FIC: Afterglow (2/2)
Chapter Two:
Bill Adama actually found himself peeking around the edge of the hatch into his own quarters. Laura’s guards weren’t out front, but she may have ordered them away. But she wasn’t on the couch, or in the head, and the bedding on his rack was smoothed flat again.
Satisfied that he was alone, he sank heavily behind his desk, flipped open the logbook and adjusted his glasses. While writing the date, he suddenly realized that his wedding anniversary was approaching; it was that time of year again. When married, he’d taken special care to remember it, thinking a military wife deserved even more attention. Carolanne had seemed to appreciate it, at least in the first decade of their marriage.
Now the anniversary meant something completely different; it was the annual reminder of his failure. He’d made a vow to this woman and hadn’t been able to keep it. With their chat a few years ago, the news that she was remarrying, it had seemed as though he would finally be able to rectify this failing, but now he never would.
Carolanne waited for him in her Fields of Elysium. He gave an empty chuckle. He didn’t believe in that place, and had figured that would be the way to avoid one final confrontation with her, but if Laura was going, he would be too. They’d just have to find their own corner, like at a cocktail party of bores and drunks.
He’d always been able to sense his anniversary arriving, but now that they’d been in space so long without the routine of planet leaves, all touchstones were gone. What was the Summer Solstice without flowers and dancing in the last sunset? The last attempt at a fall harvest festival had been a dismal affair, with no harvest but a fresh pot of algae, a few candles burning while the priestess chanted, and crew members surreptitiously sipped from hipflasks, eyeing each other. Every occasion now seemed to be an excuse to get drunk and frak someone that you’d try to forget by the next festival.
Refocusing on the task before him, Bill carefully framed his record for the log. It had been a long, emotionally charged couple of days; Tigh had that much right.
Decades ago, he’d been desperate enough to remain an officer when the Cylon War ended that he had accepted that assignment with military intelligence. He had done what they asked of him, and had been glad to eventually escape with his sanity intact. Those skills had proved useful with Baltar, even if they hadn’t gotten the whole truth out of the doctor. But the experience made him realize that over the years he’d fooled himself that it wasn’t as bad as he remembered. It was, despite the medical sterility.
He remembered his C.O. bragging, “Forget slogging in some filthy jungle to chase terrorists. We get to work nine to five, in a nice clean office, and be home for a hot dinner.” Brooker had been wrong of course, it was not clean work; many fluids escaped from a desperate person under extreme pressure.
Adama never felt clean either; the way he had to empty out his soul to push Baltar beyond his reason, to push all those men, was like washing out a miscarriage.
It helped to step outside himself when doing this sort of work. Now he had to return; with each breath, like a rising tide, he was touching at this distance strange shore he called William Adama.
He had felt Laura’s eyes on him, heard her small murmurs of despair and concern just beyond Baltar’s babblings. He’d hoped that he’d never have to tell her all the things that he’d done in his lifetime; it was tempting sometimes to lighten his burden, but then he’d just be passing them to another bowed back.
Suddenly exhausted, Bill pushed back from the desk, closing his logbook. He undressed, carefully hanging his worn uniform in the closet after brushing it off. He washed his face and brushed his teeth. He did these actions every night, night after night, but somehow, tonight, every little sound echoed in the empty quarters, like a single cubit rattling around the bottom of a barrel.
Ignoring the overwhelming sensation of dreariness, he crawled under the rack’s covers without turning on the light and reading for a while as he normally did. And of course, sleep did not come. Even with limiting himself, he’d drank too much and his head felt as though it was swinging from side to side though he lay perfectly still.
Plus, the pillow smelled of her hair, the blanket of her skin. Damn, he muttered in the dark. Damn.
Yet when he closed his eyes, he didn’t see Laura; he saw the garish hot pink of Ellen’s negligee hanging in Saul’s closet. Then he inhaled, and he remembered Laura, her still, classical statue features trapped in the webbing of the bedside lamp’s shadow, simply looking up at him, a half-smile on her lips.
He had invited her back to his cabin after Baltar had been hurried off to the Life Station, concerned about her wane face and trembling hands.
She had nearly tripped over the hatch’s sill coming in; he’d grabbed her arm to steady her. “Have you eaten today?” he asked, concerned.
“Have you?” she murmured, pushing back her hair.
He avoided the question by saying, “You need to keep up your strength.” He went to the comm. “Let me order some dinner.”
She waved her hand. “I’ll eat when I get back to Colonial One. In fact, I should go.”
She turned, but wavered so much that he hurried to her side. “Laura, come lie down for a few minutes,” he insisted, leading her back to the rack.
“It’s just been a busy couple of days, that’s all,” she whispered, even as she toed off her shoes and allowed him to help her onto the bed.
“Yes,” he said, leaning over her to push the bolster up under her neck.
Gazing up at him as though in a trance, she said, “I feel the truth like a presence, a force, just out of my reach. But I can’t read if it’s in Baltar...or if it’s somewhere else.”
“He never will tell the truth, Laura. He’s been lying for so long that he thinks it’s the truth.”
