BSG Fic : Consequences (1/2)
Title : Consequences
Author : Helen C.
Rating : PG-13
Summary : Lee Adama was pissed off.
Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Ronald D. Moore and Universal Television Studios to name but a few. No money is being made. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
AN. Many thanks to joey51 for beta'ing this!
Consequences
Helen C.
Part One
Lee Adama was pissed off.
And in pain.
And, also, a little scared.
And, frak it all to hell, tied to a chair, at the mercy of yet another weapon-waving lunatic.
It was the second time in less than a month that he found himself in a sticky situation.
Starbuck was going to have a field day with this. She was going to tease him to death about trouble always finding him when he was on Cloud Nine.
Speaking of which, he was never going to set foot on the blasted ship ever again. Either the thing was cursed or he was-either way, this was his last time here.
The bullet wound wasn't even fully healed yet, damn it.
The man in the room-forty-something, dark haired and with a glint in his eyes that made Lee's heart beat a little faster; whatever had happened to this man, he wasn't quite there anymore-was staring at him thoughtfully.
Lee had asked him what he wanted once already, to no avail. They had both fallen silent after that. Perhaps the man wanted Lee to start getting nervous, wanted him to start talking.
Instead, Lee was starting to get bored. How long had he spent here already? Long enough for someone to notice he had gone missing?
He had badly chafed the skin on his wrist trying to loosen the restraints (a futile way to pass time for sure, since the man obviously knew how to tie effective knots, but no one had ever said Lee couldn't be optimistic) and he wasn't planning on spending the rest of his recovery period in this room.
"So, how are you doing?" he asked politely.
The man looked at him with contempt, but didn't reply.
Okay.
So much for that.
The silence was becoming worrisome; people who took others prisoner usually liked to talk-or rather brag, taunt, humiliate... anything but the kind of stony silence the man was going for.
There was anger in that silence, and that didn't bode too well for Lee.
The awkward position his arms were in-tied behind him, to the back of the chair-was about to cross the thin line between uncomfortable and painful. It reminded him too clearly that it had been a long time since his last dose of painkillers.
All of which was no reason to show the man that he was anything but perfectly at ease.
Steeling himself for an unpleasant day, Lee resumed waiting.
*
It seemed like he had spend all his life in this room-at least five or six hours, given the pain he was in.
He had to use all his willpower not to let it show.
He could feel sweat trickling down his back in the stifling heat-obviously, whoever the man was, he liked it hot.
The thought made him want to laugh and he couldn't totally hide his smile.
That finally got a reaction. "What's so funny?"
Lee quickly decided against shrugging and said in his most upbeat voice, "Oh, I don't know, the universe's sense of humor?"
"Ah." The man nodded thoughtfully, coming closer with stilted movements. "You'll have to forgive me if I don't share your amusement. I don't find much of anything funny, since my wife and my two kids died on the Olympic Carrier."
Without warning, he struck the side of Lee's head with the butt of his gun.
Before he passed out, Lee heard, through a haze of blinding pain, "I'm Brent Mason, by the way. Nice to meet you."
*
How Mason managed to get in touch with the Galactica was a mystery-though Lee imagined that the words, "I'm holding Captain Adama and if you don't let me talk to the Admiral, I'll kill him," probably featured prominently.
He cursed inwardly as Mason circled around him, playing with a knife, talking to his father while all Lee could do was sit and wait and try to brace for what was sure to come.
All his training hadn't prepared him to be roughed up while his father (and probably half of CIC) listened in.
Foolish oversight on the part of his instructors.
"Want?" Mason said, probably in answer of one of his father's questions. "Oh, I don't want anything, Admiral Adama. Nothing, but you hearing your son scream, the way my son probably screamed when the ship transporting him exploded."
Your son didn't scream, Lee thought. He didn't see it coming, and they were all already dead.
They were dead.
They had to be.
But the truth was, he couldn't be sure, and they would never know.
Over 1,300 souls and how many women and children among them? How many mothers, how many sons and daughters?
Sometimes, Lee felt like they had dragged some part of him with them when they'd died-the best part of him, the part that made him human. Whenever that happened, he got blind drunk or challenged Starbuck to a sparring match and allowed her to kick his ass all over the mat.
None of which was likely to earn him sympathy points with Mason.
"Did you even think about the consequences of what you were doing, Admiral?" Mason went on. He nudged Lee's neck with his gun. "Did you, Captain?"
Lee clenched his jaw and stared at the bulkhead in front of him.
Mason didn't stop. "What is it like, Admiral, to know that your son is in danger and that there's nothing you can do to help him?"
"Just out of curiosity," Lee threw in. Mason looked down at him. "How long did you spend practicing that little speech?" Mason kept staring at him, impassive. "Did you use a mirror?"
Mason put the communicator down and proceeded to cut off Lee's shirt, baring his right shoulder.
