
air rushed into the room to fill the space he vacated. She breathed slowly, trying to recover.
Billy
reentered the room. He started
towards his desk, but stopped as he looked at her face. "Are you all right?"
He came to her side. "What
happened?!"
"He
didn't chew my head off, Billy. I'm
fine." She was relieved to
hear the tartness in her tone, and to find, when she stood, that her legs
would hold her up. "Would
you please call Elosha and tell her I'm on my way to see her?"
"Do
you want me to come with you?"
Absolutely
not!
"That won't be necessary. You
keep on with your work."
As
Billy turned to the comm, she laid a hand on the book Adama had left behind.
The leather was still warm from his touch.
She shivered.
Dear
Gods, what am I to make of this??!!
******
Priest
Elosha's quarters were small, but private, a courtesy extended to her by her
position. She had crammed all of
her living functions into the back of them and curtained off the front to
serve as a combination meditation/consultation area.
A soft blend of herbal scents enveloped Laura as Elosha ushered her
inside. The Priestess' look of
concern told her that she still hadn't completely regained control over her
facial expression.
"Sit
down, Laura." Elosha pressed
a small cup of herb tea into her hands. "Billy
said you were upset about something, but he didn't give me any details."
Roslin
sat and took a revivifying sip of the warm liquid. "Thank you. That
helps."
"Are
you all right? Have you had
another vision?"
She
started to answer, then stopped and thought for a moment.
"I'm honestly not sure, Elosha.
How do you tell the difference between a vision sent by the Gods and an
extremely intense—" gods, she'd almost said fantasy
"—hallucination?"
Elosha
considered. "I don't know if
I can answer that question, Laura. By
its nature, the vision experience is extremely subjective."
She tilted her head to one side. "Did
this seeing seem as real to you as your previous visions?"
Laura
nodded. "Even more so, if
anything. In addition to sights
and sounds, there were ... tactile sensations." And scent, and taste...
She shivered again.
Elosha's
eyes tracked everything. "Why
don't you describe it to me."
Laura
took another swallow of tea and a deep breath.
Then she described her experience in the most neutral, succinct terms
she could find. She named no
names and gave no identifying details.
To
her credit, Elosha's eyebrows rose only fractionally. After Laura had finished, the Priestess took a sip of her own
tea and seemed to be choosing her words.
"This man in your vision ... did you recognize him?
Is he someone you know?"
I
knew
that would be the first question.
"Yes."
A
longer moment of silence, then Elosha smiled.
"But you have no intention of telling me who he is."
"No."
"I
see." Another sip.
"You've described what happened.
Can you tell me what emotions you felt during this ...
experience?"
Inwardly,
Laura balked. "I ... I
wasn't fighting what was happening, if that's what you mean."
Elosha
raised one eyebrow and waited. The
silence stretched.
"All
right!" Laura snapped. "I
was a willing and eager participant, okay?
Are you satisfied?!"
Elosha's
expression went extremely bland. "My
satisfaction is not at issue here.
"And
no, that's not innuendo."
Roslin
sighed and set down her cup. "I'm
sorry, Elosha. This is just so
different—my other visions were real, but not personal.
This is ... incredibly personal. And
I just don't know what to think."
"Understandable."
Elosha gazed into the tendrils of steam rising from her cup.
"Well, Laura, given the rather limited information available, I
can only say this: If the Gods did
indeed send you this seeing, then this relationship is important to them for
some reason."
"'This
relationship'?" Laura's eyes
widened. "Elosha, there is
no relationship. There can be no relationship!"
"Are
you sure?" The dark face was
imperturbable.
Laura
stood, realized there was no room to pace and sat down again.
"Is this what you're telling me?
The Gods have sent this vision, so I must find a way to make it
happen?" She was trembling
again, but this time from anger. "In
addition to leading our people to Earth, no matter what the cost to myself, I
have to be forced into—Gods! Can
I choose nothing for myself anymore?!!!"
The
Priestess shook her head. "The
Gods cannot force us, Laura. They
can only instruct, and guide, and hope we allow them into our lives."
"When
their instruction and guidance takes the form of—of—well, it feels
pretty damn forceful!"