She was watching his mouth as though she had to read his lips to understand. “I even went and spoke to Caprica yesterday--the Six’s name is Caprica.”
He sat beside her, out of her gravity. She said, “I promised we wouldn’t execute her if she gave us information--“ she smiled wryly, “but she knows that I’ve gone back on my word to Cylons before.”
He chuckled with no mirth. Eager for a moment, Laura said, “But he’s broken her heart. She promises to testify against him.”
“Do we want the word of a woman scorned?” asked Bill, lacing his fingers and studying them.
“She’s not a woman,” said Laura, her voice dreamy again.
Bill shifted further down the mattress.
Her voice, so low as to draw him back, make him want to put both hands on either side of her face and lean over with his ear to her lips: “I told him that I didn’t take any satisfaction in seeing his pain. But the truth is I was willing to see him endure a great deal of suffering--“
Again, he felt her, off in a corner of his mind as he focused on the torturing--he never minded calling it that, he actually felt it was important to acknowledge the work he did--and then had sensed her retreat in horror from what they were doing.
“--in order to get what I wanted. There must be some intelligence; some truth; I wanted a genuine admission of guilt.” She was worrying on this point like a sore tooth.
He told her, “That’s something you’re not gonna get from someone like Baltar. He doesn’t see himself that way; not who he is. He’s the victim, not the criminal.”
In the silent room, he suggested, “It’s not too late for him to just disappear.” He could do it, easily, with no regret. He only wanted to take this aching uncertainty and pain away for her; he would do anything.
Her fingers lightly touched his sleeve in gratitude; she read his thoughts. Her husky voice came from somewhere far away, from an abandoned planet’s orbit, “We can’t do that. For all his crimes, he’s one of us.”
He left it up to her; he had no more ideas. “So what happens next?”
She sounded confident as she said, “We give him his trial,” as though that was the simplest enterprise in the universe. When he looked at her, she was watching him as she had been the entire time. It would be the easiest thing in the world to fall into her, to make them both forget everything that had happened.
He stood. “I need to go,” he said. “I’ve got to check on some things.” He suddenly found energy where he had had none before. Hurrying towards the hatch, he added, “Stay as long as you need; I won’t be back until late.”
He glanced back and she’d risen up on one elbow to watch him go. Bemused, a laugh playing on her lips, she only said, “Thank you, Bill. For everything you’ve done.”
In the doorway, he gripped the hatch’s weight as though fighting the airlock’s decompression. He told her, “Anytime, Laura. I can do it anytime you need me to.”
The end.
Bill Adama actually found himself peeking around the edge of the hatch into his own quarters. Laura’s guards weren’t out front, but she may have ordered them away. But she wasn’t on the couch, or in the head, and the bedding on his rack was smoothed flat again.
Satisfied that he was alone, he sank heavily behind his desk, flipped open the logbook and adjusted his glasses. While writing the date, he suddenly realized that his wedding anniversary was approaching; it was that time of year again. When married, he’d taken special care to remember it, thinking a military wife deserved even more attention. Carolanne had seemed to appreciate it, at least in the first decade of their marriage.
Now the anniversary meant something completely different; it was the annual reminder of his failure. He’d made a vow to this woman and hadn’t been able to keep it. With their chat a few years ago, the news that she was remarrying, it had seemed as though he would finally be able to rectify this failing, but now he never would.
Carolanne waited for him in her Fields of Elysium. He gave an empty chuckle. He didn’t believe in that place, and had figured that would be the way to avoid one final confrontation with her, but if Laura was going, he would be too. They’d just have to find their own corner, like at a cocktail party of bores and drunks.
He’d always been able to sense his anniversary arriving, but now that they’d been in space so long without the routine of planet leaves, all touchstones were gone. What was the Summer Solstice without flowers and dancing in the last sunset? The last attempt at a fall harvest festival had been a dismal affair, with no harvest but a fresh pot of algae, a few candles burning while the priestess chanted, and crew members surreptitiously sipped from hipflasks, eyeing each other. Every occasion now seemed to be an excuse to get drunk and frak someone that you’d try to forget by the next festival.
Refocusing on the task before him, Bill carefully framed his record for the log. It had been a long, emotionally charged couple of days; Tigh had that much right.
Decades ago, he’d been desperate enough to remain an officer when the Cylon War ended that he had accepted that assignment with military intelligence. He had done what they asked of him, and had been glad to eventually escape with his sanity intact. Those skills had proved useful with Baltar, even if they hadn’t gotten the whole truth out of the doctor. But the experience made him realize that over the years he’d fooled himself that it wasn’t as bad as he remembered. It was, despite the medical sterility.
He remembered his C.O. bragging, “Forget slogging in some filthy jungle to chase terrorists. We get to work nine to five, in a nice clean office, and be home for a hot dinner.” Brooker had been wrong of course, it was not clean work; many fluids escaped from a desperate person under extreme pressure.
Adama never felt clean either; the way he had to empty out his soul to push Baltar beyond his reason, to push all those men, was like washing out a miscarriage.
