Fic: Latter Days (BSG)
Title: Latter Days
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Prompt: Laura Roslin and Anastasia Dualla / intersections
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Set around 4.04 "Escape Velocity"
Author's Notes: 1800 words. Written for I Will Not Be Afraid of Women: A Female Friendships Ficathon (galpalficathon). The deviation from fanfic-standard, limited omniscient narration is intentional. I don't know whether or not it works (though I hope it does, at least somewhat), but regardless, it's definitely there for a reason. For all its brevity, this story required something of a group beta effort. Many thanks to gabolange, dionusia, and siljamus for their indispensable suggestions, and thanks to the whole flist for listening to me brainstorm.
--
While Galactica sleeps, she belongs to Dee. "The graveyard shift," Hoshi had commented, envy in his voice. Dee had smiled faintly, made a quip about losing sleep.
Promotion comes recklessly after the end of the world, especially when most of your superior officers take off to chase visions or wrangle politicians. Dee is one of the most experienced operations officers left on the ship; even Hoshi, who graduated from officers' training college when it existed, who suspects he might have advanced more quickly if he had originally belonged to Galactica instead of Pegasus, wouldn't argue with that.
Dee arrived punctually for her first command shift, relieving the admiral with what she hoped was confidence before sliding her hand along the edge of the table and asking for a sit rep.
Galactica is not the first battlestar Dee has commanded: she is, after all, the only surviving XO of the Pegasus. There had been a few cries of nepotism, but most people hadn't blinked at Dee's promotion back then, either; the competition to sit in the Pegasus's CIC, orbiting solid ground, was not keen. No one remembers this now; survival seems to demand short memories. The Pegasus recedes, its sleek lines as blurred by distance as the Colonies themselves.
--
The fleet's paper-recycling capabilities have always been inefficient, and they've started rationing in earnest. Briefings and reports are oral now. Colonel Tigh regularly complains about this, and Dee wonders whether he really has such difficulty remembering or if he prefers not to try. A good memory requires discipline and introspection, neither of which is among the colonel's strengths. Dee has an excellent memory.
In the mornings she brings her report to the admiral. She thinks of him that way now-"the admiral"-and avoids calling him anything but "sir." Their relationship has been awkward and ambiguous since she and Lee split; she's at once too close to the admiral and too distant from him. For all his adopted children, Dee has never really belonged to him, despite having more claim than anyone, loving him as much as anyone. Now she delivers her reports, and he calls her "Lieutenant" and never acknowledges the year and a half he spent subtly petitioning her for a grandchild.
Dee perceives his discomfort around her, but she does not know how much the admiral wishes things were different. He dreams of the impossible: the president healthy and always by his side; Zak alive and with Kara, who is nothing more than the best pilot in the fleet; Lee and Dee; Helo and Sharon; all of them happily populating the perfect planet Earth. Dee cannot see the admiral's fictions, but she recognizes his need to fall back on military protocol around her and even the instinct of self-preservation that inspires it.
Daily, Dee arrives at the admiral's quarters to deliver her report. She is concise yet thorough. He occasionally spares a piece of scrap paper for notes. He meets her near the door, never really inviting her in, dismissing her as soon as he can. Sometimes she hears the president moving around in the darkness of the sleeping area. Once or twice, when the president has had an early meeting, she has passed through the front of the cabin and murmured a greeting to Dee.
Sometimes Hoshi presses her for gossip-"she's really just living there, no pretense or anything?"-but Dee keeps her mouth shut. She isn't reticent about her opinions when it matters, but she doesn't gossip. Not about the admiral and the president. Not now that the president is dying again.
If Felix were here, perhaps she would tell him. There are a dozen moments each day that she files away for Felix's return, stories for slow moments in CIC or conversation over dinner. Or perhaps she would keep her daily sojourn to the admiral's quarters for herself: glimpses of the admiral and the president in the private shadows of early morning, Dee alone the silent observer.
--
The Colonel is late relieving her-he's badly hungover and looks like he's been in a fight, but Dee says nothing-and Dee is late to deliver her report. She is surprised to hear her knock answered by the president's voice, and enters to find the president alone.
The first time the president was dying, Dee hovered on the outskirts of sickbay. Dee was with Billy then, and she pulled Billy away at intervals to make him eat and sleep, freeing the chair by the president's bedside so the admiral could slip in when he thought no one was looking. Dee was only on the edges of that drama, never spending any actual time with the president, but the snatches of memories of her, pale and small and dying, come rushing back to Dee as she sees the pale, small, dying woman lying on the couch in the admiral's quarters. The president wears a white bathrobe, under a stack of khaki military-issue blankets, and her face and hands are bloodless; the green scarf wrapped around her head contributes the only color at all.
