Fic: Seeping Blackness
Title: Seeping Blackness
Author: ninjamonkey73
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Lee Adama
Summary: Set between The Captain’s Hand and Razor, on Pegasus. This isn’t what he wants.
Prompt: “No one is perfect on Pegasus. Kara drinks, Kendra shoots up, what's Lee's vice?”
Warnings: Mentions of near-suicide, near-death
Word Count: ~1300
Beta: Many thanks to kdbleu. Any remaining errors are my own.
Author's Notes: Yeah, sorry about this.
“Out!” Lee barks when he enters the Pegasus officers’ gym and finds Lieutenant… Frak. I should know their names by now.… somebody using the leg press.
The… Pilot? ECO? Engineer?… quickly gathers his things and scurries from the room, sputtering apologies interspersed with no less than eight Sirs. The soft click of the hatch relieves him of his command façade and he slumps his shoulders a moment, keying the electronic locking mechanism. Tired. So frakking tired.
He changes from his crisp, blue Commander’s uniform into the gray-on-gray of his sweat shorts and single tank. Carefully winding first one black wrap from wrist to knuckles and back, then the next, he takes deep, steadying breaths. He will not fall apart. He must not fall apart.
It’s been forty days since he got shot. Since she shot him. He knows she wasn’t gunning for him, knows she took it hard, knows a lot of things. He picks up his gloves, but before pulling them on, he reaches slowly across his chest, readying his left thumb over the small starburst of scar tissue on his right shoulder. He takes a deep breath and jams his thumb hard into the scar, making fireworks explode behind his eyes. He swallows any noise he wants to make at the pain, internalizing it, channeling it into the first fierce blow to the bag.
The bag swings silently away as he stares blankly at spot it left. Pain still radiates from his shoulder, down his arm to his clenched fist. Better to hurt than feel nothing, he thinks bitterly.
All he feels is numb most days. But not here. Not in his inner sanctum. He understands pain. It feels familiar, reminds him of his childhood, of the days Carolanne wasn’t even trying to control her alcohol-soaked temper. Pain brings clarity, something always just beyond his reach when he’s buttoned and pressed, trying to command a ship he never wanted to command.
Lee knows he shouldn’t indulge the thoughts that always come next. He remembers floating in space, the last of his suit’s oxygen supply venting into the vacuum, finally feeling a sense of peace washing over him.
He throws a hard left at the bag on the next return swing- thwap. If only the air had left the suit faster. Right hook- thwap. The force of the blow jars his bad shoulder and he winces. If only he’d had the presence of mind to rip the hole wider. Left cross- thwap.
Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he starts a faster assault on the heavy bag. He didn’t die in the vacuum. No, he lived to be shot in the shoulder by friendly fire and get command of a battlestar thrust upon him. He knows he should feel… something. Thankful? Lucky? Something. He doesn’t, though. He feels regret, regret for a second and third chance at a life he doesn’t want to live.
Coward, he thinks, feinting right and coming up close to the bag to pummel it with a flurry of hard jabs. Beads of sweat roll down his face, stinging his eyes, and he runs an arm roughly across his eyes to clear them.
I could have said no, but I never say no to the old man. The bag swings back toward him and he unleashes a second assault of rapid hits, holding the image of his father in his mind as he hammers the bag. It’s not like it’s even his fault. He didn’t make me join the Fleet, whether I thought it was expected or not.
With his blood pumping like this, it’s easy to see where he made his mistakes, where his misplaced sense of duty trapped him. He spins on his heel suddenly to take his frustrations out on the speed bag, instead. He inhales deeply and tries to find his rhythm, right, left, right, right, left, left.
Once again, he finds himself staring down the same line of thinking he always comes to here. I could just resign. Let the Admiral worry about who’s qualified to replace me.
His right arm aches and his punches slowly sink, his right glove eventually only grazing the bag and breaking his pattern. Grabbing the bag between his gloved fists, he holds it tightly for a moment before thrusting it away with a yell, “Gods-dammit!”
If he knew what he wanted, maybe he’d find the courage to go after it. That’s a nice lie to tell yourself. He knows at least one thing he wants, one person he wants, and that hasn’t made a damn bit of difference. She’s different. Things are complicated.
Lee stalks back to the heavy bag, landing a devastating uppercut that sends a jarring reverberation up his arm and sends the bag dancing away, swinging unevenly. His brother complicates things with her, or at least the memory of him, between them still, even in death.
Zak. What would you think of me if you could see me now? Would you be proud? Disappointed?
