FIC: Torn Asunder (1/4)
Rating: MA (This Chapter T)
Word Count: 1700
Summary: Adama kicks some people off their chairs.
Setting: Post-episode for Torn
Genre: Angst, Romance, Drama
Series: Love in a Time of War: 4
A/N: I’m placing the events of Torn about two weeks after Collaborators, and that’s being generous, using Lee’s weight loss as a gauge. He’s still puffy and bragging about losing ½ stone in Collaborators but is ripped in Torn. Let’s assume there’s a GNC outlet on one of the ships, and he could get in that sort of shape in two weeks. *rolling eyes at FatSuit!Lee*
Chapter 1:
Gaeta looked up at the sound of entry to Baltar’s former laboratory, then stiffened to attention. “Madam President,” he breathed, looking behind her for her usual shadow, the Admiral. No such luck.
She shucked off her blazer. “Lieutenant.” Flatly, she added, with no interest in her voice, “How are you.”
“Well,” he said uncomfortably. “Ready to get back to work.” He returned to the notes and recon photos that he’d been trying to organize.
The last time he’d seen her had been through a porthole on Colonial One. He’d discovered Baltar crouched on the former press room’s floor by the room divider, with one of his all too familiar half-erections, and when Gaeta saw nothing through the curtain’s crack but Cavil rubbing the back of his neck, he’d look out the window and had seen Roslin pass by. She’d had a sack over her head, her hands bound, her feet bare.
At that moment, he’d come to know what the word deviance meant, not specific actions, but an aura. He’d had no idea what had happened with her--didn’t want to know--but something had settled over this downed spaceship, and it contaminated them like feces floating in dark water.
Gaeta forced himself to look at Roslin. She had put on her glasses, and was checking out some of the photographs. She had changed since before colonizing New Caprica, but not as he’d feared after seeing her stumbling back towards the detention building, her back bowed, head hanging. Now there was a sharp set in her shoulders and on her brow that hadn’t been there before. He felt slightly afraid.
He took in a deep breath. “I hope, Ma’am, that you’re comfortable with me working on this project--“
She smiled, but her eyes were cold. “Of course, Lieutenant. You’re the best person with this job, as you’d worked so closely with Doctor Baltar.”
Gaeta garbled nothing back, and the hatch opened.
“Madam President,” said the Admiral. “I apologize for being late.” He nodded to Gaeta.
She tossed her head, her hair shimmering, which Gaeta found to be sort of an odd reaction. “We hadn’t started without you.”
“No, of course not,” Adama said. “What have you got for us, Lieutenant?”
Gaeta explained his research for resuming their search for Earth, getting more and more excited, his earlier discomfort gone. He yanked out charts, reports, photographs, even a copy of the Scrolls.
Adama watched him, impassive, but sighing inside. It was Founders’ Day all over again, this boy yammering on and on, cockblocking in the worse way, only now Laura was standing frustratingly on the other side of Gaeta, seemingly fascinated. She leaned over the table, gaze trained on whatever he yanked out next, her crisp shirt tight in all the wrong/right places, an annoying shadow hiding her cleavage. He sighed again.
Laura appeared enthralled by all the crazy ideas that Gaeta was tossing out but at least she was meeting Bill’s eye, even giving him their secret-sharing glint back.
He forced himself to listen to what the young officer was saying, glancing at the star map. “Exactly what?” he said. “We’re looking for a lion’s head?”
“With a mighty blinking eye,” Laura corrected with humor and a smile, and he could swear that she was full-out flirting now. This would be contrary to every interaction they’d had in the past two weeks, if he dared to describe the rare moments they’d been in the same room as interactions.
“Blinking,” Bill muttered, sighing yet again.
“Unless you object, Admiral,” she said with a twitch of her shoulders, “I suggest we go lion hunting.”
Frak yeah, Adama thought, but then she grabbed her blazer, thanked Gaeta prettily, and gushed something about a Quorum meeting as she hurried to the hatch.
As Adama tried to follow her, Gaeta insisted, “Sir, sir,” at his elbow, and he decided the boy really did have an uncanny cockblocking ability.
By the time he finally shook Gaeta off his leg, Adama had to double-time down the corridor and was forced to call out, “Madam President, a moment,” to stop her.
She halted, turning back with a small insincere smile pasted to her face. “Was there something else, Admiral?”
