Word Count: 1,827
Date: 02/04/05
Series: One
Rating: K
Category: Relationships
Pairing/Focus: Lee, Kara
Warnings:
Summary: There’s a song out there now that just seems to live in me. It’s by
Mercy Me, and one of the few CDs I’ve bought in recent years. I’m really
not one for songfic, but this thing just haunts me, and if I don’t get rid
of it, I’m going nuts.
Spoilers/Disclaimers: Lyrics by Mercy Me – no copyright infringement intended.
Chapter 1 - Lee
“You’re in a better place,” I’ve heard a thousand times,
And at least a thousand times I’ve rejoiced for you. But the reason why I’m broken, the reason why I cry
Is how long must I wait to be with you.
A better place. Right. I suppose anyplace is better than the fleet given the circumstances. It doesn’t make it easier, but it sure as hell gives us something to think about. My father asked if we thought they were the “lucky ones” – the ones who had died, that is – and it scares the shit out of me that he read us all that well. At least, he read me that well.
I can’t ever remember feeling quite like this before. Losing Zak hurt, yes, more than I thought I could live through. The two of us weren’t just brothers, but friends as well. He was the plague of my childhood who turned into my reason for keeping on the straight and narrow. That’s funny; everyone thinks I was Mr. Boy Scout for my father – to win his approval. Would they think of me differently if they knew that I was so damned rigid because I didn’t want my little brother to see me screw up?
But that’s not why I’m hurting. Not really. Losing Zak caused me as much fury as it did pain, as horrible as that sounds. He was so young, and it wasn’t fair, but life went on regardless of his presence. That really pissed me off; how could people just go on with their lives when he wasn’t there to do the same? But you get through that, and you survive even if you don’t live, and eventually things even out. Maybe that’s why this is different. This time, nothing’s evening out.
This time, there is only more death, and the promise of death, forever and ever. So say we all.
Death is around us, an unbeatable foe that stalks us more relentlessly than the Cylons. Aside from dealing with the myriad of suicides in the wake of the end of our worlds, we’re also coping with increased crime rates, murder, and death from both injuries and illness brought about by the Cylon attack. I can’t see an end for it all. To top it off, I’m supposed to be in charge of keeping the fleet safe, and I can’t even keep my own pilots alive. I’m no better as a CAG than I was as a brother. I go through the motions, and I try to be the best at it, and yet I still fall so miserably short.
We’ve lost so much, so many. Some deaths I was directly responsible for, like with the Olympic Carrier. You could say that I was following an order, but that doesn’t take away the flash when I close my eyes. It doesn’t silence the screams when I try to sleep. It doesn’t ease the guilt of sending so many souls to… what we hope is better than this. We hope, but we can’t know. I just want to know.
But above it all – beyond it all – the greatest guilt I carry is that I would accept all of this death around me and willingly bear the burden of command, if only I could pick up a comm. and talk to my mother. Is that the most pathetic thing you’ve ever heard, or what? Hundreds of millions of deaths all around me, the human race hanging on by a thread, and the CAG misses his mommy. Lords, if they only knew what a child I am.
I was never really a “momma’s boy” in the strict sense of the phrase, but she and I were always close. Dad was never there – always on some mission or other – so often it was just the two of us. And then there was Zak, and for the longest time she was so sick. I did what I could to help, but she was never the same woman after he was born. I didn’t resent him for it, because it didn’t change her love for me or her love of life, but even as a small boy I noticed. I became the one who showed Zak where it was safe to play and where it wasn’t. I was the one who set the table and helped with dinner. I was the one who made sure we had clean clothes in the drawers and that Zak took a bath at night so that Mom had time to rest. Hell, maybe I was a momma’s boy, at least back then.
But I would have done anything for her. I adored my father and wanted his approval more than anything, but he was always this figure out of legend. Grandpa was real, and Mom was real, but Dad was different. Mom was someone I saw every day, and shared all those dumb concerns with. I made myself a promise when I left home that even though Zak was still around, I’d still call at least once a week to let her know I was okay. It wasn’t just that I didn’t want her to be lonely, but I didn’t want her to be worrying.
