Household Gods
Title: Household Gods
Author: lacklusterfic
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Adama/Roslin, the Roslin family
Rating: K+
A/N: The line of poetry attributed to Kataris is really by Sappho.
Even with her eyes closed, Laura knows exactly where she is.
The pavement beneath her feet is warm with the afternoon sunlight; her toes wriggle pleasurably inside her shoes at the long-forgotten sensation. The wind rustles gently in the trees, wafting the familiar scent of cedar and roses, catching her hair--her hair!--and tickling her cheeks with the long, loose strands. She can hear the cooing of a dove in the branches overhead, the trickle of the little creek running along the far end of the yard, and the distant commotion of children at the pyramid court behind the neighborhood school, just a few blocks away.
Home.
Laura yearns to see the little grey house, but she dares not open her eyes. If she does, she fears this will all simply evaporate, melt away like the mirage she knows it to be, even though the sunlight on her skin feels so real.
A warm, broad hand clasps hers. Close to her ear, she hears Bill's distinctive rumble: "Laura."
His voice, his touch, his very presence here is so unexpected that Laura's eyes open in spite of herself. She braces for the inevitable disappointments of fluorescent lighting and recycled air, for the hum of Galactica's engines instead of the whispering of the wind in the leaves. But when her vision adjusts to the brilliance of day, she's standing on the sidewalk, hand in hand with Bill, in front of the house where she'd grown up.
Bill is clad in his dress greys. A pair of crisp white gloves is tucked into the crook of his sash; his medals flash and wink in the slanting late-afternoon light. He doesn't seem to notice the house, the street, anything besides her. Instead, Bill's fond gaze lingers over her lush, windblown hair, then travels appreciatively downwards.
Laura looks down too, and notes with mild surprise that she's wearing the red dress she'd left behind on New Caprica. She smooths a hand across the lace edging of the gray-green camisole; it's as soft and as light as she remembers. She hopes she's not inappropriately dressed for the occasion, whatever it may turn out to be.
Together, they turn to face the little house. Bill doesn't ask her about it; he seems to understand somehow. She gives his hand a grateful squeeze as she struggles to control her breathing, to slow the almost painful thumping of her heart against her ribs. The joy of this moment is nearly too much for her to bear.
The Roslin home isn't large or showy. The weather-beaten shingles are in need of paint, but the garden--her mother's garden--is immaculately tended. An oil lamp burns on each windowsill, lending the house a festive, welcoming glow.
Laura points out the lights to Bill. "It's a feast day, but I have no idea which one," she manages to say.
"How about we go inside and find out?" he suggests, tugging gently at her hand.
Another light catches Laura's eye as they turn up the walkway: the flare of a match, followed by a little plume of smoke issuing from behind her mother's prized lilacs. She hears the click of heels on the flagstones, then a muffled, irritated "Frak."
Laura catches her breath at the familiar voice, one she hadn't thought she'd ever hear again. She lets go of Bill's hand and hurries toward the shady corner of the garden where Sandra is lurking, pacing anxiously back and forth, taking deep drags on an unfiltered cigarette. Startled, her sister jumps when Laura rounds the lilac tree, thrusting the cigarette hastily behind her back.
"Godsdamnit, Laura, you scared me," Sandra hisses.
Laura is momentarily shocked by the sight of her sister smoking, until she notices Sandra's flat belly and slim hips. Her sister isn't pregnant. And judging by the unruly ponytail hanging down her back, Sandra probably doesn't even know her husband yet. She'd cut those riotous curls short a few years before they met.
Laura finally finds her voice. "You know Mama doesn't like that," she murmurs.
"That's why I'm doing it out here," Sandra retorts. She takes another drag, but it ends in a fit of astonished coughing when she catches sight of Bill waiting hesitantly behind Laura. "Oh, Gods, you brought a uniform home?" Sandra splutters. "I thought you were smarter than that."
Laura blanches, suddenly remembering her parents' pacifism. She exchanges an apprehensive glance with Bill. "You don't think Daddy will say anything--"
"Not Daddy," Sandra interrupts. She considers the neat loops of white braid at Bill's shoulder with a keen, appraising eye. "Cheryl. You know she has a thing for uniforms."
"That's true," Laura muses. Her lips quirk into a little smile as she remembers the various boyfriends Cheryl had stolen from Sandra over the years. More than one of them had been pilots.
