Talking to your Pocket (The Box Set Remix) by frakcancer
Title: Talking to your pocket (The Box Set Remix)
Author: frakcancer
Summary: We are born alone. We die alone. The closer we try to hold the people in our lives, the more they slip away. The more you try to slip out of people's lives, the tighter you are held. The only things you can count on are guilt and remembrance.
Characters: Laura Roslin, William Adama
Pairings: A/R
Rating: T
Warnings: takes place around Escape Velocity
Title, Author and URL of original story: Everybody Knows by astreamofstars
Beta Thanks: lacklusterfic
She's left her whiteboard on Colonial One.
It's not that she's abandoned it, not at all. Her first priority of the day remains updating the numbers, hopefully upward, mostly down. But it's part of the furnishings of the Office of the President and she's been very careful about leaving all things official in her office. Bad enough the civilian government is literally in bed with the military; the seat of government will not be the admiral's bed.
She's brought her clothes with her. Her books, which once had been his. Cottle has gifted her with a rainbow of pills and Tory makes sure to provide her with a steady stream of folders on days she's too ill to shuttle to the office. She's brought her toiletries, her photographs, her memories and her secrets.
The admiral finds it frustrating that the president is so furtive. Bill finds Laura's ways adorable. She slips out of bed at night, thinking she's so silent, but a military man is trained to sleep lightly, move lighter still. When she's not looking he follows her as far as the doorway, watches her at his desk. Every night it's the same ritual: a glass of water, her glasses, one hand at the back of her neck. The box on the desk, a rainbow of pens, paperclips spread out like a star chart, a scattering of papers. It's obvious this means a lot to her, that this is something intensely private. He does what he can to help, pilfering red pens from CIC, bending stray bits of junked wires into reasonable facsimiles of paper clips, stocking his desk drawers when Laura's not around.
He never takes advantage of her absences to pull out the box and take a look inside. He's too transparent -- if he betrayed her trust she'd know in an instant. Besides, he keeps demons hidden in the backs of drawers and on the shelves of his closet. Maturity and mistakes have taught him that loving someone doesn't mean knowing all their secrets.
She moves out after one too many stupid fights after one too many nights he's spent drinking after one too many days she's spent fighting a disease she never meant to fight and he's spent fighting the knowledge that reality might trump even his elaborate fantasy world. She takes the box with her and he reclaims the space in his drawers, the space on his desk.
He stacks the desktop with files: Kara, Helo, Sharon, Anders, Gaeta, Costanza. His children whom he sent away, because even though he believes in Laura he's a cautious man. Military records, photos, notes they've written. Starbuck's folder is the thickest by far; inside he keeps her Aurora and small pieces of the boat he shattered when he thought she was dead. After due deliberation he adds more files. Lee. Hera Agathon. Dee. Saul.
Late at night, when the silence is too much, he sits at his desk, glass in hand, and goes through the files, paper by paper. This birthday card -- should it go with Kara or with Lee? He rearranges the stacks -- Demetrius crew here, civilians there, Galactica in the corner. He arranges them again -- Anders, Kara, Lee, Dee. Helo and Sharon and Hera. It's important to keep families together. It's not a skill he's ever possessed, but he's never going to stop trying.
The desk drawer is still Laura's. It's where he keeps the things she's left behind, forgotten or found to be, like himself, not worth the bother. Notes she's left him, reports with her annotations, a pencil she's chewed almost to shreds. He tries not to open the drawer too often. He sees her during the day, she uses his office as hers, he sits by her side when she gets her treatments. It should be enough. It never is. He has a rule: if he's picked up the phone three times to call her quarters, if he's started for the hatch twice to go visit, he allows himself to open the drawer, play with the papers.
Sometimes he adds his own notes. Prefers Oskana to Prima. Hates coffee; hates algae coffee worse. Loves me, but can't say it aloud. He puts a copy of Searider Falcon in the drawer in preparation for the next visit to Life Station. It gives him an excuse to go in, rearrange, sort. He never throws anything out; every bit of paper is a bit of Laura, something he'll need when -- if -- when --
He knows she has a file on him. It's why he had to endure that ceremony, play the hero for her fleet. He wonders if she keeps anything there beside his military record. Late at night, as he adds another note to his drawer (Wants a religious funeral) he decides not. She keeps her memories close, keeps everyone in her head. She doesn't stay up at night, caressing her failures like prayer beads.
He has his folders. He has his drawer. He has his space.
Laura's clothes, her pills, her folders are in guest quarters down the hall. Her whiteboard is on Colonial One. He wonders if she still sits up at night with a glass of water, her glasses, one hand at the back of her neck. The box on the desk, a rainbow of pens, paperclips spread out like a star chart. He wonders if she ever looks up from her papers and thinks of him.
