High Noon (A BSG Crack!fic for the Holiday Season) - a Happy New Year Surprise?
Title: High Noon
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Genre: AU/Gen/Humor
Rating: T (some questionable language, innuendo, and purported violence)
Word Count: ~5855
Spoilers: Not much... with it being A/U and all... (^_^)"
Characters/Pairings: This is a Crack!fic meant to involve most canonical and fanon ships with even a hint of plausibility to them that I have seen around on my f-list - so take that how you may. Main players however are Laura Roslin (no one's surprised right?), Bill Adama, Tom Zarek, with smaller roles and appearances by the ensemble cast (potentially more later).
A/N: The title actually has nothing to do with noon… or height, but it does involve a bit of guns and shooting - oh - and a lot of crack, so perhaps the “high” part may be somewhat relevant. This work is a spontaneous (and combustible) piece of writing formed from meandering thoughts during an evening walk - that started somewhere about falling sunlight, beautiful trees and landscapes, and somehow (by way of a recollection of a trivia question one late Jeopardy night regarding Alexander Hamilton’s newspaper) ended up with an image of the infamous and tragic duel of pistols between Alexander Hamilton and Andrew Aaron Burr (oops, time to review some of my old history lessons - I’m tempted to steal my sister’s AP text to read), and hence - this crack. I know the “ship Laura with everyone fics” have been done before - this is definitely NOT one of them (though some elements have been inspired by those elements of polyamory in fandom that I’ve seen as accepted canon since Caprica? I still have not watched that beyond the pilot, so please don't expect any of this to be in anyway accurate). This is a cracky, random mess that took my muse to new (extremely dizzying) heights - that were not at all healthy. (^_^)” (Of note, not all details are correctly drawn… I was tempted to do a Western European pistol duel adapted to Grecian stylings, but then again, it’s difficult to mar an opponent’s face with a gun and not kill them soooo…) And if one feels the need to inquire as to what I was possibly thinking, I believe it’s quite obvious that I was… not?
Also, with apologies, dear BSG fans among my f-list (as well as the wider lovely, BSG fandom here on LJ - though you may never know about this as, I think, I will be hiding this fic here on my journal ><”), please receive this as a joke-gift of sorts. I love you all, and despite the fact that this may not be particularly proud or happy news, you have all influenced me in one way or another as I type this. (A/N as written, for the most part, September 4, 2013)
A/N 2: In case anyone is wondering, I DID write this a LOOOOOOONG time ago - way before the new Hamilton musical and its subsequent popularity, so that's just a funny coincidence (though it may mean that I'll probably be listening to the soundtrack while working on Appendices). ALSO, even more importantly, all the thanks in the world(s) for my ever-patient beta lanalucy for the many fixes, corrections, and suggestions she made for this fic. All the remaining mistakes/moments of utter-awkwardness are mine and mine alone.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Please do not digest this fic in any serious sort of way. It was originally written at a time when I desperately needed some silliness set in one of my still-tv-true-loves.
Summary: An ‘olden-times’ AU (think literally on the “colonial” here), in which Bill Adama and Tom Zarek still do not get along and have had enough [of each other].
This scene was a familiar one. Two men were opening their pistol cases, held by their nervously shifting seconds.
Bill Adama was dressed in his Colonial military uniform. To be sure, he was not planning to die that day, and he was pretty confident that he would not, but the gods were known to play their tricks from time to time and if he were to die… ‘It would damn well be in uniform,’ though he quickly shook off that maudlin thought. His face was stoic as he loaded the rounds into his pistol - the one that accompanied him on many a crusade during the Colonial wars. His second, his son, refused to look him in the eye - the muscle in his cheek was still twitching as he had already yelled at his father all of yesterday regarding the stupidity of the entire situation. Lee “ didn’t know about Tauron honor” apparently, and Lee, frankly, preferred it that way if this if this the sort of machismo form it took, even as he had his own pistol prepped and belted at his waist, because, and Bill Adama better thank the gods for this, he did love his father. Secretly, he was tempted to tell his dad to frak off and use his best friend and drinking buddy as his second, but neither would risk it since he would most likely be drunk (and a missing eye does make accurate targeting of a gun quite difficult).
Tom Zarek stood at the opposite end of the field dressed normally except for the vice-governorship badge prominently displayed on his chest. His second, his manservant Mr. Meier had protested repeatedly, futilely, that it was basically a target to be shot at, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to back down. He was a man of the people, and if he were to die, he would still be a man of the people (and if it did happen that way and Adama’s reputation were ruined, all the better; not that he had any plans of losing this duel however).
Both seconds, in a rare moment of total agreement despite being of opposite parties, shook their heads with aggravation and tightened their jaws grimly.
This was such a stupid, horrible idea.
XxX
The day prior…
It had begun at the lady’s tea room, the Pallas Loom, on the corner of Dove Street and Main. It was a popular location for many of the ladies of some renown in the county, and many attended with their maidservants and gentlemen friends for gossip and conversation, friendly repartee, parlor games, and, as was the case for one Laura Roslin, heated debate - on books, music, politics, or education. She was well-known for being educated, independent-spirited, and a favorite among certain male and female visitors, who came for both the challenge of mind and the sight of her muse-inspiring green eyes lit up with delight - the wealth of beauty which she still gathered in spades despite (or because of) age. It was also well-known that very few dared play card games against her unless they wanted a less obvious means of gifting her with money (which was rather an effort in futility anyway because everyone already knew this fact).
Bill Adama had been visiting her during every military leave for the last three years, and each night, he claimed a kiss (usually… sometimes… okay, when given permission) following intense discussions on books and strategy, and whether or not women should take part in development of said strategy. She usually won this debate by bringing up their mutual acquaintance Kara Thrace, his adopted-niece and a favorite pupil and helper of Laura’s. Except last night.
Last night, that frakking terrorist, as Bill Adama and his soldier-buddies had taken to calling the vice-governor of their province on Caprica, elected at gunpoint as he somewhat was when he came barging in during the preliminaries - an outsider with a big voice, big ideas, and big (if well hidden) guns, had been at her table with cards and drink, chest deep in an intense discussion on political philosophy. He brought up the need for government to take a realistic stance in expecting revolutionary endeavors, citing a nihilistic, pessimistic Chobz who wrote from the last century - during a period of drought on Aerilon, which led to starvation and riots in all the colonies and almost broke into chaos and war.
She countered that a line must be drawn in order to maintain stability and the safety of the governed. “You represent them. Don’t only speak for them. Ask them, and remember to listen.”
“That’s naïve, Ms. Roslin. Listen to yourself. How would such calm and slow decision-making be possible during, say, a crisis? The government would be dead before it ever finished deliberating. It’s a very female thing to do perhaps - to preach discussion and compromise before action, but it’s hardly effective.”
Her eyes narrowed at the slight. “So says the former revolutionary…”
“So said because I was a revolutionary and still am, except I am now enacting change from within.”
Laura had leaned back, hands clasped on the table - cards still lying facedown, her face shifted from frown to wry smile as Bill had looked on unhappily from the corner table he had claimed when he saw hers occupied. “You are fortunate that you are generally considered a man with a pleasing demeanor, or I would hazard a guess that you do not have much success with your endeavors in romance with such a sweet mouth as you have.” (Bill practically broke his glass at the description “pleasing.”)
Tom Zarek smirked. “Another matter in which you are mistaken… Laura.” He leaned forward in his seat to cover the distance created by her shift in posture. “Power is a wonderful aphrodisiac.”
Laura leaned forward instead of giving ground to his advance. “I believe your ego will be your downfall Tom - to both your policies and your position. Knowing when to take a strong stand for a cause is also a strength, instead of wasting valuable time and political currency on those causes meant to satisfy only your own worldview and pride. You want a legacy, not good government.” At the last word, she had flipped her hand: full colors.