So the flirting was gone and the wall was back up. Her sentries waited. Crew members flowed past, all making eye contact and exchanging nods with him. This is not the place, but it was his only opportunity before she disappeared onto Colonial One again.
He was thirteen again, voice cracking, pimples covering his face, pants up under his armpits, daring to ask the head cheerleader on a date. “I think that we should meet in my quarters to discuss this further,” he suggested.
She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, we need to go over this with the rest of the CIC crew.”
Okay, not what he had in mind, but it would get her back on his territory. “At your convenience,” he said, shoulders slumping.
She nodded briskly and then was off again, her Marines closing off his view. He’d have to accept this for now, but first, he had another meeting.
Snips and dribbles of information always managed to reach Adama. Galactica was his ship in more ways than being a command. Its corridors and ductwork flowed towards him, no matter where he was on the ship. He’d heard any number of things that in themselves, did not add up to anything definite, but with Captain Agathon there to make his daily report, Adama strove to connect the pieces.
He asked the young man, “I understand that morale’s taking a hit on the flight deck.”
Helo stood tall, keeping his tone cool, “Nothing we can’t handle, Sir.”
“I’m also told that Colonel Tigh is spending a lot of time in the pilots’ rec room.”
“Both him and Starbuck, sir.” Now the big man got rolling. “They’ve been holding court, second guessing the rescue, bad-mouthing the crew who stayed up on Galactica. Suddenly, if you weren’t part of the ground war, it’s like you can’t be trusted.”
Adama sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “And people are listening.”
“Their word carries a lot of weight,” said Helo. “And you’re right. They’re destroying morale and cohesion.”
“They both know better,” said Adama.
“I don’t think they care, sir,” Helo said. When Adama nodded in agreement, he continued, “And there’s another thing--“
The big man paused though, until Adama prompted him. “Yes, what is it?”
Taking a deep breath, Helo said, “It’s something Colonel Tigh said. In these bull sessions.”
“Bullshit sessions are probably more like it,” Adama said, shifting his glasses up to squeeze his nose.
Helo smiled. “Yes, sir. He said something about men strapping bombs to themselves in the fight on New Caprica.” He had Bill’s full attention. Shrugging, he said, “And when I’ve asked after some missing people, I’ve gotten strange answers, about giving their lives for the cause; the Colonel and Starbuck aren’t the only ones not giving much details.”
Frustrated, Adama said, “Yes, I know what you mean. Have you been able to get anything out of Starbuck? What happened to her?”
“No, sir. I know that Sam’s moved onto another ship, though.”
“Frak,” Adama said, and the young officer nodded.
Dismissing his temporary XO, Adama poured a drink and slumped on his sofa. Nothing was turning out as he’d expected. During the four months separated from his loved ones, he’d clung to the fantasy that he could make everything right with the blasts of Galactica’s cannons. He’d bring them home; bring them all home, and it would be over.
Kara and her new husband would make their home on Galactica, children, perhaps, playing with the grandchildren that he hoped Lee and Dualla would have soon. Yes, there was no fool like an old fool, but who could fault him for dreaming?
Even the mundane wasn’t there. No Tigh in the CIC; no need to even give half his orders; Tigh just knew what he was thinking.
And Laura. He couldn’t even put form to what he’d expected with Laura when she returned, but it sure as frak wasn’t this, he thought, draining his glass, staring at his empty bunk with its tight hospital corners on the bedding. Yeah, nothing ruffling those sheets. His hand stroked the leather of his couch. No Laura curled next to him, reading her reports, seemingly unaware of him so close, but her fingers lightly running through his hair--was that too much to ask?
Suicide bombers. He went to refill his glass, then rooted in his desk for a rare cigarette. There was something urgent, steel-edged in Laura now, a hard light in her eyes. He knew her well by now, and although she certainly wasn’t tentative about giving death orders, she valued every human life to almost an obsessive level. What had she been pushed to do? And what had been done to her?
All he did know was, she wasn’t going to tell him anytime soon; she didn’t even want to be alone in a room with him.
He took off his glasses and pushed hard at his eyes with the heels of his hands. They burned with alcohol fumes, smoke and too much rumination. He never should have left New Caprica’s orbit when the basestars dropped out of jump. Perhaps he could have fought off the Cylons in that first flush of battle--
He ground out the cigarette and pushed back from his desk. Time to do something about the future, and frak the past.
