Exquisitely Crafted
Title: Exquisitely Crafted
Date posted: 04-06-09
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica. Who saw that coming? Not I.
Disclaimer: Just having fun with characters that don't belong to me.
Spoilers: I'd say anything after season three is fair game.
Notes: "So we just hold on fast
Acknowledge the past
As lessons exquisitely crafted"
- Eric's Song, Vienna Teng
This is the sort of thing she thinks while she's alone: He is what she has made him.
It's easier to think of him rather than her responsibilities, the weight of a dozen worlds on shoulders never meant to carry more than schoolchildren and the disputes of teachers. The fleet will destroy itself from within, like any civilization who thinks too highly of itself, and the thought of it gives her a dull ache from forehead to sternum. His destruction is just an extension of her own, created by her actions. (She thinks that she has done right by the fleet, or at least her best. She has done nothing but wound him.)
He comes to bed with liquor on his breath, his hands hot and heavy enough for bruises to blossom underneath them. He touches her to reassure himself that she's alive, she can always tell- the hesitant press of his fingers to her veins, his palm against her cheek. Sometimes he'll tear up at her appearance, her body empty as a doll's and twice as pallid. He'll gather her to him, warm as fire, and hold her close, her name the prayer of an atheist. Sometimes she tries to reassure him- I'm here, I'm here, shh, I won't leave- but other times she lets him press his face against her neck, his arms like iron bands tethering her to life. She is sure she wouldn't dare die with him wrapped around her so securely (it'd be too cruel,) so maybe his plan is a clever one.
He wouldn't drink if she had upheld her part of the bargain, taking care of the fleet. She thinks this in the dark, while he is drinking with Tigh, the most painful of the Cylon secrets, his ship faltering and his woman leeching life by the hour. She's leaving the responsibility to the Adama men, just as intended. She is selfish to give him more work- he feels every agony of every person under his command, he would surely buckle under the weight of an entire fleet- but petulant and bare-headed she thinks that he wanted the stewardship of that many souls. She was forty-third in line. Who had ever heard of such a thing?
(No one, that's who. She had once considered asking Baltar to calculate the odds, but realized quickly it would only serve to make her feel inferior. Her school-teacher voice and white board garnered her enough ridicule, the woman made president by accident or prophecy or the Cylons or the people, depending on who you asked and which version of events you followed. Lightning won't strike twice.)
He loves her with the intensity he applies to everything he undertakes. It's not that she loves him less, she just loves him as much and as fiercely as she is able. His energy is all encompassing; hers might not even leave her body. (She hopes that he knows.) She can remember a time when her fervor matched and surpassed his. When her sleep is interrupted by pain or nightmares she watches him and thinks that it is a shame they waited so long. She might have loved him just as much.
(She thinks of what might have happened if they had met when they were young, but always comes to the conclusion that it would've ended worse than his actual marriage. Too strong-willed and independent, they would've gladly torn each other apart with a burning passion. Their love is destructive now; youth would've made it incendiary.)
The problem, she knows, is that he is too good: too moral, too upstanding. Loyalty and the uniform, rolling the hard six. The problem is that she makes him compromise. He sees supporting her as his ultimate honor, and he is nothing if not dedicated. If he had the time he would stay with her always, his voice washing over her and settling blankets around her shoulders; but he is a man of action and no one believes anyone but the old man, so he directs a crew of disillusioned and tired soldiers, protects a fleet that would sooner crucify than commend him and flies a ship so near death she moans. He comes back to his quarters exhausted and wakes with circles under his eyes, arriving for duty weary and eroded, pressed and steady-voiced and full of grit and the dregs of alcohol. She tells him once he might just be the best man she's ever known and he looks at her as though he's sure she's joking.
(She is not depressed, but she is practical. There is neither the time nor the resources available to prolong her life comfortably or with dignity, and the last thing she wants is to become her mother. She's considered more than once asking him to help her end it. She could cry with wide eyes, prettily, and make him see her reasons and he would lasso a moon for her if she asked, but instead she puts the plan aside. It would have to look natural, for the fleet's morale, and she needs help for that; she cannot ask for his. He loves her enough to help her die, he might love her enough to die himself, and then where would the fleet be? Saddled entirely on Lee's young shoulders, and she loves the boy too much to do that to him. She doses herself with chamalla that makes her eyes fever-bright and dreams of opulent buildings with children who dart off without their parents, and falling, falling into a deep nothing and wakes up holding his hands as tightly as he holds on to her. It's in moments like that she wishes to be trite, to make him promise that his voice will be the last thing she'll hear and that she won't die alone, to have him kiss away the nightmares and nerves, but instead she prays he won't wake up. He needs his rest.)
"I've made my peace with dying," she tells him, though that's a lie to comfort him once she's gone, and she knows she need only breathe the suggestion and he would order some of Hera's blood to be administered or morpha to end her fight. There's no use hurting him by saying sleep is full of visions or death: his daily nightcap has grown from one drink to three on a good day. She loves him but should have left him well enough alone.
("Bill," she whispers in the dark, and he wakes to answer, because he sleeps with one eye open for her. "Bill, if it gets bad..." He opens his eyes, ready to assure her after a nightmare, but her cold hands are gripping at his under the sheets. She is not emotional, just insistent. "I need you to-" He knows what she is going to ask him and her teeth snap together. She can't say it. "Laura," he says softly, and his thumbs stroke her wrists, "don't think of this now." She wants to press him, to make him promise that he won't allow her death to become a spectacle, but instead she listens to him talk about nothing, and though she cannot sleep, she lets him stroke her back and neck until it looks like she is. He gets up carefully and goes for his carafe. He is what she has made him.)