“And I beg to differ… Did you not recall your hand, Ms. Roslin?”
“You are mistaken. I did not.” Her smile was sharp, her distraction had been well played.
Mr. Zarek re-shuffled the deck wryly. “I can see why the governor deigns to listen to your advice, even when not… otherwise fascinated.”
“Adar is a moron.” Bill had stalked up to the table in the interim between the end of their hand and the start of a new one being dealt. His face, already dark, had turned downright stormy when he’d heard Zarek’s insinuations.
Zarek had to grip tight to avoid dropping his cards as well as to avoid jumping from his seat. Long-ago experience in some of the prison camps of other worlds had given him practice in hiding weakness and fear. He turned in his seat, “To so blithely insult the governor of this land… You are?”
“Captain Bill Adama.”
“Adama… I see, and may I ask why you are so rudely intruding?” His eyes swiveled to Laura, who watched the ongoing interaction with sharp eyes. Her fingers twirled her glass absent-mindedly (on the surface at least).
“Me? Intruding?” His voice remained a low grumble, but was no less intimidating for its volume. Both Laura and Zarek arched an eyebrow at him, and he straightened as his face and expression cleared. “You’re mistaken, Sir, I’m an old friend of Ms. Roslin’s here.”
“Are you?” He turned toward the redhead, and Bill felt his temper flare once again.
“Indeed, he is, Mr. Zarek, and…” she turned toward Bill. “Bill, you may grab a seat. It’s not as if this table has a set number attached to it.”
He would have been embarrassed in any other situation by the alacrity with which he obeyed her suggestion, but not in that moment. He realized at that moment he was in trouble. Laura Roslin was still single for a reason. She remained unclaimed because she chose to be, not from a lack of offers. It was partly through luck and not a bit of intelligence that she could afford her independence (a small wisely-invested inheritance from an aunt married into a wealthy family). She has always maintained that she prefers it that way - her days occupied by her work at the school she had started a decade or so prior and her other forms of charitable work, and her evenings occupied by entertainment and lively talk at the Loom, and her nights, to be enjoyed in the manner of her own choosing and discretion.
Zarek turned to him soon after he settled into his seat, “Shall I deal you in?”
A grunt was his only response, and the politician’s only response was a wide grin and roll of the eyes (‘frakking terrorist’) as he dealt the cards, choosing not to care about whether it was the proper interpretation for the answer or not. Laura simply continued to quietly sip her tea.
When the hands were all dealt, Laura deftly inserted conversation, “So, Captain Adama, why do you think our dear governor is a moron? You must tell me, so I can give him better advice than I have apparently been providing.”
Bill was flustered and sputtered, fist clenched too tightly around his cards. Tom ‘that frakking terrorist’ smirked. It was nice for him to observe the “Laura Roslin process” for once instead of facing it. Bill shot a glare in his direction before turning back to his cards though his cheeks were still flushed. “It’s not that. I’m sure you give great advice.” His voice was gruff as he answered. “I just don’t like the man.”
“So you don’t think he’s personable enough?” Laura arched one elegant eyebrow at him. “And here, I’ve been lecturing him on acting with proper decorum and restraining himself, for fear that people may get the wrong impression of him. Of course, in terms of my advice, he seems to pick and choose what he will listen to.”
“NO! No, I mean, that’s not what I meant at all… I’m sure it’s just a matter of personal taste.” By the end of that declaration, Bill had drifted into a mumble that was swallowed by the atmosphere of the tea room.
Laura and Tom shared conspiratorial smiles across their cards, which Bill caught in his peripheral vision (spectacles or no, he had his peripheral vision). “And I’m sure,” he interjected, louder now, “that whatever good influence you’ve had on him has been offset by this man here. I would not be surprised if he helps the ‘good’ mayor pick and choose.”
Tom turned to him, mock outrage on his face, “And what have I ever done to deserve this slanderous speech?
“You know you’re no honest man, Zarek. Most of your opponents in the race for vice-governorship had more to give and a better portion of your charm to win. All those mysterious vandalisms couldn’t have been mere coincidence.”
At his none-too-subtle accusations, Zarek’s face fell into honest outrage. “And only a military man would fall for such a conspiracy theory as that. You dare besmirch my honor and reputation based on rumors and guesswork?”
“I call it as I see it.”
“Then you must be blind.”
“I see better than you. Do you think she holds any interest or regard for you?” It was far too easy to tell who the “she” he referred to was.
Zarek gave a mocking laugh as he responded in turn, “And you believe she holds you with that special interest and regard then, hmm?”
And “she” was about to interrupt by telling them both to cool off and calm down and stop treating her like a plaything as her own rarely-shown but only thinly-veiled temper rose. “You are both aware that I am here, are you not? If not, I’d rather leave than to have you bickering like little boys fighting over a toy in front of me.” She rose to enact her threat, her cards tossed back onto the table face-up, indicating her withdrawal from the game. And she would have left, except Bill Adama had the gall to grab her wrist. She would have lost it then and there with him, if Tom Zarek had not taken it as a challenge and invitation to kiss her, just barely missing her lips.
Both men were on their feet now, and the rest of the tea room had fallen silent - not that either man really noticed. Laura Roslin remained silent along with the crowd and left with her maidservant hurrying behind, even as the smack of a glove being laid down rang through the room as she exited.
“Of all that was good and great in the worlds, it must all be tainted by the arrogance and stupidity of men…”
The maidservant who had followed her for that evening’s outing and entertainment spoke up quietly from behind her. “Not quite, m’am. After all, aren’t men shaped by their world? Hence, I think it’s the worlds that have spoiled them.”
Laura shot her companion a genuine smile, “Well spoken, Tory.”
Tory grinned back. “Are we heading home, ma’am?”
“Hmm… Not quite yet, Tory. I’d like to drop by the school first. Felix is still going through the accounts tonight?” As the sun was still only just sitting on the horizon not quite set - there was hope yet that he would still be there.
“Yes, ma’am, and Dee is doing the sweeping up with Kara’s help.”
“Good. Let’s drop by then with some refreshment, cheer, and assistance.”
XxX
In the mean time, at the Roslin School…
“Billy, stop trying to help! You’re only making it worse!” Dee yelled even as she giggled at the dust that was beginning to collect in all the curls on his head. The feather duster he had accidentally dropped for the third time through his sneezing was already in Kara’s quick hands - on the other side of the desk.
“It’s just a bit of dust, and it’s at least partially my fault that you have to clean so much at once since these darn cursed allergies won’t allow for the daily dusting during the noon break.”
“Honey, it’s not your fault that you are so severely allergic to dust…” Maya attempted to comfort him as she walked by carrying a stack of the most lightly used books, readying them for tomorrow’s classes.
Billy dove forward in an attempt to help with the books only to be gently pushed back by Dee and her broom. “And animal fur and coordination- no, Billy, just go help Felix with the bookkeeping. He may need to know where the new account books are kept. And you know the post-organization best since Tory likes to look over everything after he finishes and before Ms. Roslin has to look them over.”
Kara couldn’t help rubbing it in, even as she climbed the shelves to dust the darker, higher corners of the schoolroom. “And don’t forget, Dee - Maya, he’s also allergic to weeds, grass, and too much drink.”
“Well, that’s only because, compared to you, Kara - everyone spends too LITTLE time frolicking in the grass with their drink.”
“Maya? You’re taking his side now?”
“I’m not taking sides.” She paused as she finally released her burden next to the rest of the stacks on the texts table. She turned to point at Kara, “I’m simply stating the obvious fact.”
Kara stuck her tongue out at the young teacher only to get a like response in return.