When I told her that, she cried.
My dad was gone so much, and often we’d go months without having a clue where he was, or if he was okay. It was all military policy – he didn’t do it deliberately – and of course his homecomings made it worth it (almost), but I could still see the toll it took on her. She tried so hard to be brave for us, but I know how many times I heard her crying after the lights were out, and I caught her more than once asleep with their wedding picture in her arms. So I wouldn’t cause her that same pain. Wherever I was, whatever was going on, I fully planned to call her every week. And for the most part, I did. When I couldn’t, I got out a sub-space so that she could at least know I was safe. It was more effort than Dad ever made. But then, I wasn’t managing a Battlestar.
You may wonder what we could find to talk about every week. Hell, there was everything. I told her about who was doing what, and where I’d seen something special, and whatever worries I had at the time. Mom had a way of making everything seem so much better, making the hurts… less. She made the disappointments manageable. Lords, even now I want to pick up that phone and get the comfort that she always gave.
I want to tell her that I’m sorry for what I did to Dad for all those years – the blame I placed, the years I wasted. I want to tell her what Kara did, and how I wanted to be angry with her but it’s so damned hard when she’s so angry with herself. I want to tell her how much I hate to be in command, how every man I lose is like losing Zak all over again, and how there’s not end in sight. I want her to tell me that it will all be okay, even when she knows it won’t be.
I just want to hear her voice.
I couldn’t ever tell Dad. He doesn’t have a clue how much it gets to me. He doesn’t know that there are days when he’s on duty when I go into his room just to see her picture, and just to talk to her even when she can’t hear me. Yeah, I definitely qualify as pathetic. But so much has happened, and I don’t know whether to be happy that she’s missed all the horror and is in that “better place” or to be grieving for her loss of life. I guess that’s half the problem; I don’t know what to do.
Except miss her.
The funny part is that despite her physical frailty after having Zak – something that improved with time, of course – she never lost her emotional strength. I think she could have handled this better than I am. I know she wouldn’t have done any worse. No, I wouldn’t wish this existence on anyone, but I know she could deal with it. My mom could deal with anything.
I guess that’s why I look to Kara some days. Now, don’t get me wrong, Kara is nothing like my mother. In most ways, she’s the exact opposite. Mom was never crass, or promiscuous, or just plain obnoxious. Mom never drank or swore or smoked. But Kara has that same strength that Mom showed, and that same resilience from any kind of adversity. Kara also understands the mind of a pilot, which Mom did even without flying herself. Kara has backbone, although it’s often misdirected. In a lot of ways, Kara is good for me.
But I can’t talk to her; not really. Maybe that’s the problem.
Kara isn’t exactly my second in command, but she’s as close as I have and yet I can’t trust her any further than I can throw her. Or punch her. Lords, the look on her face! I don’t know why she was so damned surprised; she knows I hit back. She’s reckless and impulsive and selfish and erratic… and probably the best friend I have left. And I guess I do talk to her about some things, but not the important stuff. I don’t talk to her about emotions, because there are times I don’t know if she has them. I don’t talk to her about Dad because she would defend him to the death no matter what he did. I don’t talk to her about tactics because she’ll argue every time, and frak if she won’t be right. I don’t talk to her about guilt, because… well, I’m not sure why. It isn’t as though she hasn’t felt it. It isn’t as though she hasn’t been there. But… still, I don’t think she’d understand.
I don’t talk to her about pain, because she’s felt as much as I have. It doesn’t seem fair to push off on her what I don’t want to deal with myself. So why, I wonder, was I so willing to push that shit off on Mom?
Lords, I miss her. If there is a Greater Place, I want to go there. I have to believe it’s there, because the alternative is that she’s really gone, and I don’t think I could survive that.
So I talk to her picture, and I try to figure out what she would have said in a situation and hope that I knew her well enough to remember. And I try not to hurt, because I know she wouldn’t want that; but I do anyway.
How long, I wonder? How long until there is enough hope to make the pain bearable? How long?