Lee's heart was beating impossibly fast, his hands clenching and unclenching uselessly.
Mason picked up the communicator again. "You killed my son, Admiral." He let his hand linger on Lee's shoulder. Unable to stop himself, he tried to jerk away. "He's struggling, Admiral. If you want to know."
Lee could only imagine what was going on in the CIC right now.
Stupidly, he hoped not too many people were listening.
He hoped someone was trying to keep his father from listening-if Tigh was half as smart as an XO ought to be, maybe he was even talking to Mason himself, pretending to be the Admiral.
Lords, please, let Tigh keep Dad away from this, Lee thought.
His father being who he was, though, that wasn't very likely.
*
He held silent for as long as he could while Mason circled around him, tracing his skin with the tip of his knife, occasionally pausing long enough to pierce the skin and draw blood.
Eventually, he stopped and leaned over Lee, prodding at the bandage on his chest. "Does it hurt when I do that?"
Lee managed not to make a sound but he felt cold sweat all over his body and had to fight back a cry.
Frak.
"Oh, I see it does."
Mason had given up on talking to the Galactica a while ago but the communicator was still transmitting.
Lee just hoped no one was listening any more.
Mason used the knife to trace a line from Lee's shoulder to the wound, deep enough to draw blood, not deep enough to do any real damage.
This time, Lee had to squeeze his eyes shut and couldn't quite hold back a moan of protest.
"Did you get that, Admiral?" Mason called, his tone cheerful.
Lee distantly wondered whether the man had always been insane, or whether the death of his whole family had made him that way.
And frankly, why did all these people think that their pain was greater than everybody else's? Everyone on the Fleet had lost loved ones.
Thankfully, not everyone took out their pain on other human beings.
"No?" Mason went on. "Yes, he's not loud enough. Yet."
With that, he dug the knife into Lee's shoulder, deep enough that Lee felt like it had gone all the way through.
He cried out, sharply, cursing the fact that he couldn't help it.
The man whispered near his ear, "Do you think my son realized what was happening to him, Captain?"
"He was already dead," Lee managed to gasp.
The shout Mason gave had Lee leaning away from him as far as his bounds would allow. "You don't know that!"
No, he didn't.
He did know that when they'd shot it down, the transporter was heading straight for the Fleet, was carrying nukes, wasn't responding to hails and was ignoring the warnings.
He didn't think Mason was in a listening mood, though, so he fell silent again.
Mason looked pensively at the communicator and at Lee. Then, he crouched next to Lee. "You don't know that," he said softly. "Say you don't know that, and maybe I'll let you live."
Lee closed his eyes, savoring the anger that washed through him. "Frak you," he said.
Mason gripped the knife a little tighter.
"Tell me. Do you miss your family a little less right now?" Lee asked, his voice sounding strangled-like a stranger was doing the talking in his place.
*
He never remembered much of the time that followed.
Some flashes of pain, of course.
His own voice, screaming.
He remembered more clearly saying, "Idiot," when Mason put the wireless receiver to his ear so he could hear his father's voice, so strained it was barely recognizable.
Then the room around him went from blurry to blinding white.
*
He never noticed that the marines barged into the room, shot the man, untied his hands, loaded him on a stretcher.
By the time he emerged, he was in sick bay and Cottle was swearing under his breath about damn lunatics.
"Doc?" Lee called without opening his eyes.
"Ah, you're awake," the doctor replied in his usual brisk tone-Lee would never have thought he'd be happy to hear that sour voice.
Then Cottle started firing questions at him-what was his birthday and what year was it and who was President-and just as Lee was starting to think that he really wanted to get back to sleep again, Cottle finally stopped. "Well, apparently, he didn't bang your brain too hard. That's something at least."
Lee made a vague noise. Talk about small favors. "What did he...?" he started.
"Believe it or not, it could have been worse," Cottle said, looking tired and in dire need of a cigarette. Hell, Lee didn't smoke (with the exception of a few cigars here and there) and he felt like smoking one himself. "Slight concussion. You bruised your wrists pretty bad. Shallow cuts over some of your chest and arms."
He paused and Lee braced himself for the rest. The last thing he remembered was blinding pain. Not exactly a good sign. "What else?"
"He stabbed you near the gunshot wound. Bad news is, he was trying to cause a lot of pain, and I'm sure it must have worked."
Lee didn't reply. He was too busy wondering who had been listening in while Mason was working out some of his issues.
"Good news is, he didn't do anything we can't repair. You lost some blood, more than I'm comfortable with, especially after the surgery you already went through, but I think that in time, and providing you don't get yourself tortured again, you should be able to recover."
"Good enough to fly?" Lee asked automatically.
Cottle rolled his eyes but Lee had the feeling that it was mostly for show. "Probably."
Then he injected something into the IV and Lee drifted off again.