“Maya, it’s not fair to say that, when you were the one Tory caught last week in the fields with the Cerria boy. From what I remember her describing, you were having quite the party of two among the grasses, weeds, and flowers.” Dee smirked playfully. “Though I guess you at least have that point about drink. Most of the pub boys and girls no longer bother even trying to challenge Miss Thrace here to their games anymore. It’s almost as bad as Ms. Roslin and her Triad cards.”
Maya blushed while Kara took the opportunity to snark back, “You mean as good right, Dee?”
Billy, having decided that he had been teased and ignored long enough (and rather opposed to hearing anything more of the ever bustling rumor mill that surrounded Miss Roslin and her games and lessons) rushed off to the back office to help Felix with the accounts. As if everything had been perfectly timed and conceived by some divine author, Tory bustled in with a basket of provisions for the hard working young men and women that helped to keep the school running smoothly just as he trundled his lanky frame out the door. Ms. Roslin wasn’t far behind, and he had only managed an awkward wave before walking, with speed, away.
“Now, girls, you all should know better than to tease Billy, whichever manner you were teasing him by. He’s of a more sensitive nature.”
Kara leapt down from her perch, feather duster in hand, as Ms. Roslin entered behind her with glasses, utensils, and cleaning cloths. “Now, Ms. Roslin,” she sassed back, “you’ve told us plenty of times not to lie if we didn’t absolutely have to. Admit it, you wouldn’t have Billy working here with us if you didn’t think it were good for him.”
Ms. Roslin simply hummed a noncommittal tone in response as she helped Tory set out the food.
“Kara has a point, ma’am. You tease him quite a bit yourself.” Dee chimed in, “I’ve yet to see someone make him exit a room blushing as hard as you have.”
“And don’t forget the clothing mishap from the festival a few months back,” Tory added. “He still refuses to let anyone near him with needles in a pincushion.”
“Now, Tory, that was for a good and charitable cause! And he was the only one with enough height to him to model that particular dress well enough for the Aquarian minister’s wife. She was quite free-handed with her donations during the auction afterward for sure.”
Maya couldn’t help adding to the story, “More likely because she’s your friend, Ms. Roslin, and, I daresay, she shares your particular sense of humor.”
“I have no idea as to what you are referring, though yes, the lady in question has been a good friend of mine.” Laura Roslin smiled her classic, amused smile. “Now, you ladies should take a break. Meanwhile, I’ll go and check in with the gents. I have something to discuss with Mr. Gaeta.” As if the last statement was a literal recalling of something unpleasant, her brow furrowed in thought as she sauntered her way to the back office.
“Tory, details now. The old lady’s storming about something.”
Tory sighed as the three pairs of eyes stared intently at her instead of the food. There was no way to avoid another all-nighter now.
XxX
Back in the Pallas Loom’s tea room…
So embroiled in their glaring contest were the two men that they hadn’t even noticed the departure of the woman over whom they had been fighting. Instead, the only words currently leaving them were the ones implied by the throwing down of the glove.
“Gentlemen!” Finally, a familiar voice cut through the tension (as a rifle shot splitting the silent air on a battlefield just on the verge of battle may). Ellen Tigh, the owner of the Pallas Loom in every way but name (all those pesky gender-skewed property laws made it so very difficult with the only exception provided by the overriding inheritance laws). She had always told anyone who bothered asking that her husband was just a hopeless case when it came to running a business (that husband being Saul Tigh, the other reason why Bill Adama inevitably frequented the Pallas Loom on all his leaves). “If you do not mind, this is a respectable tea room and parlor. If you gents would like to brawl or declare a duel, please remove yourselves from my premises and carry out the rest of your business in the pub down the way.”
“I apologize madam, for all the trouble me and my ruffian companion here may have caused.” Tom had recovered smoothly, retreating into his politician persona, and catching Adama bristling in his peripheral vision at his words. “Please accept the notes I will send with my secretary tomorrow to show the sincerity of my apologies.” There was no way anyone mistook his notes to be anything but monetary.
Slightly mollified, Ellen Tigh smoothly moved forward with a somewhat sly smile to kiss both his cheeks before turning to Bill Adama, to his horror, to do the same. However, when she pulled back her smile was hard, “I appreciate the courtesy for sure, your vice-governorship, though I’d appreciate it even more if it came with the assurance that such a performance will never reoccur again underneath this roof?” One of her smoothly lined brows quirked with the question that was less question and more a demand.
“Of course.”
“Good, now shoo! The both of you! You’ve disrupted my other customers horribly already today.”
Outside the door of the establishment the men turned to each other, and picked a time and date (“two at mid-afternoon”- “tomorrow”), the rules of engagement (“pistols”; “two shots”; “one second each”; “to blood or death”). With a brusque nod each, they turned and went their separate ways to prepare.
XxX
Back to the present day and place…
The two men and their seconds were exchanging glares at one another over the length of the field when the officiator of their duel finally arrived, a bit out of breath, with his robes carried in the arms of a maidservant (or possibly priestess) behind him, because yes, the person refereeing their match would be Gaius Baltar, the slightly batty educator, religious leader, and founder of the newly risen and established monotheistic temple (though he called it a “church”) at the edge of town. For some reason, when Tom had gone in that morning to register the duel and request an officiator, Felix Gaeta (the general handyman and clerk of the town - a man known to be highly efficient and capable of whichever jobs he were placed in his charge) who had been clerking in the town hall had repeatedly assured him that Baltar was the only man available for that day and time on such short notice. Zarek had been convinced that it must have been a mistake… or a joke (as uncharacteristic as it would have been), but… apparently not?
“I apologize for my tardiness gentlemen. My services this morning were delayed somewhat by some…” he cleared his throat suspiciously here and trailed off a bit nonsensically before resuming, “…some questions that urgently required my… attentions. Though, I suppose I should first begin by checking attendance. I assume both the challenger and the challenged are present?”
Both men nodded.
“Their seconds?”
They nodded again.
Zarek followed his nod with a hand gesture to ‘hurry up’, which the tousled-haired man either didn’t notice or ignored, for he continued, “Assured as I am by the presence of both parties here, I would like to take this moment and opportunity to share some knowledge, wisdom, and treatises on peace, love, and nonviolence that I want to make known. Now, I have been notified by a lovely young lady on this morn that neither of you have converted or have been approached on the topic of conversion, but before you embark into this frankly violent, ugly, and sinful blood sport, I would like to offer you both the opportunity to turn away, turn the other cheek, and accept the love of the One True God into your lives.”
‘What the frak?’
“It is still a relatively uncommon stricture, and His teachings are still rarely seen or heard of on these hedonistic worlds, but His teachings are true and He promises an eternity of goodness and love for those who remain faithful. Why, the very fact that the two of you are fighting over a woman of all things is patently absurd, for the belief that one man may own another human being is blatantly a sin, and for you to attempt to resolve your conflict through more conflict and violence while dragging another man with you to the depths of the underworld is a sin compounded by more s-“
“OH, FOR THE LOVE OF THE GODS, OR GOD, CAN WE JUST GET ON WITH THIS?!” Surprisingly, the exclamation came from neither of the primary duelists, who had been shocked into silence, but by Mr. Zarek’s second, who had seen his fair share of unreasonable insanity for the day and had had enough. If the vice-governor wanted to die or commit murder via duel on his watch, he (and everyone else) should really just get on with it.
“Yes, Mister… uhh… Father Baltar, let’s get on with this shall we?” Zarek gestured vaguely to the sky and sun as if to indicate the passing time.
Baltar released a dramatic sigh and waved his hands in a sort of ‘I give up’ gesture. “Of course, let’s get on with violently assaulting each other with weapons for ‘honor’ and all that marvelous nonsense. Have both participants agreed to a stance of fifteen paces on my mark?”