"I don't think you have anything to worry about," Bill chuckles, taking Laura's hand again.
Sandra shoots him a dark look. "They all say that," she sighs, grinding out her cigarette beneath the elegantly pointed toe of her shoe. "I wouldn't bring him in there if I were you, Laura. I think something happened with the latest one, what's-his-name. Daddy asked if Cheryl was bringing him tonight, and she burst into tears and ran upstairs," she adds with a satisfied smirk.
"I'll take my chances," Laura replies, laughing. It feels so natural, bantering with her sister like this. "Come inside with us?"
"Frak no," Sandra says vehemently. "With Cheryl on a rampage?... I'll wait for Hector out here, thanks. But I'll be in later. Don't go to the temple without me."
Laura takes a last look around the darkening garden. "Remember when Mama used to pay us to dig up the dandelions?" she reminisces. "Cheryl was so little, she pulled out all the yellow primroses instead. She was so proud of herself, thought she was going to be rich..."
"As I recall, she didn't get in trouble for that either," Sandra snorts. She lights up another smoke and resumes her nervous pacing.
Laura turns back to Bill. "Okay. Just you and me then," she says, squaring her shoulders. Bill squeezes her hand, gives her an encouraging smile, and together they go through the side door, into the little house.
The scent of home washes over Laura instantly: a faint whiff of chalk dust from the jackets hanging neatly on their pegs beside the door, a lingering cloud of the perfume Sandra thinks is masking the illicit odor of tobacco. There is the papery fragrance of old books, too, and freshly-cut flowers, and something savory emanating from the kitchen.
In the living room, Edward Roslin sits in his armchair like a deposed king in exile. The sight of him, his nose buried in the newspaper (the sports pages, undoubtedly, for the boxing scores) brings a tearful smile to Laura's face. Despite the worn leather of the chair, the polished brass and dark wood he's chosen to demarcate his territory, the room around him is a distinctly feminine space, haphazardly strewn with his daughters' belongings.
Cheryl herself is sprawled on the flowery carpet beside the coffee table, surrounded by piles of dog-eared books, scribbling furiously in a loose-leaf notebook. She looks up with red-rimmed eyes as Laura enters the room.
"'I can feel that I have been changed, I can feel that death has come near me'--Laura, who wrote that?" Cheryl demands, chewing on the end of her pen.
"Hello, sweetheart," their father's voice issues from behind the newspaper. "I'm so glad you're here to help Cheryl with her love letters--"
"It's not a love letter if you're not in love," Cheryl fumes. "It's a treacherous frakweasel letter--"
Edward lowers the newspaper just a little and rolls his eyes at Laura; she hides her smile behind one hand. But when Bill moves to stand beside her, Edward finally folds the paper and sets it aside. "Who's this dashing soldier you've brought home?" he asks, looking up with sudden interest.
Cheryl's head snaps up at that; her jaw goes slack, and she fumbles the pen. Bill looks mildly discomfited, but steps forward, offering his hand to Laura's father. "Bill Adama," he says. "And that's Kataris you were just quoting," he adds politely in Cheryl's direction.
Cheryl's lip begins to quiver. She gives a strangled cry, then leaps to her feet and flees the room. Moments later, a door slams shut somewhere upstairs.
"There, there, dear," Edward says absently, watching the leaves of paper Cheryl has scattered behind her floating down in slow, seesawing arcs. "I like this one," Edward nods approvingly at Bill. "Take him in to meet your mother; she's in the kitchen, of course--"
Her mother. Alive and healthy, engrossed in the preparations for whichever god the family is honoring this evening. A knot of tears gathers in Laura's throat; she feels Bill's steadying hands on her shoulders. Her father is back to perusing the classified ads. The notion of Judith Roslin bustling in the kitchen again is apparently perfectly ordinary to him. But to her... to her, it's the most astonishing of all the little miracles she's witnessed today.
Bill hangs back as Laura opens the door into the kitchen. She turns her head gratefully towards him as she steps through. He'll be there in a moment, she knows, but this first moment belongs to her alone.
The kitchen is exactly as Laura remembers it: cluttered but cheerful. The aroma of cinnamon and cloves hangs in the air, mingling with the heavy fragrance of the flowers which Judith is sorting into piles on the kitchen table. A votive burns before the idol of Aphrodite, which has been given pride of place in the niche in the wall.