"I
know." Elosha's eyes shone
with sympathy. "But think
for a moment. If you had never
received this vision, if all the complications and obstacles you see didn't
exist, how would you feel about an intimate connection with this person
then?"
Laura
made a helpless gesture with both hands.
"I can't just edit the complications from my thought processes,
Elosha. They're there. They exist.
And they're not going away ... especially the fact that, barring a
miracle, anyone I make an intimate connection with is going to be bereaved in
a matter of months!" She wrapped her arms around her middle.
"In
other words, you don't want to start anything where someone is likely to end
up hurt."
"Of
course I don't!"
Elosha
nodded slowly, looking at her hands in her lap. "That's fair, I suppose.
I'm sure my husband didn't want to hurt me either."
Laura
blinked. Elosha had sliced
through her turmoil as with a knife. "Your
husband?"
"Oh,
yes. I was married at age 20.
He was tall, hazel-eyed and had a smile warmer than an Aquaria
sunset." Laura could still
see that earlier 20-year-old in Elosha's own smile.
"He was a marine biologist ... three years after we married, he
was killed in a diving accident. We'd
planned to have our first child that year."
"I'm
so sorry." She felt tears
welling at the personal tragedy, spoken in such quiet words.
Elosha
shook her head. "The thing
is ... looking at you and your situation, I have to wonder. If he could have seen his own fate when we met, would he have
tried to protect me, to keep me from loving him so that I wouldn't be
hurt?" Her voice was
introspective and calming. "I
think the answer would be yes. He
had a kind and caring heart, just as you do."
She
looked into Laura's eyes, drawing her into her gaze. "And then I have to ask myself: If I could have seen his
fate, would I have let him protect me? Would
I have been better off?"
Laura's
reply was only just above a whisper. "I
think I know your answer."
A
single nod. "Yes, you
do." Elosha reached out one
hand. Laura placed hers in it.
"Grief is the price we pay for love, Laura.
Given the choice, I will always pick living grief over cold, dead
might-have-beens. Always." She
took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh.
"Perhaps
this man — whoever he is – would make the same choice, were it placed
before him. To love in spite of
pain."
Laura
dropped her eyes. "I don't
... know."
Elosha
watched her. "Do you think
he lacks the courage?"
"No."
Never.
But he's had so much pain already...
"Well..."
Elosha gave Laura's hand a reassuring squeeze.
"Things will happen as they will.
I've probably given you more than enough to think about, but I do have
one more question for you."
"Another
one?" Laura's laugh was a
trifle shaky.
"This
one you don't have to answer, but you should think on it."
Elosha reached out to capture Laura's other hand.
"Who is there for you, Laura?"
"What
do you mean?"
"I
mean, while you're spending your strength trying to save the rest of us, who
is there to give strength and comfort to you?"
"Well,
there's you of course, and Billy—" Laura stopped.
Elosha was shaking her head.
"You've
become a dear friend to me, Laura, and I know Billy feels the same way.
But he is the chief aide to the Colonial President, just as I am her
spiritual adviser. We can't
escape those roles. When all
roles are stripped away ... who is there for you?"
She gave a sudden, puckish smile.
"For that matter—and think on this one very carefully—who is
there for him?"
Laura
was taken by a sudden suspicion. "You
know exactly whom I've been talking about this whole time, don't you?"
She
laughed. "I?
No, I don't know. But I have, shall we say, a strongly-held suspicion."
Her smile softened. "I've
been your spiritual advisor for long enough today.
Now I'm going to give you a piece of advice ... as your friend.
"You
asked me earlier if you could choose nothing for yourself.
I think, with this vision, the Gods are telling you to do exactly
that." She squoze Laura's
hands, then released them. "Choose something for yourself, Laura."
Elosha
rose from her chair. Laura rose
more slowly. "I'll tell you
what we should do. I have a
naming ceremony to officiate this afternoon on board the Cloud
Nine, and you should come with me."
She linked arms with Laura and led her into the corridor.
"You don't give yourself nearly enough breaks from that
office..."
By
the time Laura returned to her office late that afternoon, she was calm and
Presidential again. Common sense
had reasserted itself, along with her sense of humor. It was all well and good for the Gods to send her
vivid visions of ... interesting possibilities, but Commander William Adama
still thought of her as a glorified schoolteacher at best and a dangerously
unbalanced hindrance at worst.