Once again, brisk, businesslike nods.
“Of course you have, what am I even bothering for.” His eyes closed in exhaustion as his fingertips lightly massaged his forehead - as if to assuage a headache. “Well then, dear Natasi, the kerchief if you may?”
His assistant (or whatever) handed the small red cloth over silently.
“My mark is set when this cloth touches the ground. Fifteen paces, and then you stop.” There was a very deliberate emphasis on that last word. “Before you face each other. One warning shot, and then you may aim. Two rounds therein, and if there should be no blood, wound, or death. The seconds shall go, and may we all adjourn from this contest peacefully.”
XxX
The kerchief fell. The men paced stalwartly, stopped, turned, and finally, took aim (away as courtesy dictated warning shots should be) before-
Simultaneously, a bullet churned up the dirt a foot in front of where each man stood, with neither pistol smoking.
“Men. Never have I encountered as aggravating a group of people as men thinking they can duel over the right to court a woman who hasn’t said yes to either of them - the presumption.” At the clear tones of Laura Roslin’s voice ringing through the crisp autumn air, both men turned in shock (and rather amusing startlement) to face said woman, who was flanked on the right and left by Kara Thrace and Anastasia Dualla respectively, their hands steady on two smoking pistols while Ms. Roslin, her dear soul be blessed, carried an extra firearm in each hand, ready to be passed on.
For perhaps the first time that day, both seconds let out a breath of relief at the sight of said women here to rescue them from this folly.
“But you were there last night, and you didn’t say anything.” Bill recovered his voice first, keeping his pistol up in case ‘that frakking terrorist’ decided to take the opportunity to shoot - not that the terrorist seemed any less distracted. (A small part at the back of Bill’s brain nagged at him that it is very likely that he is sharing similar thoughts as said terrorist and that this scene, even if Laura had not actually shot a gun, was very hot. A larger, more overwhelming other part of his brain was filled with disgust at that thought.)
She shrugged, “I was waiting out the farce. I didn’t actually believe either of you would be dim-witted enough to choose to carry out a duel, but apparently I gave both of you, Adama and Zarek,” she glared at them over her spectacles, “too much credit. Now, we will have a proper conversation regarding my right as an individual to be free from such childish behavior as is not even witnessed in my schoolrooms.”
“Come on, lower the guns and lock them back up.” Her euphemism did not go unnoticed, but members of every party thought it best that they did not respond out of fear for their lives.
She was beginning to pace, and all men present on the field had to gulp down a passing sense of dread at the tongue-lashing about to occur. “Firstly, I do not have to choose either of you (and will choose neither at the moment - and perhaps never, with the way I feel now), and I have already answered Samuel Anders regarding his request to ‘court’ me. We shall see how it goes.”
Both men spluttered then - some nonsense about age and such, but she shrugged yet again. “But, you see, he actually asked to see me at times. He never assumed that I wanted to spend more time with him, and he is quite the pretty young fellow. He shall entertain me with conversations of sports and how to truly enjoy them, and I will refine some of his tastes in the sciences, so it will be a win all around.”
“But… I had gathered that he was to be courting Kara.”
“Actually, Uncle, I am with Lee at the moment, though Sammy may join in later.” Kara’s smile was downright devious at that statement, more amused than anything at Uncle Bill’s dumbstruck silence.
“And Dee, here, is technically courting Lee, though she is still officially handfasted to Billy and my other assistant Tory, so you see, gentlemen, you already know nothing, so I suggest you stop this nonsense now.”
“And Sir? No offense, but Laura has told us to shoot both of you if you do not give up this duel.” That was Dee - always the polite one even when frustrated and tired after a night of cards with Kara, Billy, and Tory.
Tom could not resist responding here with a tease, “You two? And why not you La-,” he paused and switched tack at the look she sent him, “Ms. Roslin?”
“I believe in gun control.”
“Gun control? Then what of those?” He gestured to the upturned dirt at both his and Adama’s feet and the guns in her hands.
Laura made the most unladylike of sounds as she snorted out. “If I had truly aimed for that, the both of you would either be dead or cursing Cottle, the poor man, for just doing his job - without anesthetic. These girls,” she indicated to the sides of her, “have training and can aim. I do not. I would have missed entirely, or hit all too well.” She peered at him through her spectacles as if daring him to continue commenting.
“On that note, actually,” she handed her pistols to the girls beside her strode up to a lazily smirking vice-governor and struck him across the face before he could continue on whatever thought he had in mind to speak. Her voice was razor sharp and quiet as she stared the man down. “You, Mr. Zarek, had no right to that kiss last night. You did not ask, which a purported gentleman would have done and accepted whichever answer a lady may have to give. You’d best remember that. I will know if you don’t.” And she would know, and Zarek knew that even as he shakily covered a throbbing cheek - that woman packed a surprising wallop for such a small person.
She returned to her girls and to Lee, shooting a passing glare at Bill, as if daring him to look too smug. He realized then that there would still be quite a bit of time before it’d be safe to approach her (and quite a bit of groveling), and decided retreat being the better part of valor in this case, tipped his captain’s hat and turned to stride down back to town, resisting all urges to scamper hurriedly.
Lee kissed Laura - then Kara - in thanks and with a wide grin before turning to join his father back in town (or, more likely, begin spreading the tale to his younger brother). Kara eyed the regal woman beside her, “Do you think I should have mentioned Lee? Or about that new-in-town lady knife fighter, Kendra - I think?”
“Yes, that helped get the point across, and unfortunately, no dear, I’m afraid your uncle wouldn’t have been able to recover from another such shock - that his niece enjoys the company of not only his son, but also a knife-fighter, even if she is both brilliant and splendidly beautiful. Also, I noticed that you haven’t mentioned that young artist friend you’ve been meeting with so often in your studio?” Laura’s smirk made Kara roll her eyes. Of course she would know. Dee giggled behind her hand.
Kara had deliberately kept silent on Leoben Conoy Tigh, one of the newer acolyte priests at Baltar’s recently-founded monotheist temple or church or whatever. She had met him while gathering some cloth in a storage room in town, and they had begun talking. For whatever reason (even she’s not quite sure), they now sit canvas-by-canvas most weekends, sharing marathon painting sessions even as he continually attempts (and fails) to convert her. They haven’t progressed any further than that, but there’s no small part of her that’s curious. He always spoke in such a low voice, as if he could whisper all the mysteries and secrets of the universe to her in her ear if she would just let him closer, but that would be stupid, and so they just continue painting (also, there are things the adopted son of Ellen and Saul Tigh must know that she’d rather not know). “There’s just nothing to tell… Laaaauuuuura. And who told you anyway? Was it his dear sister?” (She always did seem to be the shifty one - for all that Baltar trusted her completely and Leoben always followed her lead despite his being the older adopted child.)
“Ah-ah, Kara, you should know better by now. A teacher may have many sources and need none of them to know what’s going on. And you,” Laura turned to Dee catching the last of her giggling, “I happen to know where you hid the surprise present you and Tory bought for Billy and what it is. If you do not want me to warn him…”
Her implied threat was left hanging, and Dee smiled pertly and promised that she would always be “on my best behavior”. Behind Roslin’s back however, both girls clasped hands and shook, sharing the classic silent tell between all of the people who worked with and for the woman, The schoolteacher knooooows. (If they were all still schoolchildren, they’d be bewitching each other with waggling, pointed fingers.)
“She always does.” Laura threw at them over her shoulder.
Now that, both girls thought, was terrifying.
Fin.