"Mama," Laura whispers.
"Oh, Laura, dear," Judith sighs gratefully, swiping the back of one hand across her forehead. She's so young, so vital; barely older than Laura herself. Her abundant red hair is pinned up and out of the way. "Good. You can help with the flowers. There's so much still to do, and no one to help me do it. Cheryl's in her room crying, Sandy's fumbling in the bushes with that Libran boy--"
Laura laughs as she brushes away her tears. Of course their mother knew.
Bill steps through the door, an uncertain expression on his face. Judith lifts an eyebrow; her glance flickers from Laura to Bill, then back again.
"I never thought I'd see the day when Laura brought someone home for Aphrodisia, and Cheryl didn't," she chuckles.
"Aphrodisia," Laura murmurs. "Of course! We'll take these flowers to the temple, and pray for luck in love--"
"It looks like you could sit this year out if you wanted," Judith remarks, studying Bill's medals speculatively. "Is this an admiral you've brought home? Has Cheryl seen him yet?"
Bill grins wryly. "I think I scared her off," he quips, offering his hand. "Bill Adama."
Judith takes his hand and squeezes it affectionately. "Never mind. Cheryl had it coming, believe me. Aphrodite's lessons are bitter--"
"--but her gifts are the sweetest of all," Laura choruses.
"That's right, sweetheart. I'm glad that one of my daughters has been paying attention."
Judith enfolds her eldest daughter in her arms. Laura buries her face in her mother's neck and sobs with happiness.
--
Laura awakens with tears in her eyes, and Bill's strong arms wrapped around her.
"Bill," Laura whispers, "were you--"
"Yes." His hand caresses her flushed cheek as he studies her intently, searching her radiant countenance for an explanation. "What do you think it means?" Bill muses.
Laura considers the question for a long moment. "Maybe Earth doesn't matter," she says at last. "Maybe this... here, with you, is where I was always meant to be. Home," she whispers.
"Home," Bill repeats thoughtfully, savoring the unfamiliar word.
Laura lies back against the pillow. "Aphrodite's gifts are the sweetest of all," she murmurs. "My mother was right about that."
Bill chuckles, pulling her closer. Laura goes to him joyfully.
Author: lacklusterfic
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Adama/Roslin, the Roslin family
Rating: K+
A/N: The line of poetry attributed to Kataris is really by Sappho.
Even with her eyes closed, Laura knows exactly where she is.
The pavement beneath her feet is warm with the afternoon sunlight; her toes wriggle pleasurably inside her shoes at the long-forgotten sensation. The wind rustles gently in the trees, wafting the familiar scent of cedar and roses, catching her hair--her hair!--and tickling her cheeks with the long, loose strands. She can hear the cooing of a dove in the branches overhead, the trickle of the little creek running along the far end of the yard, and the distant commotion of children at the pyramid court behind the neighborhood school, just a few blocks away.
Home.
Laura yearns to see the little grey house, but she dares not open her eyes. If she does, she fears this will all simply evaporate, melt away like the mirage she knows it to be, even though the sunlight on her skin feels so real.
A warm, broad hand clasps hers. Close to her ear, she hears Bill's distinctive rumble: "Laura."
His voice, his touch, his very presence here is so unexpected that Laura's eyes open in spite of herself. She braces for the inevitable disappointments of fluorescent lighting and recycled air, for the hum of Galactica's engines instead of the whispering of the wind in the leaves. But when her vision adjusts to the brilliance of day, she's standing on the sidewalk, hand in hand with Bill, in front of the house where she'd grown up.
Bill is clad in his dress greys. A pair of crisp white gloves is tucked into the crook of his sash; his medals flash and wink in the slanting late-afternoon light. He doesn't seem to notice the house, the street, anything besides her. Instead, Bill's fond gaze lingers over her lush, windblown hair, then travels appreciatively downwards.
Laura looks down too, and notes with mild surprise that she's wearing the red dress she'd left behind on New Caprica. She smooths a hand across the lace edging of the gray-green camisole; it's as soft and as light as she remembers. She hopes she's not inappropriately dressed for the occasion, whatever it may turn out to be.
Together, they turn to face the little house. Bill doesn't ask her about it; he seems to understand somehow. She gives his hand a grateful squeeze as she struggles to control her breathing, to slow the almost painful thumping of her heart against her ribs. The joy of this moment is nearly too much for her to bear.