If
the Gods don't take him
into account, they simply aren't going to get very far.
With
that wry thought, she was smiling as she walked through the door and greeted
Billy.
"Feeling
better, ma'am?"
"Much
better, Billy." She stopped
at a sudden thought. "I've
been meaning to ask, how are things with you and Petty Officer Dualla?"
"Fine.
I'll be meeting her on board the Rising
Star tonight, in fact."
"Really?"
She smiled in relief as she sat down.
"That's good. I was worried there might have been, well ... strains because
of everything that's happened."
He
grinned suddenly. "Ma'am,
are you trying to apologize for letting politics impair my love life?"
"I
suppose I am," she laughed. "Are
you telling me they haven't?"
"Not
really. Oh, it's not that we
never argue, but she doesn't hold me responsible for you any more than I hold
her responsible for the Old Man."
"Mm,
sensible of you." Laura's
smile turned wistful. "I'm
so glad. I remember the two of
you dancing last Colonial Day. You
were so completely lost in each other. It
was sweet."
"Well,
actually ... um, funny you should mention that." Billy's face reddened slightly as he walked over and laid
something on her desk. Surprised,
Laura looked down at an envelope marked "Confidential".
An open envelope, but then, Billy always screened her mail.
"I—um,
I'm going to get some water. Be
right back." And Billy
vanished from the room.
Bewildered,
Laura removed the contents from the envelope, read the brief cover note ...
and saw the picture.
"Oh."
Herself, in his arms, the two of them coming together to kiss and be
kissed ... the picture melded with the vision, triggering a replay in her
mind. Eyes closing, she sank back
in her chair, one hand going to her forehead.
When
she reopened her eyes, she cast them towards the ceiling, even though she knew
full well that "up" has no objective meaning in deep space.
"You
are really trying to hit me over the head with this, aren't you?" she
sighed.
******
He
wound up at the gym, as he'd known he would eventually.
Adama
had spent his afternoon in CIC, and wouldn't you know, for once everything was
boring and routine, offering no distraction from the turmoil in his thoughts.
He found himself descending into a blacker and blacker mood, with
everyone on duty trying to walk more and more softly around him until Colonel
Tigh came on shift. Saul assessed
the situation, steered him firmly in the direction of his office and suggested
that he take a break.
Actually,
what he said was, "Bill, you look like a bug crawled up your ass and died.
Go pull it out before you rip someone a new one, will you?"
So
the gym it was.
He
tried jogging on one of the treadmills, but he found the
running-and-getting-nowhere too close a match to what was happening inside his
head. He stopped and went to don
a pair of boxing gloves, but even the brawny marines, who at other times might
have had the bravado to offer him a sparring match, were avoiding his glower
today. So the heavy bags were the
only option left for venting his frustration.
And
his frustration grew every time his memory replayed Laura Roslin saying three
words. "It doesn't
matter."
The
more he tried to redirect his thoughts, the more they circled back to that
point. The more he thought about
it, the more force went into his blows, the more snap to his fists.
She
tells my son, she tells Starbuck, but she doesn't tell—
He
launched into a flurry of jabs.
Just
a twinge?! She looked like she
was deciding whether to throw up or pass out ... just a twinge my—
A
series of hooking, punishing shots that would have put any of those marines on
the mat instead piled into the hapless bag.
It
doesn't matter! Does she actually
believe that? Does she truly
think that it doesn't matter that she's sick, it doesn't matter—
A
left
-that
she's-
A
right
-DYING?
SLAM
With
that last roundhouse, Adama would have sworn that the heavy bag had found a
way to fight back. He certainly felt
like he'd been kicked just below the heart.
Reflexively he swung himself between the bag and the wall, where he
could hide his agonized grimace from the rest of the room as the worst pain of
the day hit him and hit hard.
He
had no idea how long he stood there, braced against the wall with legs that
threatened to buckle, clutching his left side, but eventually the pain eased
fractionally, and he could focus on breathing again. The hot sweat of his exertion had been replaced with a much
colder, clammier version.
Right.
Okay, Bill, obviously you are not
going to deal with this by taking it out on the gym equipment.
Your body is not giving you that option.
So get cleaned up and fracking calm down.