End Notes: Another reason I held this one so long (Lana helpfully beta-ed this AGES ago) was that I wasn't sure if I wanted to wait until I had at least some of my in-universe "Appendices" written, but I've decided that those can wait in the WIP folder/document for now, and I will let this go as a *cough* Happy New Year's gift? For everyone? I'm sorry. ><"
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Genre: AU/Gen/Humor
Rating: T (some questionable language, innuendo, and purported violence)
Word Count: ~5855
Spoilers: Not much... with it being A/U and all... (^_^)"
Characters/Pairings: This is a Crack!fic meant to involve most canonical and fanon ships with even a hint of plausibility to them that I have seen around on my f-list - so take that how you may. Main players however are Laura Roslin (no one's surprised right?), Bill Adama, Tom Zarek, with smaller roles and appearances by the ensemble cast (potentially more later).
A/N: The title actually has nothing to do with noon… or height, but it does involve a bit of guns and shooting - oh - and a lot of crack, so perhaps the “high” part may be somewhat relevant. This work is a spontaneous (and combustible) piece of writing formed from meandering thoughts during an evening walk - that started somewhere about falling sunlight, beautiful trees and landscapes, and somehow (by way of a recollection of a trivia question one late Jeopardy night regarding Alexander Hamilton’s newspaper) ended up with an image of the infamous and tragic duel of pistols between Alexander Hamilton and Andrew Aaron Burr (oops, time to review some of my old history lessons - I’m tempted to steal my sister’s AP text to read), and hence - this crack. I know the “ship Laura with everyone fics” have been done before - this is definitely NOT one of them (though some elements have been inspired by those elements of polyamory in fandom that I’ve seen as accepted canon since Caprica? I still have not watched that beyond the pilot, so please don't expect any of this to be in anyway accurate). This is a cracky, random mess that took my muse to new (extremely dizzying) heights - that were not at all healthy. (^_^)” (Of note, not all details are correctly drawn… I was tempted to do a Western European pistol duel adapted to Grecian stylings, but then again, it’s difficult to mar an opponent’s face with a gun and not kill them soooo…) And if one feels the need to inquire as to what I was possibly thinking, I believe it’s quite obvious that I was… not?
Also, with apologies, dear BSG fans among my f-list (as well as the wider lovely, BSG fandom here on LJ - though you may never know about this as, I think, I will be hiding this fic here on my journal ><”), please receive this as a joke-gift of sorts. I love you all, and despite the fact that this may not be particularly proud or happy news, you have all influenced me in one way or another as I type this. (A/N as written, for the most part, September 4, 2013)
A/N 2: In case anyone is wondering, I DID write this a LOOOOOOONG time ago - way before the new Hamilton musical and its subsequent popularity, so that's just a funny coincidence (though it may mean that I'll probably be listening to the soundtrack while working on Appendices). ALSO, even more importantly, all the thanks in the world(s) for my ever-patient beta lanalucy for the many fixes, corrections, and suggestions she made for this fic. All the remaining mistakes/moments of utter-awkwardness are mine and mine alone.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Please do not digest this fic in any serious sort of way. It was originally written at a time when I desperately needed some silliness set in one of my still-tv-true-loves.
Summary: An ‘olden-times’ AU (think literally on the “colonial” here), in which Bill Adama and Tom Zarek still do not get along and have had enough [of each other].
This scene was a familiar one. Two men were opening their pistol cases, held by their nervously shifting seconds.
Bill Adama was dressed in his Colonial military uniform. To be sure, he was not planning to die that day, and he was pretty confident that he would not, but the gods were known to play their tricks from time to time and if he were to die… ‘It would damn well be in uniform,’ though he quickly shook off that maudlin thought. His face was stoic as he loaded the rounds into his pistol - the one that accompanied him on many a crusade during the Colonial wars. His second, his son, refused to look him in the eye - the muscle in his cheek was still twitching as he had already yelled at his father all of yesterday regarding the stupidity of the entire situation. Lee “ didn’t know about Tauron honor” apparently, and Lee, frankly, preferred it that way if this if this the sort of machismo form it took, even as he had his own pistol prepped and belted at his waist, because, and Bill Adama better thank the gods for this, he did love his father. Secretly, he was tempted to tell his dad to frak off and use his best friend and drinking buddy as his second, but neither would risk it since he would most likely be drunk (and a missing eye does make accurate targeting of a gun quite difficult).
Tom Zarek stood at the opposite end of the field dressed normally except for the vice-governorship badge prominently displayed on his chest. His second, his manservant Mr. Meier had protested repeatedly, futilely, that it was basically a target to be shot at, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to back down. He was a man of the people, and if he were to die, he would still be a man of the people (and if it did happen that way and Adama’s reputation were ruined, all the better; not that he had any plans of losing this duel however).
Both seconds, in a rare moment of total agreement despite being of opposite parties, shook their heads with aggravation and tightened their jaws grimly.
This was such a stupid, horrible idea.
XxX
The day prior…
It had begun at the lady’s tea room, the Pallas Loom, on the corner of Dove Street and Main. It was a popular location for many of the ladies of some renown in the county, and many attended with their maidservants and gentlemen friends for gossip and conversation, friendly repartee, parlor games, and, as was the case for one Laura Roslin, heated debate - on books, music, politics, or education. She was well-known for being educated, independent-spirited, and a favorite among certain male and female visitors, who came for both the challenge of mind and the sight of her muse-inspiring green eyes lit up with delight - the wealth of beauty which she still gathered in spades despite (or because of) age. It was also well-known that very few dared play card games against her unless they wanted a less obvious means of gifting her with money (which was rather an effort in futility anyway because everyone already knew this fact).
Bill Adama had been visiting her during every military leave for the last three years, and each night, he claimed a kiss (usually… sometimes… okay, when given permission) following intense discussions on books and strategy, and whether or not women should take part in development of said strategy. She usually won this debate by bringing up their mutual acquaintance Kara Thrace, his adopted-niece and a favorite pupil and helper of Laura’s. Except last night.
Last night, that frakking terrorist, as Bill Adama and his soldier-buddies had taken to calling the vice-governor of their province on Caprica, elected at gunpoint as he somewhat was when he came barging in during the preliminaries - an outsider with a big voice, big ideas, and big (if well hidden) guns, had been at her table with cards and drink, chest deep in an intense discussion on political philosophy. He brought up the need for government to take a realistic stance in expecting revolutionary endeavors, citing a nihilistic, pessimistic Chobz who wrote from the last century - during a period of drought on Aerilon, which led to starvation and riots in all the colonies and almost broke into chaos and war.
She countered that a line must be drawn in order to maintain stability and the safety of the governed. “You represent them. Don’t only speak for them. Ask them, and remember to listen.”
“That’s naïve, Ms. Roslin. Listen to yourself. How would such calm and slow decision-making be possible during, say, a crisis? The government would be dead before it ever finished deliberating. It’s a very female thing to do perhaps - to preach discussion and compromise before action, but it’s hardly effective.”
Her eyes narrowed at the slight. “So says the former revolutionary…”
“So said because I was a revolutionary and still am, except I am now enacting change from within.”
Laura had leaned back, hands clasped on the table - cards still lying facedown, her face shifted from frown to wry smile as Bill had looked on unhappily from the corner table he had claimed when he saw hers occupied. “You are fortunate that you are generally considered a man with a pleasing demeanor, or I would hazard a guess that you do not have much success with your endeavors in romance with such a sweet mouth as you have.” (Bill practically broke his glass at the description “pleasing.”)
Tom Zarek smirked. “Another matter in which you are mistaken… Laura.” He leaned forward in his seat to cover the distance created by her shift in posture. “Power is a wonderful aphrodisiac.”
Laura leaned forward instead of giving ground to his advance. “I believe your ego will be your downfall Tom - to both your policies and your position. Knowing when to take a strong stand for a cause is also a strength, instead of wasting valuable time and political currency on those causes meant to satisfy only your own worldview and pride. You want a legacy, not good government.” At the last word, she had flipped her hand: full colors.