The Roslin home isn't large or showy. The weather-beaten shingles are in need of paint, but the garden--her mother's garden--is immaculately tended. An oil lamp burns on each windowsill, lending the house a festive, welcoming glow.
Laura points out the lights to Bill. "It's a feast day, but I have no idea which one," she manages to say.
"How about we go inside and find out?" he suggests, tugging gently at her hand.
Another light catches Laura's eye as they turn up the walkway: the flare of a match, followed by a little plume of smoke issuing from behind her mother's prized lilacs. She hears the click of heels on the flagstones, then a muffled, irritated "Frak."
Laura catches her breath at the familiar voice, one she hadn't thought she'd ever hear again. She lets go of Bill's hand and hurries toward the shady corner of the garden where Sandra is lurking, pacing anxiously back and forth, taking deep drags on an unfiltered cigarette. Startled, her sister jumps when Laura rounds the lilac tree, thrusting the cigarette hastily behind her back.
"Godsdamnit, Laura, you scared me," Sandra hisses.
Laura is momentarily shocked by the sight of her sister smoking, until she notices Sandra's flat belly and slim hips. Her sister isn't pregnant. And judging by the unruly ponytail hanging down her back, Sandra probably doesn't even know her husband yet. She'd cut those riotous curls short a few years before they met.
Laura finally finds her voice. "You know Mama doesn't like that," she murmurs.
"That's why I'm doing it out here," Sandra retorts. She takes another drag, but it ends in a fit of astonished coughing when she catches sight of Bill waiting hesitantly behind Laura. "Oh, Gods, you brought a uniform home?" Sandra splutters. "I thought you were smarter than that."
Laura blanches, suddenly remembering her parents' pacifism. She exchanges an apprehensive glance with Bill. "You don't think Daddy will say anything--"
"Not Daddy," Sandra interrupts. She considers the neat loops of white braid at Bill's shoulder with a keen, appraising eye. "Cheryl. You know she has a thing for uniforms."
"That's true," Laura muses. Her lips quirk into a little smile as she remembers the various boyfriends Cheryl had stolen from Sandra over the years. More than one of them had been pilots.
"I don't think you have anything to worry about," Bill chuckles, taking Laura's hand again.
Sandra shoots him a dark look. "They all say that," she sighs, grinding out her cigarette beneath the elegantly pointed toe of her shoe. "I wouldn't bring him in there if I were you, Laura. I think something happened with the latest one, what's-his-name. Daddy asked if Cheryl was bringing him tonight, and she burst into tears and ran upstairs," she adds with a satisfied smirk.
"I'll take my chances," Laura replies, laughing. It feels so natural, bantering with her sister like this. "Come inside with us?"
"Frak no," Sandra says vehemently. "With Cheryl on a rampage?... I'll wait for Hector out here, thanks. But I'll be in later. Don't go to the temple without me."
Laura takes a last look around the darkening garden. "Remember when Mama used to pay us to dig up the dandelions?" she reminisces. "Cheryl was so little, she pulled out all the yellow primroses instead. She was so proud of herself, thought she was going to be rich..."
"As I recall, she didn't get in trouble for that either," Sandra snorts. She lights up another smoke and resumes her nervous pacing.
Laura turns back to Bill. "Okay. Just you and me then," she says, squaring her shoulders. Bill squeezes her hand, gives her an encouraging smile, and together they go through the side door, into the little house.
The scent of home washes over Laura instantly: a faint whiff of chalk dust from the jackets hanging neatly on their pegs beside the door, a lingering cloud of the perfume Sandra thinks is masking the illicit odor of tobacco. There is the papery fragrance of old books, too, and freshly-cut flowers, and something savory emanating from the kitchen.
In the living room, Edward Roslin sits in his armchair like a deposed king in exile. The sight of him, his nose buried in the newspaper (the sports pages, undoubtedly, for the boxing scores) brings a tearful smile to Laura's face. Despite the worn leather of the chair, the polished brass and dark wood he's chosen to demarcate his territory, the room around him is a distinctly feminine space, haphazardly strewn with his daughters' belongings.
Cheryl herself is sprawled on the flowery carpet beside the coffee table, surrounded by piles of dog-eared books, scribbling furiously in a loose-leaf notebook. She looks up with red-rimmed eyes as Laura enters the room.