He’d once confided in his brother, late one night after too much to drink at a seedy Academy bar, that he didn’t really want the life he’d chosen, but had no better ideas than to follow in their father’s footsteps. Zak had looked at him then, cocking an eyebrow in confusion. “Maybe you should figure it out. It’s not like Dad will appreciate the sacrifice you’ve made for him. Doing what’s expected doesn’t get you praise, it just doesn’t get you flack.”
Almost three years gone and Zak is still the smartest voice in Lee’s head. I wish you were here, bro. I’m lost without you.
He throws another vicious uppercut, this time with his left, and focuses on the bag a moment to time another onslaught of jabs on the return swing. By now, both arms hurt and he’s drenched in sweat, but on a day like today, working himself until he collapses sounds like the best possible outcome.
They all know there’s something not right with Commander Adama, but no one dares confront him. Not Kendra, and certainly not HER. It always comes back to her, though. He should talk to her, tell her about the blackness that still seeps into his soul when he can’t drown himself in the sweat of a punishing workout, but he always chickens out. She, of all people, would understand. He could see it in her eyes the day he told her he didn’t want to come back alive from his spacewalk.
“Pass the word. Commander Adama to the CIC. Pass the word. Commander Adama, please contact the CIC.”
“Frak,” he mutters, pulling at the Velcro bindings of one glove with his teeth and thrusting it under his arm to pull his hand free. At least HIS ship has a decent intercom system. “Adama.”
“Sir, your father requests your presence on Galactica at your earliest convenience for a command meeting. When should I tell him to expect you?”
Lee rolls his eyes and rips at the bindings of his other glove, furious. Never? “Tell the Admiral, I’ll be there in an hour. And contact the flight deck to ready a Raptor for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stalks toward the showers, tearing off the wraps and throwing them angrily at his gym bag as he passes. So much for blowing off steam.
As the water cascades over him, he counts backwards slowly from ten, controlling his breathing as he was taught in flight school. For each number, another piece of his command façade returns until, cleaned and once again calm, Commander Adama steps out of the shower. The pieces of his uniform go on without thought, a mindless process that completes the transformation back to Commander, back to stability, or at the least the guise of it.
He’ll go. He’ll do whatever is required of him, answer whatever he’s asked. Even if he knew what he wanted, he wouldn’t free himself from his agony. Somehow, he thinks, he’s earned this.
Author: ninjamonkey73
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Lee Adama
Summary: Set between The Captain’s Hand and Razor, on Pegasus. This isn’t what he wants.
Prompt: “No one is perfect on Pegasus. Kara drinks, Kendra shoots up, what's Lee's vice?”
Warnings: Mentions of near-suicide, near-death
Word Count: ~1300
Beta: Many thanks to kdbleu. Any remaining errors are my own.
Author's Notes: Yeah, sorry about this.
“Out!” Lee barks when he enters the Pegasus officers’ gym and finds Lieutenant… Frak. I should know their names by now.… somebody using the leg press.
The… Pilot? ECO? Engineer?… quickly gathers his things and scurries from the room, sputtering apologies interspersed with no less than eight Sirs. The soft click of the hatch relieves him of his command façade and he slumps his shoulders a moment, keying the electronic locking mechanism. Tired. So frakking tired.
He changes from his crisp, blue Commander’s uniform into the gray-on-gray of his sweat shorts and single tank. Carefully winding first one black wrap from wrist to knuckles and back, then the next, he takes deep, steadying breaths. He will not fall apart. He must not fall apart.
It’s been forty days since he got shot. Since she shot him. He knows she wasn’t gunning for him, knows she took it hard, knows a lot of things. He picks up his gloves, but before pulling them on, he reaches slowly across his chest, readying his left thumb over the small starburst of scar tissue on his right shoulder. He takes a deep breath and jams his thumb hard into the scar, making fireworks explode behind his eyes. He swallows any noise he wants to make at the pain, internalizing it, channeling it into the first fierce blow to the bag.
The bag swings silently away as he stares blankly at spot it left. Pain still radiates from his shoulder, down his arm to his clenched fist. Better to hurt than feel nothing, he thinks bitterly.
All he feels is numb most days. But not here. Not in his inner sanctum. He understands pain. It feels familiar, reminds him of his childhood, of the days Carolanne wasn’t even trying to control her alcohol-soaked temper. Pain brings clarity, something always just beyond his reach when he’s buttoned and pressed, trying to command a ship he never wanted to command.
Lee knows he shouldn’t indulge the thoughts that always come next. He remembers floating in space, the last of his suit’s oxygen supply venting into the vacuum, finally feeling a sense of peace washing over him.
