BSG fic. This is all liptonrm's fault.
Right. So. liptonrm made me do this. And then she egged me on and pointed out how its ending was mocking me. So here it is, my first Battlestar Galactica story. It's not very good, and it ends very weirdly. It's set early in the first season, in the few hours after the events of "Bastille Day," and contains no spoilers beyond that point. Oh, and it's totally unbetad, and I've had a good deal of wine tonight, and I don't own any of these people, but Ronald D. Moore said out loud that BSG fanfic is fine by him, as long as we're not making a profit, which I'm not except for the sexual favors liptonrm might owe me. To make things official, I'll even give it a rating, though that makes it sound even duller: PG. lol.
Billy woke with a kink in his neck and less than ten seconds to get to the lavatory before he threw up.
Thirteen days.
He flushed the toilet and stumbled upright, avoiding his reflection as he fumbled with the faucets. The second wave hit him unaware, and he retched loudly and miserably into the sink. In the part of his brain that allowed him to manipulate those numbers on the whiteboard with a steady hand, Billy was grateful his dinner had gone down the toilet, leaving mostly bile and water for the sink. He didn't think the crew assigned to the Colonial Heavy 798 included a plumber, and the ship's lavatories were overtaxed as it was. They should find a plumber out in the fleet. It was Colonial One now, after all, and merited unclogged washrooms.
When he felt sure his stomach was done with him, Billy turned off the water and mopped his face on his towel, shivering under his sweat-damp t-shirt. There was the lightest tap-almost a scratch-at the door, and Billy dropped his head in frustration, knowing who it was, whom he'd woken in the dash from his seat.
He waited til the tap came again, trying to pull himself together, wishing he at least had a real shirt on, physically longing for the formality and distance his two suits offered him. Gods, what he wouldn't give to be wearing a tie right now.
"Billy?" The president's voice was soft. It was the middle of the night, after all. Or of the block of time the fleet had agreed to observe as night. "Are you all right?"
His hand was still shaking as he opened the door. President Roslin kept her eyes discreetly averted and put her ear to the space he'd opened. "Are you ill?" she asked. "Do you need the doctor?"
"No," he assured her. "No thank you, ma'am. I'm fine. I just..." She turned her head to assess him, and he looked quickly away, catching the reflection he'd been avoiding. He was startlingly pale, with clownlike fever-spots under his eyes. He wasn't fooling anyone. "My stomach's upset, that's all. It's nothing." He waited for her to step away from the door so he could go back to his seat and pretend to sleep, but she wasn't moving. "I'm sorry I woke you," he added. "I should have used the aft washroom. I was in a hurry."
Roslin waved his excuse away. "Billy." She caught his gaze and held him there, one of those long, heavy, expectant stares that were among her most useful negotiating tools. "It's normal that you should feel some effects after an ordeal like this. What happened on the Astral Queen--"
Billy shook his head. "It's not that." It was, actually, but not in the way the president thought.
She waited again, pushed her glasses up patiently, no longer pretending not to look at him in his crumpled sweatpants and sticky t-shirt. The president looked over her shoulder, through the gap he'd left in the curtains, at the rest of the staff sleeping in their seats outside her makeshift office. With a tip of her head that might have suggested apology, Roslin stepped around the lavatory's door and closed it behind her. She leaned against the door and crossed her arms over her chest, drawing her shawl more tightly closed over her nightclothes. Billy retreated, thankful for the space the first-class bathroom afforded them.
"Billy," the President prompted when a minute had passed without an elaboration.
His stomach lurched again, and Billy swallowed hard. "It was a dream." He shook his head, embarrassed and annoyed. A dream. And that still wasn't what it was. "Or-not a dream, but a..." What had it been? A memory? "A realization."
In his mind, he saw Specialist Cally being dragged kicking and raging out of her cell while he'd yelled really fiercely for help. He heard Dee talking her through it, then talking him through it as they waited impotently, fear for her comrade all over her face, though her voice was calm. He thought about Dee's voice-it was always calming, even when it wasn't calm. He remembered how she'd grabbed his arm, bruising him, when the screaming and shooting started; and when they'd finally gotten out of that wire cage, how she'd raced to the bunk where Cally was bleeding and shaking, holding her hand and cleaning that man's blood off her mouth, talking her through it again.
Billy swallowed again. "It’s stupid. It’s my girlfriend.” The president made a surprised face and Billy clarified. “My old girlfriend. Ex, I guess.”