"Lieutenant," the president says as she enters. Roslin's voice is tired but amiable. "The newest crop of pilots are earning their wings this morning, and the admiral had to give a speech. He asks if you can meet him in CIC in half an hour for the report. He tried to call, but you must have just missed one another."
"Of course. Thank you, Madam President. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."
The president smiles faintly in acknowledgment and resumes her reading-some report important enough to be printed-as Dee turns to go. The shrill whistle of a kettle interrupts Dee's exit. The electric kettle is across the room, and Dee catches the flicker of exhausted resignation on the president's face as she shifts and reaches for the blankets.
"May I get that for you, Madam President?" Dee asks suddenly. "You don't need to get up."
Roslin fixes Dee with a look of determined self-sufficiency, but then lets it falter, relief coming through instead. "Thank you, Lieutenant. There is a mug and a tea bag next to the kettle, if you don't mind."
Dee doesn't hurry as she turns the kettle off, washes out the mug, pours the tea. She wants to do this for the president, wants to do anything she can. She wants the president to know this, but can't imagine how to tell her. I helped you escape from prison, Dee wants to tell her. I helped you steal an election. My marriage was in shambles, but I stayed until he put you on the witness stand like that; that was the final straw. I've loved the same men you've loved. I've always believed in you.
When Dee was still with Lee, the admiral would invite them to dinner every couple of weeks. One evening the president was to come as well, an incursion into family dinner that the admiral clearly viewed as symbolic. Lee was skeptical; Dee was secretly thrilled. But skirmishes broke out that day in Dogsville, occupying the admiral with security and the president with the Quorum discussing alternatives to the housing crisis. Dinner was cancelled, and then came the trial, the end of her marriage, and Kara's return; Dee's second family slipped into the past along with her first.
She thinks of asking the president about Lee. Dee hasn't talked to him in weeks and can't help worrying about how he's doing; she wants him to be happy. But she's heard the rumors about volatile Quorum meetings, Lee and the president facing off, so Dee won't ask Roslin about Lee. She won't ask about the admiral, either, though she worries more about her ex-father-in-law than she worries about her ex-husband. She watches him pace the ship each day as though everything he's ever cared about is slipping through his fingers. Dee can't help him, any more than she can help Lee, so she trusts the president with her former family and silently begs her not to die.
If asked, Dee would say she has few regrets. This would surprise people to know, but they do not ask. She regrets not reconciling with her father before he died. She regrets not taking enough time on New Caprica to breathe fresh air and feel solid ground under her feet. She does not regret marrying Lee or leaving him. She does not regret loving Billy or leaving him when she did, though she does feel a stab of grief, even now, when she thinks of him.
As she turns to bring the president her tea, Dee wonders how many people in the fleet still remember Billy. Some would recall him if reminded, of course, but she doubts there are any besides the president and herself who remember to think of him.
"Here you are, Madam President. Is there anything else I can get you?" Dee wishes suddenly, irrationally, that the president would call her Anastasia. No one other than her parents ever did; she would scarcely recognize it as her own name anymore.
The president smiles as she takes the tea; she's visibly tired and weak, but her smile is bright and genuine. "No, I'm fine, Lieutenant."
Just as Dee moves to step away, the president touches her wrist. "Thank you," she says, gripping Dee's hand tightly for a moment.
Roslin keeps her public persona in place; she shows few indications of weakness, even in illness, even to someone as perceptive as Dee. Dee does not see how much the president wishes the young officer would stay for a while, to distract her with amusing ship's gossip that never reaches the ears of the president or admiral, or to reminisce about Billy. Roslin misses Billy terribly these days, though she and Dee would agree, if they spoke of it, that perhaps it was a blessing Billy was spared the horrors of the past two years.
Neither does Dee perceive the request the president has filed away for her. Someday soon, the president may send for Dee, or may write her a letter: I am dying now, and someone must take care of the admiral. Roslin does not trust the Kara Thrace who returned from the dead, and Lee, for all his love, rarely makes his father's life peaceful. The admiral will need someone to hold his world together when she is gone; the president has decided it will be Dee.
But Roslin does not give herself away, except perhaps in holding on a little too long and a little too tightly to Dee's hand. The president's grip is still strong despite her illness; Dee squeezes back and doesn't want to let go. "You're welcome, ma'am. Anything I can do, any time."
The president nods once, and Dee believes she sees recognition in her eyes. Twice over, they have almost been family, and at the end of the world that's more than enough. Dee glances back before opening the hatch and watches the president sip her tea.