“And I beg to differ… Did you not recall your hand, Ms. Roslin?”
“You are mistaken. I did not.” Her smile was sharp, her distraction had been well played.
Mr. Zarek re-shuffled the deck wryly. “I can see why the governor deigns to listen to your advice, even when not… otherwise fascinated.”
“Adar is a moron.” Bill had stalked up to the table in the interim between the end of their hand and the start of a new one being dealt. His face, already dark, had turned downright stormy when he’d heard Zarek’s insinuations.
Zarek had to grip tight to avoid dropping his cards as well as to avoid jumping from his seat. Long-ago experience in some of the prison camps of other worlds had given him practice in hiding weakness and fear. He turned in his seat, “To so blithely insult the governor of this land… You are?”
“Captain Bill Adama.”
“Adama… I see, and may I ask why you are so rudely intruding?” His eyes swiveled to Laura, who watched the ongoing interaction with sharp eyes. Her fingers twirled her glass absent-mindedly (on the surface at least).
“Me? Intruding?” His voice remained a low grumble, but was no less intimidating for its volume. Both Laura and Zarek arched an eyebrow at him, and he straightened as his face and expression cleared. “You’re mistaken, Sir, I’m an old friend of Ms. Roslin’s here.”
“Are you?” He turned toward the redhead, and Bill felt his temper flare once again.
“Indeed, he is, Mr. Zarek, and…” she turned toward Bill. “Bill, you may grab a seat. It’s not as if this table has a set number attached to it.”
He would have been embarrassed in any other situation by the alacrity with which he obeyed her suggestion, but not in that moment. He realized at that moment he was in trouble. Laura Roslin was still single for a reason. She remained unclaimed because she chose to be, not from a lack of offers. It was partly through luck and not a bit of intelligence that she could afford her independence (a small wisely-invested inheritance from an aunt married into a wealthy family). She has always maintained that she prefers it that way - her days occupied by her work at the school she had started a decade or so prior and her other forms of charitable work, and her evenings occupied by entertainment and lively talk at the Loom, and her nights, to be enjoyed in the manner of her own choosing and discretion.
Zarek turned to him soon after he settled into his seat, “Shall I deal you in?”
A grunt was his only response, and the politician’s only response was a wide grin and roll of the eyes (‘frakking terrorist’) as he dealt the cards, choosing not to care about whether it was the proper interpretation for the answer or not. Laura simply continued to quietly sip her tea.
When the hands were all dealt, Laura deftly inserted conversation, “So, Captain Adama, why do you think our dear governor is a moron? You must tell me, so I can give him better advice than I have apparently been providing.”
Bill was flustered and sputtered, fist clenched too tightly around his cards. Tom ‘that frakking terrorist’ smirked. It was nice for him to observe the “Laura Roslin process” for once instead of facing it. Bill shot a glare in his direction before turning back to his cards though his cheeks were still flushed. “It’s not that. I’m sure you give great advice.” His voice was gruff as he answered. “I just don’t like the man.”
“So you don’t think he’s personable enough?” Laura arched one elegant eyebrow at him. “And here, I’ve been lecturing him on acting with proper decorum and restraining himself, for fear that people may get the wrong impression of him. Of course, in terms of my advice, he seems to pick and choose what he will listen to.”
“NO! No, I mean, that’s not what I meant at all… I’m sure it’s just a matter of personal taste.” By the end of that declaration, Bill had drifted into a mumble that was swallowed by the atmosphere of the tea room.
Laura and Tom shared conspiratorial smiles across their cards, which Bill caught in his peripheral vision (spectacles or no, he had his peripheral vision). “And I’m sure,” he interjected, louder now, “that whatever good influence you’ve had on him has been offset by this man here. I would not be surprised if he helps the ‘good’ mayor pick and choose.”
Tom turned to him, mock outrage on his face, “And what have I ever done to deserve this slanderous speech?
“You know you’re no honest man, Zarek. Most of your opponents in the race for vice-governorship had more to give and a better portion of your charm to win. All those mysterious vandalisms couldn’t have been mere coincidence.”
At his none-too-subtle accusations, Zarek’s face fell into honest outrage. “And only a military man would fall for such a conspiracy theory as that. You dare besmirch my honor and reputation based on rumors and guesswork?”
“I call it as I see it.”
“Then you must be blind.”
“I see better than you. Do you think she holds any interest or regard for you?” It was far too easy to tell who the “she” he referred to was.
Zarek gave a mocking laugh as he responded in turn, “And you believe she holds you with that special interest and regard then, hmm?”
And “she” was about to interrupt by telling them both to cool off and calm down and stop treating her like a plaything as her own rarely-shown but only thinly-veiled temper rose. “You are both aware that I am here, are you not? If not, I’d rather leave than to have you bickering like little boys fighting over a toy in front of me.” She rose to enact her threat, her cards tossed back onto the table face-up, indicating her withdrawal from the game. And she would have left, except Bill Adama had the gall to grab her wrist. She would have lost it then and there with him, if Tom Zarek had not taken it as a challenge and invitation to kiss her, just barely missing her lips.
Both men were on their feet now, and the rest of the tea room had fallen silent - not that either man really noticed. Laura Roslin remained silent along with the crowd and left with her maidservant hurrying behind, even as the smack of a glove being laid down rang through the room as she exited.
“Of all that was good and great in the worlds, it must all be tainted by the arrogance and stupidity of men…”
The maidservant who had followed her for that evening’s outing and entertainment spoke up quietly from behind her. “Not quite, m’am. After all, aren’t men shaped by their world? Hence, I think it’s the worlds that have spoiled them.”
Laura shot her companion a genuine smile, “Well spoken, Tory.”
Tory grinned back. “Are we heading home, ma’am?”
“Hmm… Not quite yet, Tory. I’d like to drop by the school first. Felix is still going through the accounts tonight?” As the sun was still only just sitting on the horizon not quite set - there was hope yet that he would still be there.
“Yes, ma’am, and Dee is doing the sweeping up with Kara’s help.”
“Good. Let’s drop by then with some refreshment, cheer, and assistance.”
XxX
In the mean time, at the Roslin School…
“Billy, stop trying to help! You’re only making it worse!” Dee yelled even as she giggled at the dust that was beginning to collect in all the curls on his head. The feather duster he had accidentally dropped for the third time through his sneezing was already in Kara’s quick hands - on the other side of the desk.
“It’s just a bit of dust, and it’s at least partially my fault that you have to clean so much at once since these darn cursed allergies won’t allow for the daily dusting during the noon break.”
“Honey, it’s not your fault that you are so severely allergic to dust…” Maya attempted to comfort him as she walked by carrying a stack of the most lightly used books, readying them for tomorrow’s classes.
Billy dove forward in an attempt to help with the books only to be gently pushed back by Dee and her broom. “And animal fur and coordination- no, Billy, just go help Felix with the bookkeeping. He may need to know where the new account books are kept. And you know the post-organization best since Tory likes to look over everything after he finishes and before Ms. Roslin has to look them over.”
Kara couldn’t help rubbing it in, even as she climbed the shelves to dust the darker, higher corners of the schoolroom. “And don’t forget, Dee - Maya, he’s also allergic to weeds, grass, and too much drink.”
“Well, that’s only because, compared to you, Kara - everyone spends too LITTLE time frolicking in the grass with their drink.”
“Maya? You’re taking his side now?”
“I’m not taking sides.” She paused as she finally released her burden next to the rest of the stacks on the texts table. She turned to point at Kara, “I’m simply stating the obvious fact.”
Kara stuck her tongue out at the young teacher only to get a like response in return.