A light went on behind the president’s eyes. “Was she the girl you brought to the midsummer party?” Billy nodded. “She was lovely. I remember she made me wish I were young enough to wear real party dresses. I've gotten so matronly.” Billy flinched when President Roslin’s hand closed over his. He remembered the dress, too, now. Vaguely. Or, rather, he remembered it coming off later in the evening.
“We all deal with the grief in our own ways and times, Billy. There’s no right or wrong way to lose someone you love.”
Billy jerked his hand from under hers. “I didn't."
The president's eyes jumped in surprise, and her hand closed over air. "She's in the fleet?"
"No," he corrected. "I mean, I didn't love her. I broke up with her the day after that party. I'd been trying to do it for months--since before we graduated--but she... It was complicated. Hard to end. Anyway, when we left for Galactica, I'd been ignoring a message from her for a week. She asked if we could have coffee. Try again to be friends." Billy's hand drifted to his arm to the tender spots where Dee's vice grip had marked him. "We'd been trying that for a long time. Being friends. It wasn't working."
His upper lip was sweating again, and he wiped it with his hand. "I put her out of my mind, and I didn’t even think about her until just now. She’s been dead thirteen days, and it only just occurred to me to think of her. And only because I was...”
"Thinking about Petty Officer Second Class Dualla..." There was a dim gleam of humor in her voice as she recited Dee's rank, but it faded entirely as she continued. "We've had so little time to grieve, any of us." The president sought out his hand again, plucking it from the pair of fists he’d made over his ribs. “Let yourself grieve in your own way, Billy,” she said, and to his horror, she pulled him into her arms and pressed herself against him. Her breath was hot against his neck when she whispered “Let yourself live,” and then she was gone--the clack of the door sounding in his ears as he folded himself over the small counter and wept, waiting for his stomach to decide how to react.
It reacted badly, churning up images of his parents, his sisters, his nieces and nephews, his brother, and finally of Sylvia. She was at the podium opposite him, beating him soundly in a debate over colonial sovereignty as defined in the Articles of Colonization, and he didn’t care at all, because she was the most charismatic, beautiful thing he’d laid eyes on in all of his 19 years.
When his stomach and his memory were done with him, Billy rinsed his mouth again and slipped out of the washroom. He paused for a moment between the curtains that separated the president from her staff. The lights in her office were out, and Billy could hear the steady rhythm of her breath. He remembered the heat of her words against his skin and sent a private word of thanks. Then he tucked himself into his seat and let himself dream of Anastasia Dualla.
Yeah. Um. Do your worst.
Billy woke with a kink in his neck and less than ten seconds to get to the lavatory before he threw up.
Thirteen days.
He flushed the toilet and stumbled upright, avoiding his reflection as he fumbled with the faucets. The second wave hit him unaware, and he retched loudly and miserably into the sink. In the part of his brain that allowed him to manipulate those numbers on the whiteboard with a steady hand, Billy was grateful his dinner had gone down the toilet, leaving mostly bile and water for the sink. He didn't think the crew assigned to the Colonial Heavy 798 included a plumber, and the ship's lavatories were overtaxed as it was. They should find a plumber out in the fleet. It was Colonial One now, after all, and merited unclogged washrooms.
When he felt sure his stomach was done with him, Billy turned off the water and mopped his face on his towel, shivering under his sweat-damp t-shirt. There was the lightest tap-almost a scratch-at the door, and Billy dropped his head in frustration, knowing who it was, whom he'd woken in the dash from his seat.
He waited til the tap came again, trying to pull himself together, wishing he at least had a real shirt on, physically longing for the formality and distance his two suits offered him. Gods, what he wouldn't give to be wearing a tie right now.
"Billy?" The president's voice was soft. It was the middle of the night, after all. Or of the block of time the fleet had agreed to observe as night. "Are you all right?"
His hand was still shaking as he opened the door. President Roslin kept her eyes discreetly averted and put her ear to the space he'd opened. "Are you ill?" she asked. "Do you need the doctor?"
"No," he assured her. "No thank you, ma'am. I'm fine. I just..." She turned her head to assess him, and he looked quickly away, catching the reflection he'd been avoiding. He was startlingly pale, with clownlike fever-spots under his eyes. He wasn't fooling anyone. "My stomach's upset, that's all. It's nothing." He waited for her to step away from the door so he could go back to his seat and pretend to sleep, but she wasn't moving. "I'm sorry I woke you," he added. "I should have used the aft washroom. I was in a hurry."