End (1/4) Chapter 2>>>
Word Count: 1700
Summary: Adama kicks some people off their chairs.
Setting: Post-episode for Torn
Genre: Angst, Romance, Drama
Series: Love in a Time of War: 4
A/N: I’m placing the events of Torn about two weeks after Collaborators, and that’s being generous, using Lee’s weight loss as a gauge. He’s still puffy and bragging about losing ½ stone in Collaborators but is ripped in Torn. Let’s assume there’s a GNC outlet on one of the ships, and he could get in that sort of shape in two weeks. *rolling eyes at FatSuit!Lee*
Chapter 1:
Gaeta looked up at the sound of entry to Baltar’s former laboratory, then stiffened to attention. “Madam President,” he breathed, looking behind her for her usual shadow, the Admiral. No such luck.
She shucked off her blazer. “Lieutenant.” Flatly, she added, with no interest in her voice, “How are you.”
“Well,” he said uncomfortably. “Ready to get back to work.” He returned to the notes and recon photos that he’d been trying to organize.
The last time he’d seen her had been through a porthole on Colonial One. He’d discovered Baltar crouched on the former press room’s floor by the room divider, with one of his all too familiar half-erections, and when Gaeta saw nothing through the curtain’s crack but Cavil rubbing the back of his neck, he’d look out the window and had seen Roslin pass by. She’d had a sack over her head, her hands bound, her feet bare.
At that moment, he’d come to know what the word deviance meant, not specific actions, but an aura. He’d had no idea what had happened with her--didn’t want to know--but something had settled over this downed spaceship, and it contaminated them like feces floating in dark water.
Gaeta forced himself to look at Roslin. She had put on her glasses, and was checking out some of the photographs. She had changed since before colonizing New Caprica, but not as he’d feared after seeing her stumbling back towards the detention building, her back bowed, head hanging. Now there was a sharp set in her shoulders and on her brow that hadn’t been there before. He felt slightly afraid.
He took in a deep breath. “I hope, Ma’am, that you’re comfortable with me working on this project--“
She smiled, but her eyes were cold. “Of course, Lieutenant. You’re the best person with this job, as you’d worked so closely with Doctor Baltar.”
Gaeta garbled nothing back, and the hatch opened.
“Madam President,” said the Admiral. “I apologize for being late.” He nodded to Gaeta.
She tossed her head, her hair shimmering, which Gaeta found to be sort of an odd reaction. “We hadn’t started without you.”
“No, of course not,” Adama said. “What have you got for us, Lieutenant?”
Gaeta explained his research for resuming their search for Earth, getting more and more excited, his earlier discomfort gone. He yanked out charts, reports, photographs, even a copy of the Scrolls.
Adama watched him, impassive, but sighing inside. It was Founders’ Day all over again, this boy yammering on and on, cockblocking in the worse way, only now Laura was standing frustratingly on the other side of Gaeta, seemingly fascinated. She leaned over the table, gaze trained on whatever he yanked out next, her crisp shirt tight in all the wrong/right places, an annoying shadow hiding her cleavage. He sighed again.
Laura appeared enthralled by all the crazy ideas that Gaeta was tossing out but at least she was meeting Bill’s eye, even giving him their secret-sharing glint back.
He forced himself to listen to what the young officer was saying, glancing at the star map. “Exactly what?” he said. “We’re looking for a lion’s head?”
“With a mighty blinking eye,” Laura corrected with humor and a smile, and he could swear that she was full-out flirting now. This would be contrary to every interaction they’d had in the past two weeks, if he dared to describe the rare moments they’d been in the same room as interactions.
“Blinking,” Bill muttered, sighing yet again.
“Unless you object, Admiral,” she said with a twitch of her shoulders, “I suggest we go lion hunting.”
Frak yeah, Adama thought, but then she grabbed her blazer, thanked Gaeta prettily, and gushed something about a Quorum meeting as she hurried to the hatch.
As Adama tried to follow her, Gaeta insisted, “Sir, sir,” at his elbow, and he decided the boy really did have an uncanny cockblocking ability.
By the time he finally shook Gaeta off his leg, Adama had to double-time down the corridor and was forced to call out, “Madam President, a moment,” to stop her.
She halted, turning back with a small insincere smile pasted to her face. “Was there something else, Admiral?”