"'I can feel that I have been changed, I can feel that death has come near me'--Laura, who wrote that?" Cheryl demands, chewing on the end of her pen.
"Hello, sweetheart," their father's voice issues from behind the newspaper. "I'm so glad you're here to help Cheryl with her love letters--"
"It's not a love letter if you're not in love," Cheryl fumes. "It's a treacherous frakweasel letter--"
Edward lowers the newspaper just a little and rolls his eyes at Laura; she hides her smile behind one hand. But when Bill moves to stand beside her, Edward finally folds the paper and sets it aside. "Who's this dashing soldier you've brought home?" he asks, looking up with sudden interest.
Cheryl's head snaps up at that; her jaw goes slack, and she fumbles the pen. Bill looks mildly discomfited, but steps forward, offering his hand to Laura's father. "Bill Adama," he says. "And that's Kataris you were just quoting," he adds politely in Cheryl's direction.
Cheryl's lip begins to quiver. She gives a strangled cry, then leaps to her feet and flees the room. Moments later, a door slams shut somewhere upstairs.
"There, there, dear," Edward says absently, watching the leaves of paper Cheryl has scattered behind her floating down in slow, seesawing arcs. "I like this one," Edward nods approvingly at Bill. "Take him in to meet your mother; she's in the kitchen, of course--"
Her mother. Alive and healthy, engrossed in the preparations for whichever god the family is honoring this evening. A knot of tears gathers in Laura's throat; she feels Bill's steadying hands on her shoulders. Her father is back to perusing the classified ads. The notion of Judith Roslin bustling in the kitchen again is apparently perfectly ordinary to him. But to her... to her, it's the most astonishing of all the little miracles she's witnessed today.
Bill hangs back as Laura opens the door into the kitchen. She turns her head gratefully towards him as she steps through. He'll be there in a moment, she knows, but this first moment belongs to her alone.
The kitchen is exactly as Laura remembers it: cluttered but cheerful. The aroma of cinnamon and cloves hangs in the air, mingling with the heavy fragrance of the flowers which Judith is sorting into piles on the kitchen table. A votive burns before the idol of Aphrodite, which has been given pride of place in the niche in the wall.
"Mama," Laura whispers.
"Oh, Laura, dear," Judith sighs gratefully, swiping the back of one hand across her forehead. She's so young, so vital; barely older than Laura herself. Her abundant red hair is pinned up and out of the way. "Good. You can help with the flowers. There's so much still to do, and no one to help me do it. Cheryl's in her room crying, Sandy's fumbling in the bushes with that Libran boy--"
Laura laughs as she brushes away her tears. Of course their mother knew.
Bill steps through the door, an uncertain expression on his face. Judith lifts an eyebrow; her glance flickers from Laura to Bill, then back again.
"I never thought I'd see the day when Laura brought someone home for Aphrodisia, and Cheryl didn't," she chuckles.
"Aphrodisia," Laura murmurs. "Of course! We'll take these flowers to the temple, and pray for luck in love--"
"It looks like you could sit this year out if you wanted," Judith remarks, studying Bill's medals speculatively. "Is this an admiral you've brought home? Has Cheryl seen him yet?"
Bill grins wryly. "I think I scared her off," he quips, offering his hand. "Bill Adama."
Judith takes his hand and squeezes it affectionately. "Never mind. Cheryl had it coming, believe me. Aphrodite's lessons are bitter--"
"--but her gifts are the sweetest of all," Laura choruses.
"That's right, sweetheart. I'm glad that one of my daughters has been paying attention."
Judith enfolds her eldest daughter in her arms. Laura buries her face in her mother's neck and sobs with happiness.
--
Laura awakens with tears in her eyes, and Bill's strong arms wrapped around her.
"Bill," Laura whispers, "were you--"
"Yes." His hand caresses her flushed cheek as he studies her intently, searching her radiant countenance for an explanation. "What do you think it means?" Bill muses.
Laura considers the question for a long moment. "Maybe Earth doesn't matter," she says at last. "Maybe this... here, with you, is where I was always meant to be. Home," she whispers.
"Home," Bill repeats thoughtfully, savoring the unfamiliar word.
Laura lies back against the pillow. "Aphrodite's gifts are the sweetest of all," she murmurs. "My mother was right about that."
Bill chuckles, pulling her closer. Laura goes to him joyfully.