Roslin waved his excuse away. "Billy." She caught his gaze and held him there, one of those long, heavy, expectant stares that were among her most useful negotiating tools. "It's normal that you should feel some effects after an ordeal like this. What happened on the Astral Queen--"
Billy shook his head. "It's not that." It was, actually, but not in the way the president thought.
She waited again, pushed her glasses up patiently, no longer pretending not to look at him in his crumpled sweatpants and sticky t-shirt. The president looked over her shoulder, through the gap he'd left in the curtains, at the rest of the staff sleeping in their seats outside her makeshift office. With a tip of her head that might have suggested apology, Roslin stepped around the lavatory's door and closed it behind her. She leaned against the door and crossed her arms over her chest, drawing her shawl more tightly closed over her nightclothes. Billy retreated, thankful for the space the first-class bathroom afforded them.
"Billy," the President prompted when a minute had passed without an elaboration.
His stomach lurched again, and Billy swallowed hard. "It was a dream." He shook his head, embarrassed and annoyed. A dream. And that still wasn't what it was. "Or-not a dream, but a..." What had it been? A memory? "A realization."
In his mind, he saw Specialist Cally being dragged kicking and raging out of her cell while he'd yelled really fiercely for help. He heard Dee talking her through it, then talking him through it as they waited impotently, fear for her comrade all over her face, though her voice was calm. He thought about Dee's voice-it was always calming, even when it wasn't calm. He remembered how she'd grabbed his arm, bruising him, when the screaming and shooting started; and when they'd finally gotten out of that wire cage, how she'd raced to the bunk where Cally was bleeding and shaking, holding her hand and cleaning that man's blood off her mouth, talking her through it again.
Billy swallowed again. "It’s stupid. It’s my girlfriend.” The president made a surprised face and Billy clarified. “My old girlfriend. Ex, I guess.”
A light went on behind the president’s eyes. “Was she the girl you brought to the midsummer party?” Billy nodded. “She was lovely. I remember she made me wish I were young enough to wear real party dresses. I've gotten so matronly.” Billy flinched when President Roslin’s hand closed over his. He remembered the dress, too, now. Vaguely. Or, rather, he remembered it coming off later in the evening.
“We all deal with the grief in our own ways and times, Billy. There’s no right or wrong way to lose someone you love.”
Billy jerked his hand from under hers. “I didn't."
The president's eyes jumped in surprise, and her hand closed over air. "She's in the fleet?"
"No," he corrected. "I mean, I didn't love her. I broke up with her the day after that party. I'd been trying to do it for months--since before we graduated--but she... It was complicated. Hard to end. Anyway, when we left for Galactica, I'd been ignoring a message from her for a week. She asked if we could have coffee. Try again to be friends." Billy's hand drifted to his arm to the tender spots where Dee's vice grip had marked him. "We'd been trying that for a long time. Being friends. It wasn't working."
His upper lip was sweating again, and he wiped it with his hand. "I put her out of my mind, and I didn’t even think about her until just now. She’s been dead thirteen days, and it only just occurred to me to think of her. And only because I was...”
"Thinking about Petty Officer Second Class Dualla..." There was a dim gleam of humor in her voice as she recited Dee's rank, but it faded entirely as she continued. "We've had so little time to grieve, any of us." The president sought out his hand again, plucking it from the pair of fists he’d made over his ribs. “Let yourself grieve in your own way, Billy,” she said, and to his horror, she pulled him into her arms and pressed herself against him. Her breath was hot against his neck when she whispered “Let yourself live,” and then she was gone--the clack of the door sounding in his ears as he folded himself over the small counter and wept, waiting for his stomach to decide how to react.
It reacted badly, churning up images of his parents, his sisters, his nieces and nephews, his brother, and finally of Sylvia. She was at the podium opposite him, beating him soundly in a debate over colonial sovereignty as defined in the Articles of Colonization, and he didn’t care at all, because she was the most charismatic, beautiful thing he’d laid eyes on in all of his 19 years.
When his stomach and his memory were done with him, Billy rinsed his mouth again and slipped out of the washroom. He paused for a moment between the curtains that separated the president from her staff. The lights in her office were out, and Billy could hear the steady rhythm of her breath. He remembered the heat of her words against his skin and sent a private word of thanks. Then he tucked himself into his seat and let himself dream of Anastasia Dualla.
Yeah. Um. Do your worst.