The
shower cleansed his body and eased his muscles, but at one point he glanced
down and saw the puckered scars of his bullet wounds, networked around with
finer marks from the surgeries. His
expression darkened all over again.
Wouldn't
that have been ironic, if I'd been the first to go after all?
Clearly
calm was going to be quite a while coming.
Too
much death, too much loss. I'm
starting to take it all personally.
He
sighed and went to towel off and get dressed.
Once back in his office, he steeled himself to confront two things he
was very much inclined to avoid, his own thoughts and the picture lying on his
desk.
He
could see why Kara had been unsettled by it.
The Laura Roslin in that picture looked so very alive, it seemed a
desecration to think she was carrying her own death within her.
But
she knew. Even then, she knew.
Hell, she knew before we ever started this journey.
He
revisited all the moments of his acquaintance with Roslin that he could summon
before his mind's eye, reviewing them in the light of his new knowledge.
He had known her to be determined, courageous and able to show
considerable grace under pressure, but he had never before known how absolute
the pressures on her were.
This
woman had taken on the burdens of the Presidency and the duty to somehow
ensure the survival of the human race. She
had done so with no advance warning or preparation, amidst the most horrifying
of circumstances. She had carried
her responsibilities in the face of massive obstacles, himself included...
...and
all the while she'd been staring her own mortality in the face, every single
day.
At
a time when any sane, sensible human being would want to live for the moment,
she was living for humanity. Her
last few precious months were doomed to be swallowed up by the
Presidency—and the Pythian Prophecies.
No
wonder she turned to religion. He
felt his throat tighten at the memory of her, eyes burning in her pale face,
telling him of her obligation to find Earth for their people.
And
who was he to deny her that? Who
was he to say that her honest faith was a worse thing to live for than his
outright lie?
So,
Commander, what happens when her honest faith and your best military judgment
are once again at odds? If she
makes another vision-induced request of you that you know will compromise
fleet security, will you, can
you do anything differently from the last time?
Well,
I might be able to avoid arresting her, of course. Beyond that...
No.
No, damn it, there must be something I can do.
Something.
His eyes dropped once again to the picture.
He remembered asking her to dance that Colonial Day; in fact he
treasured that moment as one of the few times he'd surprised her into
speechlessness. Her answering
smile, before she'd accepted his proffered arm, had been a little awkward, a
little embarrassed ... and more than a little flattered.
She had spent most of their dance looking at the people
around them. He hadn't been sure
whether she was gauging people's reactions to the sight of them together, or
simply trying to hide behind the soft curtain of her auburn hair.
But every so often, he'd found her grey eyes looking at him, and he'd
wondered what she was thinking.
There's
really only one way to find out, isn't there?
He tapped one finger absently on his desk.
Perhaps
it's time to take the initiative again.
Still
looking at Roslin's image, he thoughtfully reached over to key the comm.
******
"Day"
and "night" also have no objective meaning in deep space, but the
human organism evolved on a planet and under a sun. Deep space vessels usually accommodated the circadian rhythms
of their passengers by dimming their internal lights somewhat in all
non-critical areas to represent shipboard "night". As she returned to her quarters, Roslin watched the lights
dim and recalled the massive, fleet-wide case of space-lag they'd had to deal
with soon after leaving Ragnar Anchorage. No
surprise, really, when you had people used to twelve different planetary
rotational cycles all trying to recalibrate their internal clocks to one time,
the standard universal military time used by Galactica and the rest of the ships' crews.
Most people had been in a groggy state even before the Cylons had
started their timed attacks, but they'd all adapted somehow.
It was amazing what you could adjust to when you had to.
Take
her for instance. For the rest of
the day, up to the point where she'd sent Billy off on his date and bid good
night to the rest of her staff, her back-brain had every so often ambushed her
with tiny bits of physical data about William Adama. Even though she'd carefully replaced the photo back in its
envelope, her memory would periodically snap back to a flash from sapphire
eyes, the feel of a strong shoulder under her hand, the metallic trace of
warship combined with clean, warm male that was his personal scent
... all things she'd ruthlessly schooled herself not to notice at the
time.
And
in spite of it all, I still managed to address all the issues on my desk.
I feel quite proud of myself, actually.