Part Two
Author : Helen C.
Rating : PG-13
Summary : Lee Adama was pissed off.
Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Ronald D. Moore and Universal Television Studios to name but a few. No money is being made. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
AN. Many thanks to joey51 for beta'ing this!
Consequences
Helen C.
Part One
Lee Adama was pissed off.
And in pain.
And, also, a little scared.
And, frak it all to hell, tied to a chair, at the mercy of yet another weapon-waving lunatic.
It was the second time in less than a month that he found himself in a sticky situation.
Starbuck was going to have a field day with this. She was going to tease him to death about trouble always finding him when he was on Cloud Nine.
Speaking of which, he was never going to set foot on the blasted ship ever again. Either the thing was cursed or he was-either way, this was his last time here.
The bullet wound wasn't even fully healed yet, damn it.
The man in the room-forty-something, dark haired and with a glint in his eyes that made Lee's heart beat a little faster; whatever had happened to this man, he wasn't quite there anymore-was staring at him thoughtfully.
Lee had asked him what he wanted once already, to no avail. They had both fallen silent after that. Perhaps the man wanted Lee to start getting nervous, wanted him to start talking.
Instead, Lee was starting to get bored. How long had he spent here already? Long enough for someone to notice he had gone missing?
He had badly chafed the skin on his wrist trying to loosen the restraints (a futile way to pass time for sure, since the man obviously knew how to tie effective knots, but no one had ever said Lee couldn't be optimistic) and he wasn't planning on spending the rest of his recovery period in this room.
"So, how are you doing?" he asked politely.
The man looked at him with contempt, but didn't reply.
Okay.
So much for that.
The silence was becoming worrisome; people who took others prisoner usually liked to talk-or rather brag, taunt, humiliate... anything but the kind of stony silence the man was going for.
There was anger in that silence, and that didn't bode too well for Lee.
The awkward position his arms were in-tied behind him, to the back of the chair-was about to cross the thin line between uncomfortable and painful. It reminded him too clearly that it had been a long time since his last dose of painkillers.
All of which was no reason to show the man that he was anything but perfectly at ease.
Steeling himself for an unpleasant day, Lee resumed waiting.
*
It seemed like he had spend all his life in this room-at least five or six hours, given the pain he was in.
He had to use all his willpower not to let it show.
He could feel sweat trickling down his back in the stifling heat-obviously, whoever the man was, he liked it hot.
The thought made him want to laugh and he couldn't totally hide his smile.
That finally got a reaction. "What's so funny?"
Lee quickly decided against shrugging and said in his most upbeat voice, "Oh, I don't know, the universe's sense of humor?"
"Ah." The man nodded thoughtfully, coming closer with stilted movements. "You'll have to forgive me if I don't share your amusement. I don't find much of anything funny, since my wife and my two kids died on the Olympic Carrier."
Without warning, he struck the side of Lee's head with the butt of his gun.
Before he passed out, Lee heard, through a haze of blinding pain, "I'm Brent Mason, by the way. Nice to meet you."
*
How Mason managed to get in touch with the Galactica was a mystery-though Lee imagined that the words, "I'm holding Captain Adama and if you don't let me talk to the Admiral, I'll kill him," probably featured prominently.
He cursed inwardly as Mason circled around him, playing with a knife, talking to his father while all Lee could do was sit and wait and try to brace for what was sure to come.
All his training hadn't prepared him to be roughed up while his father (and probably half of CIC) listened in.
Foolish oversight on the part of his instructors.
"Want?" Mason said, probably in answer of one of his father's questions. "Oh, I don't want anything, Admiral Adama. Nothing, but you hearing your son scream, the way my son probably screamed when the ship transporting him exploded."
Your son didn't scream, Lee thought. He didn't see it coming, and they were all already dead.
They were dead.
They had to be.
But the truth was, he couldn't be sure, and they would never know.
Over 1,300 souls and how many women and children among them? How many mothers, how many sons and daughters?
Sometimes, Lee felt like they had dragged some part of him with them when they'd died-the best part of him, the part that made him human. Whenever that happened, he got blind drunk or challenged Starbuck to a sparring match and allowed her to kick his ass all over the mat.
None of which was likely to earn him sympathy points with Mason.
"Did you even think about the consequences of what you were doing, Admiral?" Mason went on. He nudged Lee's neck with his gun. "Did you, Captain?"
Lee clenched his jaw and stared at the bulkhead in front of him.
Mason didn't stop. "What is it like, Admiral, to know that your son is in danger and that there's nothing you can do to help him?"
"Just out of curiosity," Lee threw in. Mason looked down at him. "How long did you spend practicing that little speech?" Mason kept staring at him, impassive. "Did you use a mirror?"
Mason put the communicator down and proceeded to cut off Lee's shirt, baring his right shoulder.
