Ficlet: Grounded (BSG; A/R)
Jul. 5th, 2006 10:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
andverygingerFiclet: Grounded
Fandom: BSG. Adama/Roslin (implied).
Rating: General.
Spoilers: "Lay Down Your Burdens, Pt. 2"
Summary: Roslin finds a moment of clarity in her waking nightmare.
Note: Inspired by this post by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimbari, over on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
adama_roslin, and all the comments. This one's a quickie, so it's unbeta'd. Still, hope it passes muster!
She was suddenly struck by the unreality of it all: Standing aboard Colonial One in the small mass of people collected to induct Dr. Gaius Baltar into office as President of the Twelve Colonies. Dr. Gaius Baltar, genius; Dr. Gaius Baltar, traitor. She wondered how long it would be before his true colors would shine through…and how many would have to die because of it.
Beside him was Vice-President Tom Zarek. She blinked. Another anomaly in solid form. A former terrorist seeking power for his own sake and yet...would he follow Baltar to the other side? Inwardly, she shook her head. No; when it all came down to the wire, she knew where Zarek stood -- with humanity. How ironic, she thought, that their hope rested with a man who, if given the opportunity, would have taken her out with one shot.
And still all of it felt as though it were a waking nightmare -- that at any instant, she would wake up aboard Colonial One, that she would still be the president, still be in charge. Emptiness clutched at her from the inside; the responsibility lifted from her shoulders should have been a relief. But without it, she felt as though she might float away.
Until his hand brushed gently against hers.
Her gaze drifted down, following the expanse of dark sleeve covering his arm, resting finally on the wiry, olive-skinned hand now resting so close to hers. This was a hand that had clutched the flightstick of a Viper during the first Cylon war; it was a hand that now directed the safety of the surviving fleet. It was a hand that, like his eyes, reflected his moods: gently caressing the edges of a glass as he thought; clenched at his sides as he stalked the corridors in anger; pinching the bridge of his nose as he sighed in frustration; folded with its opposite in his lap as he attempted to listen passively. It was also a hand, she reflected, that did very few things by accident.
Slowly, her eyes closing as she swallowed, she returned the gesture. No other part of their bodies moved as their fingers silently intertwined, linked, but barely touching. The warmth of his touch pierced the fog surrounding her and rekindled her hope.
For the moment, she was grounded...and Bill Adama was her anchor.
Fandom: BSG. Adama/Roslin (implied).
Rating: General.
Spoilers: "Lay Down Your Burdens, Pt. 2"
Summary: Roslin finds a moment of clarity in her waking nightmare.
Note: Inspired by this post by
kimbari, over on adama_roslin, and all the comments. This one's a quickie, so it's unbeta'd. Still, hope it passes muster!She was suddenly struck by the unreality of it all: Standing aboard Colonial One in the small mass of people collected to induct Dr. Gaius Baltar into office as President of the Twelve Colonies. Dr. Gaius Baltar, genius; Dr. Gaius Baltar, traitor. She wondered how long it would be before his true colors would shine through…and how many would have to die because of it.
Beside him was Vice-President Tom Zarek. She blinked. Another anomaly in solid form. A former terrorist seeking power for his own sake and yet...would he follow Baltar to the other side? Inwardly, she shook her head. No; when it all came down to the wire, she knew where Zarek stood -- with humanity. How ironic, she thought, that their hope rested with a man who, if given the opportunity, would have taken her out with one shot.
And still all of it felt as though it were a waking nightmare -- that at any instant, she would wake up aboard Colonial One, that she would still be the president, still be in charge. Emptiness clutched at her from the inside; the responsibility lifted from her shoulders should have been a relief. But without it, she felt as though she might float away.
Until his hand brushed gently against hers.
Her gaze drifted down, following the expanse of dark sleeve covering his arm, resting finally on the wiry, olive-skinned hand now resting so close to hers. This was a hand that had clutched the flightstick of a Viper during the first Cylon war; it was a hand that now directed the safety of the surviving fleet. It was a hand that, like his eyes, reflected his moods: gently caressing the edges of a glass as he thought; clenched at his sides as he stalked the corridors in anger; pinching the bridge of his nose as he sighed in frustration; folded with its opposite in his lap as he attempted to listen passively. It was also a hand, she reflected, that did very few things by accident.
Slowly, her eyes closing as she swallowed, she returned the gesture. No other part of their bodies moved as their fingers silently intertwined, linked, but barely touching. The warmth of his touch pierced the fog surrounding her and rekindled her hope.
For the moment, she was grounded...and Bill Adama was her anchor.