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Prompt: Laura Roslin and Anastasia Dualla / intersections
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Set around 4.04 "Escape Velocity"
Author's Notes: 1800 words. Written for I Will Not Be Afraid of Women: A Female Friendships Ficathon (galpalficathon). The deviation from fanfic-standard, limited omniscient narration is intentional. I don't know whether or not it works (though I hope it does, at least somewhat), but regardless, it's definitely there for a reason. For all its brevity, this story required something of a group beta effort. Many thanks to gabolange, dionusia, and siljamus for their indispensable suggestions, and thanks to the whole flist for listening to me brainstorm.
--
While Galactica sleeps, she belongs to Dee. "The graveyard shift," Hoshi had commented, envy in his voice. Dee had smiled faintly, made a quip about losing sleep.
Promotion comes recklessly after the end of the world, especially when most of your superior officers take off to chase visions or wrangle politicians. Dee is one of the most experienced operations officers left on the ship; even Hoshi, who graduated from officers' training college when it existed, who suspects he might have advanced more quickly if he had originally belonged to Galactica instead of Pegasus, wouldn't argue with that.
Dee arrived punctually for her first command shift, relieving the admiral with what she hoped was confidence before sliding her hand along the edge of the table and asking for a sit rep.
Galactica is not the first battlestar Dee has commanded: she is, after all, the only surviving XO of the Pegasus. There had been a few cries of nepotism, but most people hadn't blinked at Dee's promotion back then, either; the competition to sit in the Pegasus's CIC, orbiting solid ground, was not keen. No one remembers this now; survival seems to demand short memories. The Pegasus recedes, its sleek lines as blurred by distance as the Colonies themselves.
--
The fleet's paper-recycling capabilities have always been inefficient, and they've started rationing in earnest. Briefings and reports are oral now. Colonel Tigh regularly complains about this, and Dee wonders whether he really has such difficulty remembering or if he prefers not to try. A good memory requires discipline and introspection, neither of which is among the colonel's strengths. Dee has an excellent memory.
In the mornings she brings her report to the admiral. She thinks of him that way now-"the admiral"-and avoids calling him anything but "sir." Their relationship has been awkward and ambiguous since she and Lee split; she's at once too close to the admiral and too distant from him. For all his adopted children, Dee has never really belonged to him, despite having more claim than anyone, loving him as much as anyone. Now she delivers her reports, and he calls her "Lieutenant" and never acknowledges the year and a half he spent subtly petitioning her for a grandchild.
Dee perceives his discomfort around her, but she does not know how much the admiral wishes things were different. He dreams of the impossible: the president healthy and always by his side; Zak alive and with Kara, who is nothing more than the best pilot in the fleet; Lee and Dee; Helo and Sharon; all of them happily populating the perfect planet Earth. Dee cannot see the admiral's fictions, but she recognizes his need to fall back on military protocol around her and even the instinct of self-preservation that inspires it.
Daily, Dee arrives at the admiral's quarters to deliver her report. She is concise yet thorough. He occasionally spares a piece of scrap paper for notes. He meets her near the door, never really inviting her in, dismissing her as soon as he can. Sometimes she hears the president moving around in the darkness of the sleeping area. Once or twice, when the president has had an early meeting, she has passed through the front of the cabin and murmured a greeting to Dee.
Sometimes Hoshi presses her for gossip-"she's really just living there, no pretense or anything?"-but Dee keeps her mouth shut. She isn't reticent about her opinions when it matters, but she doesn't gossip. Not about the admiral and the president. Not now that the president is dying again.
If Felix were here, perhaps she would tell him. There are a dozen moments each day that she files away for Felix's return, stories for slow moments in CIC or conversation over dinner. Or perhaps she would keep her daily sojourn to the admiral's quarters for herself: glimpses of the admiral and the president in the private shadows of early morning, Dee alone the silent observer.
--
The Colonel is late relieving her-he's badly hungover and looks like he's been in a fight, but Dee says nothing-and Dee is late to deliver her report. She is surprised to hear her knock answered by the president's voice, and enters to find the president alone.
The first time the president was dying, Dee hovered on the outskirts of sickbay. Dee was with Billy then, and she pulled Billy away at intervals to make him eat and sleep, freeing the chair by the president's bedside so the admiral could slip in when he thought no one was looking. Dee was only on the edges of that drama, never spending any actual time with the president, but the snatches of memories of her, pale and small and dying, come rushing back to Dee as she sees the pale, small, dying woman lying on the couch in the admiral's quarters. The president wears a white bathrobe, under a stack of khaki military-issue blankets, and her face and hands are bloodless; the green scarf wrapped around her head contributes the only color at all.