“Maya, it’s not fair to say that, when you were the one Tory caught last week in the fields with the Cerria boy. From what I remember her describing, you were having quite the party of two among the grasses, weeds, and flowers.” Dee smirked playfully. “Though I guess you at least have that point about drink. Most of the pub boys and girls no longer bother even trying to challenge Miss Thrace here to their games anymore. It’s almost as bad as Ms. Roslin and her Triad cards.”
Maya blushed while Kara took the opportunity to snark back, “You mean as good right, Dee?”
Billy, having decided that he had been teased and ignored long enough (and rather opposed to hearing anything more of the ever bustling rumor mill that surrounded Miss Roslin and her games and lessons) rushed off to the back office to help Felix with the accounts. As if everything had been perfectly timed and conceived by some divine author, Tory bustled in with a basket of provisions for the hard working young men and women that helped to keep the school running smoothly just as he trundled his lanky frame out the door. Ms. Roslin wasn’t far behind, and he had only managed an awkward wave before walking, with speed, away.
“Now, girls, you all should know better than to tease Billy, whichever manner you were teasing him by. He’s of a more sensitive nature.”
Kara leapt down from her perch, feather duster in hand, as Ms. Roslin entered behind her with glasses, utensils, and cleaning cloths. “Now, Ms. Roslin,” she sassed back, “you’ve told us plenty of times not to lie if we didn’t absolutely have to. Admit it, you wouldn’t have Billy working here with us if you didn’t think it were good for him.”
Ms. Roslin simply hummed a noncommittal tone in response as she helped Tory set out the food.
“Kara has a point, ma’am. You tease him quite a bit yourself.” Dee chimed in, “I’ve yet to see someone make him exit a room blushing as hard as you have.”
“And don’t forget the clothing mishap from the festival a few months back,” Tory added. “He still refuses to let anyone near him with needles in a pincushion.”
“Now, Tory, that was for a good and charitable cause! And he was the only one with enough height to him to model that particular dress well enough for the Aquarian minister’s wife. She was quite free-handed with her donations during the auction afterward for sure.”
Maya couldn’t help adding to the story, “More likely because she’s your friend, Ms. Roslin, and, I daresay, she shares your particular sense of humor.”
“I have no idea as to what you are referring, though yes, the lady in question has been a good friend of mine.” Laura Roslin smiled her classic, amused smile. “Now, you ladies should take a break. Meanwhile, I’ll go and check in with the gents. I have something to discuss with Mr. Gaeta.” As if the last statement was a literal recalling of something unpleasant, her brow furrowed in thought as she sauntered her way to the back office.
“Tory, details now. The old lady’s storming about something.”
Tory sighed as the three pairs of eyes stared intently at her instead of the food. There was no way to avoid another all-nighter now.
XxX
Back in the Pallas Loom’s tea room…
So embroiled in their glaring contest were the two men that they hadn’t even noticed the departure of the woman over whom they had been fighting. Instead, the only words currently leaving them were the ones implied by the throwing down of the glove.
“Gentlemen!” Finally, a familiar voice cut through the tension (as a rifle shot splitting the silent air on a battlefield just on the verge of battle may). Ellen Tigh, the owner of the Pallas Loom in every way but name (all those pesky gender-skewed property laws made it so very difficult with the only exception provided by the overriding inheritance laws). She had always told anyone who bothered asking that her husband was just a hopeless case when it came to running a business (that husband being Saul Tigh, the other reason why Bill Adama inevitably frequented the Pallas Loom on all his leaves). “If you do not mind, this is a respectable tea room and parlor. If you gents would like to brawl or declare a duel, please remove yourselves from my premises and carry out the rest of your business in the pub down the way.”
“I apologize madam, for all the trouble me and my ruffian companion here may have caused.” Tom had recovered smoothly, retreating into his politician persona, and catching Adama bristling in his peripheral vision at his words. “Please accept the notes I will send with my secretary tomorrow to show the sincerity of my apologies.” There was no way anyone mistook his notes to be anything but monetary.
Slightly mollified, Ellen Tigh smoothly moved forward with a somewhat sly smile to kiss both his cheeks before turning to Bill Adama, to his horror, to do the same. However, when she pulled back her smile was hard, “I appreciate the courtesy for sure, your vice-governorship, though I’d appreciate it even more if it came with the assurance that such a performance will never reoccur again underneath this roof?” One of her smoothly lined brows quirked with the question that was less question and more a demand.
“Of course.”
“Good, now shoo! The both of you! You’ve disrupted my other customers horribly already today.”
Outside the door of the establishment the men turned to each other, and picked a time and date (“two at mid-afternoon”- “tomorrow”), the rules of engagement (“pistols”; “two shots”; “one second each”; “to blood or death”). With a brusque nod each, they turned and went their separate ways to prepare.
XxX
Back to the present day and place…
The two men and their seconds were exchanging glares at one another over the length of the field when the officiator of their duel finally arrived, a bit out of breath, with his robes carried in the arms of a maidservant (or possibly priestess) behind him, because yes, the person refereeing their match would be Gaius Baltar, the slightly batty educator, religious leader, and founder of the newly risen and established monotheistic temple (though he called it a “church”) at the edge of town. For some reason, when Tom had gone in that morning to register the duel and request an officiator, Felix Gaeta (the general handyman and clerk of the town - a man known to be highly efficient and capable of whichever jobs he were placed in his charge) who had been clerking in the town hall had repeatedly assured him that Baltar was the only man available for that day and time on such short notice. Zarek had been convinced that it must have been a mistake… or a joke (as uncharacteristic as it would have been), but… apparently not?
“I apologize for my tardiness gentlemen. My services this morning were delayed somewhat by some…” he cleared his throat suspiciously here and trailed off a bit nonsensically before resuming, “…some questions that urgently required my… attentions. Though, I suppose I should first begin by checking attendance. I assume both the challenger and the challenged are present?”
Both men nodded.
“Their seconds?”
They nodded again.
Zarek followed his nod with a hand gesture to ‘hurry up’, which the tousled-haired man either didn’t notice or ignored, for he continued, “Assured as I am by the presence of both parties here, I would like to take this moment and opportunity to share some knowledge, wisdom, and treatises on peace, love, and nonviolence that I want to make known. Now, I have been notified by a lovely young lady on this morn that neither of you have converted or have been approached on the topic of conversion, but before you embark into this frankly violent, ugly, and sinful blood sport, I would like to offer you both the opportunity to turn away, turn the other cheek, and accept the love of the One True God into your lives.”
‘What the frak?’
“It is still a relatively uncommon stricture, and His teachings are still rarely seen or heard of on these hedonistic worlds, but His teachings are true and He promises an eternity of goodness and love for those who remain faithful. Why, the very fact that the two of you are fighting over a woman of all things is patently absurd, for the belief that one man may own another human being is blatantly a sin, and for you to attempt to resolve your conflict through more conflict and violence while dragging another man with you to the depths of the underworld is a sin compounded by more s-“
“OH, FOR THE LOVE OF THE GODS, OR GOD, CAN WE JUST GET ON WITH THIS?!” Surprisingly, the exclamation came from neither of the primary duelists, who had been shocked into silence, but by Mr. Zarek’s second, who had seen his fair share of unreasonable insanity for the day and had had enough. If the vice-governor wanted to die or commit murder via duel on his watch, he (and everyone else) should really just get on with it.
“Yes, Mister… uhh… Father Baltar, let’s get on with this shall we?” Zarek gestured vaguely to the sky and sun as if to indicate the passing time.
Baltar released a dramatic sigh and waved his hands in a sort of ‘I give up’ gesture. “Of course, let’s get on with violently assaulting each other with weapons for ‘honor’ and all that marvelous nonsense. Have both participants agreed to a stance of fifteen paces on my mark?”
Once again, brisk, businesslike nods.