Author: frakcancer
Summary: We are born alone. We die alone. The closer we try to hold the people in our lives, the more they slip away. The more you try to slip out of people's lives, the tighter you are held. The only things you can count on are guilt and remembrance.
Characters: Laura Roslin, William Adama
Pairings: A/R
Rating: T
Warnings: takes place around Escape Velocity
Title, Author and URL of original story: Everybody Knows by astreamofstars
Beta Thanks: lacklusterfic
She's left her whiteboard on Colonial One.
It's not that she's abandoned it, not at all. Her first priority of the day remains updating the numbers, hopefully upward, mostly down. But it's part of the furnishings of the Office of the President and she's been very careful about leaving all things official in her office. Bad enough the civilian government is literally in bed with the military; the seat of government will not be the admiral's bed.
She's brought her clothes with her. Her books, which once had been his. Cottle has gifted her with a rainbow of pills and Tory makes sure to provide her with a steady stream of folders on days she's too ill to shuttle to the office. She's brought her toiletries, her photographs, her memories and her secrets.
The admiral finds it frustrating that the president is so furtive. Bill finds Laura's ways adorable. She slips out of bed at night, thinking she's so silent, but a military man is trained to sleep lightly, move lighter still. When she's not looking he follows her as far as the doorway, watches her at his desk. Every night it's the same ritual: a glass of water, her glasses, one hand at the back of her neck. The box on the desk, a rainbow of pens, paperclips spread out like a star chart, a scattering of papers. It's obvious this means a lot to her, that this is something intensely private. He does what he can to help, pilfering red pens from CIC, bending stray bits of junked wires into reasonable facsimiles of paper clips, stocking his desk drawers when Laura's not around.
He never takes advantage of her absences to pull out the box and take a look inside. He's too transparent -- if he betrayed her trust she'd know in an instant. Besides, he keeps demons hidden in the backs of drawers and on the shelves of his closet. Maturity and mistakes have taught him that loving someone doesn't mean knowing all their secrets.
She moves out after one too many stupid fights after one too many nights he's spent drinking after one too many days she's spent fighting a disease she never meant to fight and he's spent fighting the knowledge that reality might trump even his elaborate fantasy world. She takes the box with her and he reclaims the space in his drawers, the space on his desk.
He stacks the desktop with files: Kara, Helo, Sharon, Anders, Gaeta, Costanza. His children whom he sent away, because even though he believes in Laura he's a cautious man. Military records, photos, notes they've written. Starbuck's folder is the thickest by far; inside he keeps her Aurora and small pieces of the boat he shattered when he thought she was dead. After due deliberation he adds more files. Lee. Hera Agathon. Dee. Saul.
Late at night, when the silence is too much, he sits at his desk, glass in hand, and goes through the files, paper by paper. This birthday card -- should it go with Kara or with Lee? He rearranges the stacks -- Demetrius crew here, civilians there, Galactica in the corner. He arranges them again -- Anders, Kara, Lee, Dee. Helo and Sharon and Hera. It's important to keep families together. It's not a skill he's ever possessed, but he's never going to stop trying.
The desk drawer is still Laura's. It's where he keeps the things she's left behind, forgotten or found to be, like himself, not worth the bother. Notes she's left him, reports with her annotations, a pencil she's chewed almost to shreds. He tries not to open the drawer too often. He sees her during the day, she uses his office as hers, he sits by her side when she gets her treatments. It should be enough. It never is. He has a rule: if he's picked up the phone three times to call her quarters, if he's started for the hatch twice to go visit, he allows himself to open the drawer, play with the papers.
Sometimes he adds his own notes. Prefers Oskana to Prima. Hates coffee; hates algae coffee worse. Loves me, but can't say it aloud. He puts a copy of Searider Falcon in the drawer in preparation for the next visit to Life Station. It gives him an excuse to go in, rearrange, sort. He never throws anything out; every bit of paper is a bit of Laura, something he'll need when -- if -- when --
He knows she has a file on him. It's why he had to endure that ceremony, play the hero for her fleet. He wonders if she keeps anything there beside his military record. Late at night, as he adds another note to his drawer (Wants a religious funeral) he decides not. She keeps her memories close, keeps everyone in her head. She doesn't stay up at night, caressing her failures like prayer beads.
He has his folders. He has his drawer. He has his space.
Laura's clothes, her pills, her folders are in guest quarters down the hall. Her whiteboard is on Colonial One. He wonders if she still sits up at night with a glass of water, her glasses, one hand at the back of her neck. The box on the desk, a rainbow of pens, paperclips spread out like a star chart. He wonders if she ever looks up from her papers and thinks of him.