"Lieutenant," the president says as she enters. Roslin's voice is tired but amiable. "The newest crop of pilots are earning their wings this morning, and the admiral had to give a speech. He asks if you can meet him in CIC in half an hour for the report. He tried to call, but you must have just missed one another."
"Of course. Thank you, Madam President. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."
The president smiles faintly in acknowledgment and resumes her reading-some report important enough to be printed-as Dee turns to go. The shrill whistle of a kettle interrupts Dee's exit. The electric kettle is across the room, and Dee catches the flicker of exhausted resignation on the president's face as she shifts and reaches for the blankets.
"May I get that for you, Madam President?" Dee asks suddenly. "You don't need to get up."
Roslin fixes Dee with a look of determined self-sufficiency, but then lets it falter, relief coming through instead. "Thank you, Lieutenant. There is a mug and a tea bag next to the kettle, if you don't mind."
Dee doesn't hurry as she turns the kettle off, washes out the mug, pours the tea. She wants to do this for the president, wants to do anything she can. She wants the president to know this, but can't imagine how to tell her. I helped you escape from prison, Dee wants to tell her. I helped you steal an election. My marriage was in shambles, but I stayed until he put you on the witness stand like that; that was the final straw. I've loved the same men you've loved. I've always believed in you.
When Dee was still with Lee, the admiral would invite them to dinner every couple of weeks. One evening the president was to come as well, an incursion into family dinner that the admiral clearly viewed as symbolic. Lee was skeptical; Dee was secretly thrilled. But skirmishes broke out that day in Dogsville, occupying the admiral with security and the president with the Quorum discussing alternatives to the housing crisis. Dinner was cancelled, and then came the trial, the end of her marriage, and Kara's return; Dee's second family slipped into the past along with her first.
She thinks of asking the president about Lee. Dee hasn't talked to him in weeks and can't help worrying about how he's doing; she wants him to be happy. But she's heard the rumors about volatile Quorum meetings, Lee and the president facing off, so Dee won't ask Roslin about Lee. She won't ask about the admiral, either, though she worries more about her ex-father-in-law than she worries about her ex-husband. She watches him pace the ship each day as though everything he's ever cared about is slipping through his fingers. Dee can't help him, any more than she can help Lee, so she trusts the president with her former family and silently begs her not to die.
If asked, Dee would say she has few regrets. This would surprise people to know, but they do not ask. She regrets not reconciling with her father before he died. She regrets not taking enough time on New Caprica to breathe fresh air and feel solid ground under her feet. She does not regret marrying Lee or leaving him. She does not regret loving Billy or leaving him when she did, though she does feel a stab of grief, even now, when she thinks of him.
As she turns to bring the president her tea, Dee wonders how many people in the fleet still remember Billy. Some would recall him if reminded, of course, but she doubts there are any besides the president and herself who remember to think of him.
"Here you are, Madam President. Is there anything else I can get you?" Dee wishes suddenly, irrationally, that the president would call her Anastasia. No one other than her parents ever did; she would scarcely recognize it as her own name anymore.
The president smiles as she takes the tea; she's visibly tired and weak, but her smile is bright and genuine. "No, I'm fine, Lieutenant."
Just as Dee moves to step away, the president touches her wrist. "Thank you," she says, gripping Dee's hand tightly for a moment.
Roslin keeps her public persona in place; she shows few indications of weakness, even in illness, even to someone as perceptive as Dee. Dee does not see how much the president wishes the young officer would stay for a while, to distract her with amusing ship's gossip that never reaches the ears of the president or admiral, or to reminisce about Billy. Roslin misses Billy terribly these days, though she and Dee would agree, if they spoke of it, that perhaps it was a blessing Billy was spared the horrors of the past two years.
Neither does Dee perceive the request the president has filed away for her. Someday soon, the president may send for Dee, or may write her a letter: I am dying now, and someone must take care of the admiral. Roslin does not trust the Kara Thrace who returned from the dead, and Lee, for all his love, rarely makes his father's life peaceful. The admiral will need someone to hold his world together when she is gone; the president has decided it will be Dee.
But Roslin does not give herself away, except perhaps in holding on a little too long and a little too tightly to Dee's hand. The president's grip is still strong despite her illness; Dee squeezes back and doesn't want to let go. "You're welcome, ma'am. Anything I can do, any time."
The president nods once, and Dee believes she sees recognition in her eyes. Twice over, they have almost been family, and at the end of the world that's more than enough. Dee glances back before opening the hatch and watches the president sip her tea.