“Of course you have, what am I even bothering for.” His eyes closed in exhaustion as his fingertips lightly massaged his forehead - as if to assuage a headache. “Well then, dear Natasi, the kerchief if you may?”
His assistant (or whatever) handed the small red cloth over silently.
“My mark is set when this cloth touches the ground. Fifteen paces, and then you stop.” There was a very deliberate emphasis on that last word. “Before you face each other. One warning shot, and then you may aim. Two rounds therein, and if there should be no blood, wound, or death. The seconds shall go, and may we all adjourn from this contest peacefully.”
XxX
The kerchief fell. The men paced stalwartly, stopped, turned, and finally, took aim (away as courtesy dictated warning shots should be) before-
Simultaneously, a bullet churned up the dirt a foot in front of where each man stood, with neither pistol smoking.
“Men. Never have I encountered as aggravating a group of people as men thinking they can duel over the right to court a woman who hasn’t said yes to either of them - the presumption.” At the clear tones of Laura Roslin’s voice ringing through the crisp autumn air, both men turned in shock (and rather amusing startlement) to face said woman, who was flanked on the right and left by Kara Thrace and Anastasia Dualla respectively, their hands steady on two smoking pistols while Ms. Roslin, her dear soul be blessed, carried an extra firearm in each hand, ready to be passed on.
For perhaps the first time that day, both seconds let out a breath of relief at the sight of said women here to rescue them from this folly.
“But you were there last night, and you didn’t say anything.” Bill recovered his voice first, keeping his pistol up in case ‘that frakking terrorist’ decided to take the opportunity to shoot - not that the terrorist seemed any less distracted. (A small part at the back of Bill’s brain nagged at him that it is very likely that he is sharing similar thoughts as said terrorist and that this scene, even if Laura had not actually shot a gun, was very hot. A larger, more overwhelming other part of his brain was filled with disgust at that thought.)
She shrugged, “I was waiting out the farce. I didn’t actually believe either of you would be dim-witted enough to choose to carry out a duel, but apparently I gave both of you, Adama and Zarek,” she glared at them over her spectacles, “too much credit. Now, we will have a proper conversation regarding my right as an individual to be free from such childish behavior as is not even witnessed in my schoolrooms.”
“Come on, lower the guns and lock them back up.” Her euphemism did not go unnoticed, but members of every party thought it best that they did not respond out of fear for their lives.
She was beginning to pace, and all men present on the field had to gulp down a passing sense of dread at the tongue-lashing about to occur. “Firstly, I do not have to choose either of you (and will choose neither at the moment - and perhaps never, with the way I feel now), and I have already answered Samuel Anders regarding his request to ‘court’ me. We shall see how it goes.”
Both men spluttered then - some nonsense about age and such, but she shrugged yet again. “But, you see, he actually asked to see me at times. He never assumed that I wanted to spend more time with him, and he is quite the pretty young fellow. He shall entertain me with conversations of sports and how to truly enjoy them, and I will refine some of his tastes in the sciences, so it will be a win all around.”
“But… I had gathered that he was to be courting Kara.”
“Actually, Uncle, I am with Lee at the moment, though Sammy may join in later.” Kara’s smile was downright devious at that statement, more amused than anything at Uncle Bill’s dumbstruck silence.
“And Dee, here, is technically courting Lee, though she is still officially handfasted to Billy and my other assistant Tory, so you see, gentlemen, you already know nothing, so I suggest you stop this nonsense now.”
“And Sir? No offense, but Laura has told us to shoot both of you if you do not give up this duel.” That was Dee - always the polite one even when frustrated and tired after a night of cards with Kara, Billy, and Tory.
Tom could not resist responding here with a tease, “You two? And why not you La-,” he paused and switched tack at the look she sent him, “Ms. Roslin?”
“I believe in gun control.”
“Gun control? Then what of those?” He gestured to the upturned dirt at both his and Adama’s feet and the guns in her hands.
Laura made the most unladylike of sounds as she snorted out. “If I had truly aimed for that, the both of you would either be dead or cursing Cottle, the poor man, for just doing his job - without anesthetic. These girls,” she indicated to the sides of her, “have training and can aim. I do not. I would have missed entirely, or hit all too well.” She peered at him through her spectacles as if daring him to continue commenting.
“On that note, actually,” she handed her pistols to the girls beside her strode up to a lazily smirking vice-governor and struck him across the face before he could continue on whatever thought he had in mind to speak. Her voice was razor sharp and quiet as she stared the man down. “You, Mr. Zarek, had no right to that kiss last night. You did not ask, which a purported gentleman would have done and accepted whichever answer a lady may have to give. You’d best remember that. I will know if you don’t.” And she would know, and Zarek knew that even as he shakily covered a throbbing cheek - that woman packed a surprising wallop for such a small person.
She returned to her girls and to Lee, shooting a passing glare at Bill, as if daring him to look too smug. He realized then that there would still be quite a bit of time before it’d be safe to approach her (and quite a bit of groveling), and decided retreat being the better part of valor in this case, tipped his captain’s hat and turned to stride down back to town, resisting all urges to scamper hurriedly.
Lee kissed Laura - then Kara - in thanks and with a wide grin before turning to join his father back in town (or, more likely, begin spreading the tale to his younger brother). Kara eyed the regal woman beside her, “Do you think I should have mentioned Lee? Or about that new-in-town lady knife fighter, Kendra - I think?”
“Yes, that helped get the point across, and unfortunately, no dear, I’m afraid your uncle wouldn’t have been able to recover from another such shock - that his niece enjoys the company of not only his son, but also a knife-fighter, even if she is both brilliant and splendidly beautiful. Also, I noticed that you haven’t mentioned that young artist friend you’ve been meeting with so often in your studio?” Laura’s smirk made Kara roll her eyes. Of course she would know. Dee giggled behind her hand.
Kara had deliberately kept silent on Leoben Conoy Tigh, one of the newer acolyte priests at Baltar’s recently-founded monotheist temple or church or whatever. She had met him while gathering some cloth in a storage room in town, and they had begun talking. For whatever reason (even she’s not quite sure), they now sit canvas-by-canvas most weekends, sharing marathon painting sessions even as he continually attempts (and fails) to convert her. They haven’t progressed any further than that, but there’s no small part of her that’s curious. He always spoke in such a low voice, as if he could whisper all the mysteries and secrets of the universe to her in her ear if she would just let him closer, but that would be stupid, and so they just continue painting (also, there are things the adopted son of Ellen and Saul Tigh must know that she’d rather not know). “There’s just nothing to tell… Laaaauuuuura. And who told you anyway? Was it his dear sister?” (She always did seem to be the shifty one - for all that Baltar trusted her completely and Leoben always followed her lead despite his being the older adopted child.)
“Ah-ah, Kara, you should know better by now. A teacher may have many sources and need none of them to know what’s going on. And you,” Laura turned to Dee catching the last of her giggling, “I happen to know where you hid the surprise present you and Tory bought for Billy and what it is. If you do not want me to warn him…”
Her implied threat was left hanging, and Dee smiled pertly and promised that she would always be “on my best behavior”. Behind Roslin’s back however, both girls clasped hands and shook, sharing the classic silent tell between all of the people who worked with and for the woman, The schoolteacher knooooows. (If they were all still schoolchildren, they’d be bewitching each other with waggling, pointed fingers.)
“She always does.” Laura threw at them over her shoulder.
Now that, both girls thought, was terrifying.
Fin.
End Notes: Another reason I held this one so long (Lana helpfully beta-ed this AGES ago) was that I wasn't sure if I wanted to wait until I had at least some of my in-universe "Appendices" written, but I've decided that those can wait in the WIP folder/document for now, and I will let this go as a *cough* Happy New Year's gift? For everyone? I'm sorry. ><"