Her
own quarters were slightly larger than Elosha's, but they felt smaller, thanks
to the desk with a comm unit that had been wedged in along one wall.
Laura would have preferred to have one comm-free refuge, but she bowed
to the need for the President to be contactable at all hours.
Billy and the rest of her staff were zealous about guarding her sleep,
but that meant that, on those extremely rare occasions when she was awoken by
an off-hours call, she knew it was deathly serious.
She
laid Adama's book and the envelope with the photo on her desk.
Sternly quashing the masochistic impulse to look at the stillshot one
more time, she turned instead to changing for bed.
The one set of sleepwear in her severely limited wardrobe was at the
laundry, but someone had provided her with a comfortable alternative: a
sleeveless T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, both military-issue grey.
She pulled them on.
She
was just settling the hem of the shirt around her hips when, completely
unbidden, a picture jumped to her mind of Adama wearing a similar
outfit--sweat-plastered to his body. She
groaned and stifled her overactive imagination before it could elaborate
further on the image.
"This
has got to stop," she startled
herself by speaking aloud. "If
it doesn't, my next meeting with the man is going to be a complete,
unmitigated disaster."
She
sat at the desk and once again started massaging her temples.
Enough, Laura.
This is just some kind of vision-induced hormonal overreaction.
It will fade in time. Until
then, well, you'll just have to tough it out.
But
in a strange way, she was also relieved to know her body and soul were still
capable of such wayward impulses, even if she never intended to do anything
about them.
The
chime of the comm startled her. A
prickle of unease ran down her spine as she answered it.
"Madame
President?"
"Yes,
Aja? What's happened?"
"Nothing
really, ma'am." The young
woman sounded extremely hesitant. "I
have Commander Adama on the line for you.
He said it wasn't urgent if you'd already retired, but I thought, since
you just left, you were probably still awake."
Laura
blinked. When has that man ever called
me concerning something that wasn't urgent?
In fact, he avoids calling me unless absolutely necessary.
"Should
I ask him to call back in the morning, ma'am?"
"No,
Aja, that's all right. You can
put him through."
"President
Roslin? I hope I didn't wake
you."
"Not
at all, Commander." I
suspect you're going to be keeping me awake later, but that's hardly your
fault, is it? "What can I do for you?"
"Well,
the fact is ..."
There
was a longish pause. This
can't possibly be what I think it is. William
Adama, unsure of what to say? She
suddenly wished she could see his eyes.
He
cleared his throat and finally forged ahead in his businesslike CO's tone.
"It has not escaped my notice—nor, I'm sure, has it escaped
yours—that you and I have been having more than our share of communication
problems."
"I
would say that's a fair assessment."
Now where is this going?
"It
occurred to me ... I realize we have official pipelines, but I thought we
should have a more direct, less formal line of contact.
Even just a few minutes touching base with each other at the end of the
day would give us a chance to speak our minds without constantly considering
the political ramifications or what the public is going to think ... help keep
the air clear, so to speak."
"I—"
Damn.
He surprises me again. "I
couldn't agree more, Commander. I
think that's an excellent idea." She
settled back in her station chair. "What
should we talk about?"
"The
idea is not to edit ourselves, so ... whatever comes to mind."
Oh,
what's coming to my
mind definitely needs editing. Fortunately
he couldn't see her blush. "My
day hasn't been too eventful. The
usual supplies and logistics issues. You'll
have full reports on those, I'm sure."
She smiled. "I did
attend a naming ceremony with Elosha this afternoon.
Three babies, and three sets of brand-new parents all looking giddily
overjoyed and completely terrified at the same time."
"Mm,
I remember that feeling. That's
one of life's events that you can never feel adequately prepared for."
Good
gods. Is that a hint of the
personal creeping into the conversation?
Emboldened, she asked, "And you?
How has your day been?"
"Ah
... Fairly routine here as well." She
heard a faint creaking noise and imagined him stretching in his chair.
"I suppose the high point of my day was finding out that two new
pilot trainees have taken a more-than-professional interest in your military
advisor."
Eyes
widening, she tried to stifle a laugh and failed. "Really. That's
... probably not too surprising." She
tilted her head. "You keep
calling him that, you know."
"Pardon
me?"