It helped to step outside himself when doing this sort of work. Now he had to return; with each breath, like a rising tide, he was touching at this distance strange shore he called William Adama.
He had felt Laura’s eyes on him, heard her small murmurs of despair and concern just beyond Baltar’s babblings. He’d hoped that he’d never have to tell her all the things that he’d done in his lifetime; it was tempting sometimes to lighten his burden, but then he’d just be passing them to another bowed back.
Suddenly exhausted, Bill pushed back from the desk, closing his logbook. He undressed, carefully hanging his worn uniform in the closet after brushing it off. He washed his face and brushed his teeth. He did these actions every night, night after night, but somehow, tonight, every little sound echoed in the empty quarters, like a single cubit rattling around the bottom of a barrel.
Ignoring the overwhelming sensation of dreariness, he crawled under the rack’s covers without turning on the light and reading for a while as he normally did. And of course, sleep did not come. Even with limiting himself, he’d drank too much and his head felt as though it was swinging from side to side though he lay perfectly still.
Plus, the pillow smelled of her hair, the blanket of her skin. Damn, he muttered in the dark. Damn.
Yet when he closed his eyes, he didn’t see Laura; he saw the garish hot pink of Ellen’s negligee hanging in Saul’s closet. Then he inhaled, and he remembered Laura, her still, classical statue features trapped in the webbing of the bedside lamp’s shadow, simply looking up at him, a half-smile on her lips.
He had invited her back to his cabin after Baltar had been hurried off to the Life Station, concerned about her wane face and trembling hands.
She had nearly tripped over the hatch’s sill coming in; he’d grabbed her arm to steady her. “Have you eaten today?” he asked, concerned.
“Have you?” she murmured, pushing back her hair.
He avoided the question by saying, “You need to keep up your strength.” He went to the comm. “Let me order some dinner.”
She waved her hand. “I’ll eat when I get back to Colonial One. In fact, I should go.”
She turned, but wavered so much that he hurried to her side. “Laura, come lie down for a few minutes,” he insisted, leading her back to the rack.
“It’s just been a busy couple of days, that’s all,” she whispered, even as she toed off her shoes and allowed him to help her onto the bed.
“Yes,” he said, leaning over her to push the bolster up under her neck.
Gazing up at him as though in a trance, she said, “I feel the truth like a presence, a force, just out of my reach. But I can’t read if it’s in Baltar...or if it’s somewhere else.”
“He never will tell the truth, Laura. He’s been lying for so long that he thinks it’s the truth.”
She was watching his mouth as though she had to read his lips to understand. “I even went and spoke to Caprica yesterday--the Six’s name is Caprica.”
He sat beside her, out of her gravity. She said, “I promised we wouldn’t execute her if she gave us information--“ she smiled wryly, “but she knows that I’ve gone back on my word to Cylons before.”
He chuckled with no mirth. Eager for a moment, Laura said, “But he’s broken her heart. She promises to testify against him.”
“Do we want the word of a woman scorned?” asked Bill, lacing his fingers and studying them.
“She’s not a woman,” said Laura, her voice dreamy again.
Bill shifted further down the mattress.
Her voice, so low as to draw him back, make him want to put both hands on either side of her face and lean over with his ear to her lips: “I told him that I didn’t take any satisfaction in seeing his pain. But the truth is I was willing to see him endure a great deal of suffering--“
Again, he felt her, off in a corner of his mind as he focused on the torturing--he never minded calling it that, he actually felt it was important to acknowledge the work he did--and then had sensed her retreat in horror from what they were doing.
“--in order to get what I wanted. There must be some intelligence; some truth; I wanted a genuine admission of guilt.” She was worrying on this point like a sore tooth.
He told her, “That’s something you’re not gonna get from someone like Baltar. He doesn’t see himself that way; not who he is. He’s the victim, not the criminal.”
In the silent room, he suggested, “It’s not too late for him to just disappear.” He could do it, easily, with no regret. He only wanted to take this aching uncertainty and pain away for her; he would do anything.
Her fingers lightly touched his sleeve in gratitude; she read his thoughts. Her husky voice came from somewhere far away, from an abandoned planet’s orbit, “We can’t do that. For all his crimes, he’s one of us.”
He left it up to her; he had no more ideas. “So what happens next?”
She sounded confident as she said, “We give him his trial,” as though that was the simplest enterprise in the universe. When he looked at her, she was watching him as she had been the entire time. It would be the easiest thing in the world to fall into her, to make them both forget everything that had happened.
He stood. “I need to go,” he said. “I’ve got to check on some things.” He suddenly found energy where he had had none before. Hurrying towards the hatch, he added, “Stay as long as you need; I won’t be back until late.”
He glanced back and she’d risen up on one elbow to watch him go. Bemused, a laugh playing on her lips, she only said, “Thank you, Bill. For everything you’ve done.”
In the doorway, he gripped the hatch’s weight as though fighting the airlock’s decompression. He told her, “Anytime, Laura. I can do it anytime you need me to.”
The end.