Date posted: 04-06-09
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica. Who saw that coming? Not I.
Disclaimer: Just having fun with characters that don't belong to me.
Spoilers: I'd say anything after season three is fair game.
Notes: "So we just hold on fast
Acknowledge the past
As lessons exquisitely crafted"
- Eric's Song, Vienna Teng
This is the sort of thing she thinks while she's alone: He is what she has made him.
It's easier to think of him rather than her responsibilities, the weight of a dozen worlds on shoulders never meant to carry more than schoolchildren and the disputes of teachers. The fleet will destroy itself from within, like any civilization who thinks too highly of itself, and the thought of it gives her a dull ache from forehead to sternum. His destruction is just an extension of her own, created by her actions. (She thinks that she has done right by the fleet, or at least her best. She has done nothing but wound him.)
He comes to bed with liquor on his breath, his hands hot and heavy enough for bruises to blossom underneath them. He touches her to reassure himself that she's alive, she can always tell- the hesitant press of his fingers to her veins, his palm against her cheek. Sometimes he'll tear up at her appearance, her body empty as a doll's and twice as pallid. He'll gather her to him, warm as fire, and hold her close, her name the prayer of an atheist. Sometimes she tries to reassure him- I'm here, I'm here, shh, I won't leave- but other times she lets him press his face against her neck, his arms like iron bands tethering her to life. She is sure she wouldn't dare die with him wrapped around her so securely (it'd be too cruel,) so maybe his plan is a clever one.
He wouldn't drink if she had upheld her part of the bargain, taking care of the fleet. She thinks this in the dark, while he is drinking with Tigh, the most painful of the Cylon secrets, his ship faltering and his woman leeching life by the hour. She's leaving the responsibility to the Adama men, just as intended. She is selfish to give him more work- he feels every agony of every person under his command, he would surely buckle under the weight of an entire fleet- but petulant and bare-headed she thinks that he wanted the stewardship of that many souls. She was forty-third in line. Who had ever heard of such a thing?
(No one, that's who. She had once considered asking Baltar to calculate the odds, but realized quickly it would only serve to make her feel inferior. Her school-teacher voice and white board garnered her enough ridicule, the woman made president by accident or prophecy or the Cylons or the people, depending on who you asked and which version of events you followed. Lightning won't strike twice.)
He loves her with the intensity he applies to everything he undertakes. It's not that she loves him less, she just loves him as much and as fiercely as she is able. His energy is all encompassing; hers might not even leave her body. (She hopes that he knows.) She can remember a time when her fervor matched and surpassed his. When her sleep is interrupted by pain or nightmares she watches him and thinks that it is a shame they waited so long. She might have loved him just as much.
(She thinks of what might have happened if they had met when they were young, but always comes to the conclusion that it would've ended worse than his actual marriage. Too strong-willed and independent, they would've gladly torn each other apart with a burning passion. Their love is destructive now; youth would've made it incendiary.)
The problem, she knows, is that he is too good: too moral, too upstanding. Loyalty and the uniform, rolling the hard six. The problem is that she makes him compromise. He sees supporting her as his ultimate honor, and he is nothing if not dedicated. If he had the time he would stay with her always, his voice washing over her and settling blankets around her shoulders; but he is a man of action and no one believes anyone but the old man, so he directs a crew of disillusioned and tired soldiers, protects a fleet that would sooner crucify than commend him and flies a ship so near death she moans. He comes back to his quarters exhausted and wakes with circles under his eyes, arriving for duty weary and eroded, pressed and steady-voiced and full of grit and the dregs of alcohol. She tells him once he might just be the best man she's ever known and he looks at her as though he's sure she's joking.
(She is not depressed, but she is practical. There is neither the time nor the resources available to prolong her life comfortably or with dignity, and the last thing she wants is to become her mother. She's considered more than once asking him to help her end it. She could cry with wide eyes, prettily, and make him see her reasons and he would lasso a moon for her if she asked, but instead she puts the plan aside. It would have to look natural, for the fleet's morale, and she needs help for that; she cannot ask for his. He loves her enough to help her die, he might love her enough to die himself, and then where would the fleet be? Saddled entirely on Lee's young shoulders, and she loves the boy too much to do that to him. She doses herself with chamalla that makes her eyes fever-bright and dreams of opulent buildings with children who dart off without their parents, and falling, falling into a deep nothing and wakes up holding his hands as tightly as he holds on to her. It's in moments like that she wishes to be trite, to make him promise that his voice will be the last thing she'll hear and that she won't die alone, to have him kiss away the nightmares and nerves, but instead she prays he won't wake up. He needs his rest.)
"I've made my peace with dying," she tells him, though that's a lie to comfort him once she's gone, and she knows she need only breathe the suggestion and he would order some of Hera's blood to be administered or morpha to end her fight. There's no use hurting him by saying sleep is full of visions or death: his daily nightcap has grown from one drink to three on a good day. She loves him but should have left him well enough alone.
("Bill," she whispers in the dark, and he wakes to answer, because he sleeps with one eye open for her. "Bill, if it gets bad..." He opens his eyes, ready to assure her after a nightmare, but her cold hands are gripping at his under the sheets. She is not emotional, just insistent. "I need you to-" He knows what she is going to ask him and her teeth snap together. She can't say it. "Laura," he says softly, and his thumbs stroke her wrists, "don't think of this now." She wants to press him, to make him promise that he won't allow her death to become a spectacle, but instead she listens to him talk about nothing, and though she cannot sleep, she lets him stroke her back and neck until it looks like she is. He gets up carefully and goes for his carafe. He is what she has made him.)