"'Your
military advisor', as if I have some kind of responsibility.
He's still your son."
A
soft chuckle was her reward for that comeback.
Laura marveled at how easily the words flowed between them.
When there's no one else in the
room to posture for, not even each other, it seems we can just ... talk.
Amazing.
"Well,
I can tell you're not too concerned. Captain
Apollo would never take undue advantage of the situation; he is every inch an
officer and a gentleman."
"Yes."
So
much quiet pride, concentrated into a single syllable.
She wondered how she could have ever thought him cold and unexpressive.
His voice alone was alive with subtle nuances of emotion, if you paid
close enough attention to it.
"Have
you—" He hesitated again.
"Did you ever contact Major Cottle after your ... twinge?"
Ah
yes. My "twinge".
Right.
She could feel herself blushing again.
"I have an appointment with him tomorrow, for treatment and an
assessment."
"...I
see."
The
ever-so-slight catch in his voice caught her ear and her attention.
"Commander,
I want you to know, I am fighting this illness with everything I have.
My prognosis is very grave, but anything I can do to change it, I
will."
A
faint exhalation. "That's
... good to know." She heard
him shift again. "You'll let
me know if there's any way I can help?"
You
just did.
"Of course. Thank you." She
swallowed around the tightness in her throat.
"And what about you? Not
too long ago you were being stitched back together from the inside.
Are you all right?"
"I'm
fine, though there has been some discomfort today. I promised—that is, I should probably make a doctor's
appointment myself."
Some
discomfort. Her mind balked at
imagining what Adama would label "some discomfort".
"No need, Commander. I'll
make sure Dr. Cottle sees you tomorrow after he's done with me."
She allowed a hint of steel to edge her tone.
You will take care of yourself, damn you, for—for all our sakes.
"Yes,
ma'am." Message received,
apparently. "I should let
you get some rest."
"Yes,
I suppose so." She
reluctantly realized she would have to let him go.
"Commander ... thank you for calling."
"Until
tomorrow then, Madame President. Good
night."
The
comm light turned off.
Laura
curled up in her chair, her eyes falling once again to the envelope on her
desk. This time she yielded to
the impulse to take out the stillshot once more and let memory wash over her.
What
would have happened, I wonder, if we had found the courage to dance just a
little bit closer?
Sudden
realization struck, pulling a startled laugh from her.
Of
course. Mayla Coiros surely
wouldn't have sent a copy to me without also sending one to ...
Well
... and well.
Things
will happen as they will, Elosha said. So
... we'll see what happens.
Laura
laid the photo on the desk and went to bed, still smiling.
******
Two
days later, Alec stopped by Mayla's quarters with a schedule of events on
various ships that might need photographic coverage. Seated cross-legged on her bunk, she was reading over two
sheets of paper, a singularly bemused expression on her face.
"Hey,
Mayla. What have you got
there?"
She
looked up. "I'm honestly not
sure, Alec, but these arrived today in separate envelopes. Take a look." She
handed over both sheets.
The
first note was written in the slanted, scratchy script of someone who usually
wrote in a hurry:
Dear
Ms. Coiros, I wanted to thank you for the stillshot you sent.
I regret that I can't frame and display it as it deserves, but I
suspect you understand why. Sincerely, Cmdr. W. Adama.
The
second showed a flowing, elegant handwriting:
Dear
Ms. Coiros, I was touched to receive such a gift of your singular artistry.
I will treasure the photo you sent always.
Yours truly, Laura Roslin.
Alec
looked up at Mayla, whose eyebrows were raised in inquiry.
"So what do you think, Junior?
Nothing? Or
Something?"
Alec
shook his head. "I don't
know, Boss. I can't say for sure
that it's Something ... but it sounds like it's definitely not Nothing."
"Heh.
Mind those double negatives."
He
grinned and handed the notes back. "One
thing seems pretty safe to say: You did good."
"I
hope so. I sincerely hope
so."
Mayla
reached for the box of printed photos sitting next to her.
After flicking through the contents, she came across the third copy of
the Roslin/Adama picture, the copy she'd finally decided to make for herself.
Alec watched as she carefully tucked the notes in next to the picture.
"Best
of luck, you two," she murmured.
Alec
nodded. "So say we
all."