Lee's heart was beating impossibly fast, his hands clenching and unclenching uselessly.
Mason picked up the communicator again. "You killed my son, Admiral." He let his hand linger on Lee's shoulder. Unable to stop himself, he tried to jerk away. "He's struggling, Admiral. If you want to know."
Lee could only imagine what was going on in the CIC right now.
Stupidly, he hoped not too many people were listening.
He hoped someone was trying to keep his father from listening-if Tigh was half as smart as an XO ought to be, maybe he was even talking to Mason himself, pretending to be the Admiral.
Lords, please, let Tigh keep Dad away from this, Lee thought.
His father being who he was, though, that wasn't very likely.
*
He held silent for as long as he could while Mason circled around him, tracing his skin with the tip of his knife, occasionally pausing long enough to pierce the skin and draw blood.
Eventually, he stopped and leaned over Lee, prodding at the bandage on his chest. "Does it hurt when I do that?"
Lee managed not to make a sound but he felt cold sweat all over his body and had to fight back a cry.
Frak.
"Oh, I see it does."
Mason had given up on talking to the Galactica a while ago but the communicator was still transmitting.
Lee just hoped no one was listening any more.
Mason used the knife to trace a line from Lee's shoulder to the wound, deep enough to draw blood, not deep enough to do any real damage.
This time, Lee had to squeeze his eyes shut and couldn't quite hold back a moan of protest.
"Did you get that, Admiral?" Mason called, his tone cheerful.
Lee distantly wondered whether the man had always been insane, or whether the death of his whole family had made him that way.
And frankly, why did all these people think that their pain was greater than everybody else's? Everyone on the Fleet had lost loved ones.
Thankfully, not everyone took out their pain on other human beings.
"No?" Mason went on. "Yes, he's not loud enough. Yet."
With that, he dug the knife into Lee's shoulder, deep enough that Lee felt like it had gone all the way through.
He cried out, sharply, cursing the fact that he couldn't help it.
The man whispered near his ear, "Do you think my son realized what was happening to him, Captain?"
"He was already dead," Lee managed to gasp.
The shout Mason gave had Lee leaning away from him as far as his bounds would allow. "You don't know that!"
No, he didn't.
He did know that when they'd shot it down, the transporter was heading straight for the Fleet, was carrying nukes, wasn't responding to hails and was ignoring the warnings.
He didn't think Mason was in a listening mood, though, so he fell silent again.
Mason looked pensively at the communicator and at Lee. Then, he crouched next to Lee. "You don't know that," he said softly. "Say you don't know that, and maybe I'll let you live."
Lee closed his eyes, savoring the anger that washed through him. "Frak you," he said.
Mason gripped the knife a little tighter.
"Tell me. Do you miss your family a little less right now?" Lee asked, his voice sounding strangled-like a stranger was doing the talking in his place.
*
He never remembered much of the time that followed.
Some flashes of pain, of course.
His own voice, screaming.
He remembered more clearly saying, "Idiot," when Mason put the wireless receiver to his ear so he could hear his father's voice, so strained it was barely recognizable.
Then the room around him went from blurry to blinding white.
*
He never noticed that the marines barged into the room, shot the man, untied his hands, loaded him on a stretcher.
By the time he emerged, he was in sick bay and Cottle was swearing under his breath about damn lunatics.
"Doc?" Lee called without opening his eyes.
"Ah, you're awake," the doctor replied in his usual brisk tone-Lee would never have thought he'd be happy to hear that sour voice.
Then Cottle started firing questions at him-what was his birthday and what year was it and who was President-and just as Lee was starting to think that he really wanted to get back to sleep again, Cottle finally stopped. "Well, apparently, he didn't bang your brain too hard. That's something at least."
Lee made a vague noise. Talk about small favors. "What did he...?" he started.
"Believe it or not, it could have been worse," Cottle said, looking tired and in dire need of a cigarette. Hell, Lee didn't smoke (with the exception of a few cigars here and there) and he felt like smoking one himself. "Slight concussion. You bruised your wrists pretty bad. Shallow cuts over some of your chest and arms."
He paused and Lee braced himself for the rest. The last thing he remembered was blinding pain. Not exactly a good sign. "What else?"
"He stabbed you near the gunshot wound. Bad news is, he was trying to cause a lot of pain, and I'm sure it must have worked."
Lee didn't reply. He was too busy wondering who had been listening in while Mason was working out some of his issues.
"Good news is, he didn't do anything we can't repair. You lost some blood, more than I'm comfortable with, especially after the surgery you already went through, but I think that in time, and providing you don't get yourself tortured again, you should be able to recover."
"Good enough to fly?" Lee asked automatically.
Cottle rolled his eyes but Lee had the feeling that it was mostly for show. "Probably."
Then he injected something into the IV and Lee drifted off again.
Part Two