So the flirting was gone and the wall was back up. Her sentries waited. Crew members flowed past, all making eye contact and exchanging nods with him. This is not the place, but it was his only opportunity before she disappeared onto Colonial One again.
He was thirteen again, voice cracking, pimples covering his face, pants up under his armpits, daring to ask the head cheerleader on a date. “I think that we should meet in my quarters to discuss this further,” he suggested.
She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, we need to go over this with the rest of the CIC crew.”
Okay, not what he had in mind, but it would get her back on his territory. “At your convenience,” he said, shoulders slumping.
She nodded briskly and then was off again, her Marines closing off his view. He’d have to accept this for now, but first, he had another meeting.
Snips and dribbles of information always managed to reach Adama. Galactica was his ship in more ways than being a command. Its corridors and ductwork flowed towards him, no matter where he was on the ship. He’d heard any number of things that in themselves, did not add up to anything definite, but with Captain Agathon there to make his daily report, Adama strove to connect the pieces.
He asked the young man, “I understand that morale’s taking a hit on the flight deck.”
Helo stood tall, keeping his tone cool, “Nothing we can’t handle, Sir.”
“I’m also told that Colonel Tigh is spending a lot of time in the pilots’ rec room.”
“Both him and Starbuck, sir.” Now the big man got rolling. “They’ve been holding court, second guessing the rescue, bad-mouthing the crew who stayed up on Galactica. Suddenly, if you weren’t part of the ground war, it’s like you can’t be trusted.”
Adama sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “And people are listening.”
“Their word carries a lot of weight,” said Helo. “And you’re right. They’re destroying morale and cohesion.”
“They both know better,” said Adama.
“I don’t think they care, sir,” Helo said. When Adama nodded in agreement, he continued, “And there’s another thing--“
The big man paused though, until Adama prompted him. “Yes, what is it?”
Taking a deep breath, Helo said, “It’s something Colonel Tigh said. In these bull sessions.”
“Bullshit sessions are probably more like it,” Adama said, shifting his glasses up to squeeze his nose.
Helo smiled. “Yes, sir. He said something about men strapping bombs to themselves in the fight on New Caprica.” He had Bill’s full attention. Shrugging, he said, “And when I’ve asked after some missing people, I’ve gotten strange answers, about giving their lives for the cause; the Colonel and Starbuck aren’t the only ones not giving much details.”
Frustrated, Adama said, “Yes, I know what you mean. Have you been able to get anything out of Starbuck? What happened to her?”
“No, sir. I know that Sam’s moved onto another ship, though.”
“Frak,” Adama said, and the young officer nodded.
Dismissing his temporary XO, Adama poured a drink and slumped on his sofa. Nothing was turning out as he’d expected. During the four months separated from his loved ones, he’d clung to the fantasy that he could make everything right with the blasts of Galactica’s cannons. He’d bring them home; bring them all home, and it would be over.
Kara and her new husband would make their home on Galactica, children, perhaps, playing with the grandchildren that he hoped Lee and Dualla would have soon. Yes, there was no fool like an old fool, but who could fault him for dreaming?
Even the mundane wasn’t there. No Tigh in the CIC; no need to even give half his orders; Tigh just knew what he was thinking.
And Laura. He couldn’t even put form to what he’d expected with Laura when she returned, but it sure as frak wasn’t this, he thought, draining his glass, staring at his empty bunk with its tight hospital corners on the bedding. Yeah, nothing ruffling those sheets. His hand stroked the leather of his couch. No Laura curled next to him, reading her reports, seemingly unaware of him so close, but her fingers lightly running through his hair--was that too much to ask?
Suicide bombers. He went to refill his glass, then rooted in his desk for a rare cigarette. There was something urgent, steel-edged in Laura now, a hard light in her eyes. He knew her well by now, and although she certainly wasn’t tentative about giving death orders, she valued every human life to almost an obsessive level. What had she been pushed to do? And what had been done to her?
All he did know was, she wasn’t going to tell him anytime soon; she didn’t even want to be alone in a room with him.
He took off his glasses and pushed hard at his eyes with the heels of his hands. They burned with alcohol fumes, smoke and too much rumination. He never should have left New Caprica’s orbit when the basestars dropped out of jump. Perhaps he could have fought off the Cylons in that first flush of battle--
He ground out the cigarette and pushed back from his desk. Time to do something about the future, and frak the past.
End (1/4) Chapter 2>>>