He throws a hard left at the bag on the next return swing- thwap. If only the air had left the suit faster. Right hook- thwap. The force of the blow jars his bad shoulder and he winces. If only he’d had the presence of mind to rip the hole wider. Left cross- thwap.
Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he starts a faster assault on the heavy bag. He didn’t die in the vacuum. No, he lived to be shot in the shoulder by friendly fire and get command of a battlestar thrust upon him. He knows he should feel… something. Thankful? Lucky? Something. He doesn’t, though. He feels regret, regret for a second and third chance at a life he doesn’t want to live.
Coward, he thinks, feinting right and coming up close to the bag to pummel it with a flurry of hard jabs. Beads of sweat roll down his face, stinging his eyes, and he runs an arm roughly across his eyes to clear them.
I could have said no, but I never say no to the old man. The bag swings back toward him and he unleashes a second assault of rapid hits, holding the image of his father in his mind as he hammers the bag. It’s not like it’s even his fault. He didn’t make me join the Fleet, whether I thought it was expected or not.
With his blood pumping like this, it’s easy to see where he made his mistakes, where his misplaced sense of duty trapped him. He spins on his heel suddenly to take his frustrations out on the speed bag, instead. He inhales deeply and tries to find his rhythm, right, left, right, right, left, left.
Once again, he finds himself staring down the same line of thinking he always comes to here. I could just resign. Let the Admiral worry about who’s qualified to replace me.
His right arm aches and his punches slowly sink, his right glove eventually only grazing the bag and breaking his pattern. Grabbing the bag between his gloved fists, he holds it tightly for a moment before thrusting it away with a yell, “Gods-dammit!”
If he knew what he wanted, maybe he’d find the courage to go after it. That’s a nice lie to tell yourself. He knows at least one thing he wants, one person he wants, and that hasn’t made a damn bit of difference. She’s different. Things are complicated.
Lee stalks back to the heavy bag, landing a devastating uppercut that sends a jarring reverberation up his arm and sends the bag dancing away, swinging unevenly. His brother complicates things with her, or at least the memory of him, between them still, even in death.
Zak. What would you think of me if you could see me now? Would you be proud? Disappointed?
He’d once confided in his brother, late one night after too much to drink at a seedy Academy bar, that he didn’t really want the life he’d chosen, but had no better ideas than to follow in their father’s footsteps. Zak had looked at him then, cocking an eyebrow in confusion. “Maybe you should figure it out. It’s not like Dad will appreciate the sacrifice you’ve made for him. Doing what’s expected doesn’t get you praise, it just doesn’t get you flack.”
Almost three years gone and Zak is still the smartest voice in Lee’s head. I wish you were here, bro. I’m lost without you.
He throws another vicious uppercut, this time with his left, and focuses on the bag a moment to time another onslaught of jabs on the return swing. By now, both arms hurt and he’s drenched in sweat, but on a day like today, working himself until he collapses sounds like the best possible outcome.
They all know there’s something not right with Commander Adama, but no one dares confront him. Not Kendra, and certainly not HER. It always comes back to her, though. He should talk to her, tell her about the blackness that still seeps into his soul when he can’t drown himself in the sweat of a punishing workout, but he always chickens out. She, of all people, would understand. He could see it in her eyes the day he told her he didn’t want to come back alive from his spacewalk.
“Pass the word. Commander Adama to the CIC. Pass the word. Commander Adama, please contact the CIC.”
“Frak,” he mutters, pulling at the Velcro bindings of one glove with his teeth and thrusting it under his arm to pull his hand free. At least HIS ship has a decent intercom system. “Adama.”
“Sir, your father requests your presence on Galactica at your earliest convenience for a command meeting. When should I tell him to expect you?”
Lee rolls his eyes and rips at the bindings of his other glove, furious. Never? “Tell the Admiral, I’ll be there in an hour. And contact the flight deck to ready a Raptor for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stalks toward the showers, tearing off the wraps and throwing them angrily at his gym bag as he passes. So much for blowing off steam.
As the water cascades over him, he counts backwards slowly from ten, controlling his breathing as he was taught in flight school. For each number, another piece of his command façade returns until, cleaned and once again calm, Commander Adama steps out of the shower. The pieces of his uniform go on without thought, a mindless process that completes the transformation back to Commander, back to stability, or at the least the guise of it.
He’ll go. He’ll do whatever is required of him, answer whatever he’s asked. Even if he knew what he wanted, he wouldn’t free himself from his agony. Somehow, he thinks, he’s earned this.