Ficlet: Will
Jul. 6th, 2006 01:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
andverygingerFiclet: Will
Fandom: BSG. Adama/Roslin (implied).
Spoilers: "Lay Down Your Burdens, Pts 1 & 2."
Summary: She will survive. He will come back.
Notes: Okay, so the muses have eaten my brain, and apparently it was tasty. Takes place at some point shortly after LDYB2. As with the other ficlets this week, it's unbeta'd, so any errors and short-comings are entirely my own.
The sweater is bulky and gray, reminiscent of something I might have work on a cold weekend morning on Caprica. It's not something I would have worn to work -- not there, and definitely not as President of the Twelve Colonies. But I'm not president any more. Frak, there are times I wonder if I'm even alive any more.
New Caprica is hardly the Elysian Fields the electorate believed it to be; among other things, they're seeing that now in the constant grey skies and frigid rainstorms that plague us. They were tired of fighting and tired of running, so I suppose I shouldn't blame them. The vicious side of me, however, thinks they got exactly what they deserved.
I'm always cold here. No matter how many layers I put on, it creeps into my bones and lingers. Before, it was the cancer; now, even as healthy as I am, it's this damned weather. There are times I regret my decision to come here. Even as much as the children needed me, I frequently ask myself if it's worth this. The answer is always yes, but given the choice, I think I'd rather be aboard a ship in the fleet, headed for Astral Body M8.
I close my eyes and I can almost imagine the warm glow of the lights, the soft cushion of a comfortable sofa, books stacked haphazardly around. What I remember are his quarters, of course, the cramped, cluttered, warm, and inviting quarters aboard Galactica that became my second home in the final days of my presidency. I remember the conversations we had over coffee or tea; cherishing a glass of water as though it were a fine vintage. I sigh. I have to admit, I miss him.
Anger stirs slightly within me and I frown. There's still a part of me that resents my feelings. When did I grow accustomed to having him around? When did I start needing him there as a sounding board and a confidante? Even now, I can recall every conversation we've had, everytime he's touched me; the images of our first kiss are particularly vivid, even as weak as I was at the time. There just hasn't been time for a second. It's really only a matter of time, however -- if I survive this. If he comes back.
The hiss of hydraulics is ever present as the Cylon shepherds watch their flock. As I open my eyes, another one marches by, making its usual patrol. There's a tension in the air, as though time itself has been suspended, waiting for the cue to re-engage. I wonder idly if the Cylons can feel it, too. It's bubbling just below the surface -- for all of us -- as we wait for the Fates to intervene.
The red beam of a passing sentry washes over me and I straighten. My chin adopts a defiant angle as it leans in for a closer inspection. It knows me, who I am, and what I was. For that, I warrant special attention.
A long moment passes. I can hear the rain tapping gently on the Centurion's metal casing, can hear the gentle whir of the machinery within. Somewhere deep inside, it eventually decides it doesn't have orders to kill me -- at least not now -- and so it turns and resumes its post. I release a breath I didn't know I was holding.
I stand watching for a long time after it has disappeared behind a steady curtain of rain.
I will survive this.
He will come back.
So say we all.
Fandom: BSG. Adama/Roslin (implied).
Spoilers: "Lay Down Your Burdens, Pts 1 & 2."
Summary: She will survive. He will come back.
Notes: Okay, so the muses have eaten my brain, and apparently it was tasty. Takes place at some point shortly after LDYB2. As with the other ficlets this week, it's unbeta'd, so any errors and short-comings are entirely my own.
The sweater is bulky and gray, reminiscent of something I might have work on a cold weekend morning on Caprica. It's not something I would have worn to work -- not there, and definitely not as President of the Twelve Colonies. But I'm not president any more. Frak, there are times I wonder if I'm even alive any more.
New Caprica is hardly the Elysian Fields the electorate believed it to be; among other things, they're seeing that now in the constant grey skies and frigid rainstorms that plague us. They were tired of fighting and tired of running, so I suppose I shouldn't blame them. The vicious side of me, however, thinks they got exactly what they deserved.
I'm always cold here. No matter how many layers I put on, it creeps into my bones and lingers. Before, it was the cancer; now, even as healthy as I am, it's this damned weather. There are times I regret my decision to come here. Even as much as the children needed me, I frequently ask myself if it's worth this. The answer is always yes, but given the choice, I think I'd rather be aboard a ship in the fleet, headed for Astral Body M8.
I close my eyes and I can almost imagine the warm glow of the lights, the soft cushion of a comfortable sofa, books stacked haphazardly around. What I remember are his quarters, of course, the cramped, cluttered, warm, and inviting quarters aboard Galactica that became my second home in the final days of my presidency. I remember the conversations we had over coffee or tea; cherishing a glass of water as though it were a fine vintage. I sigh. I have to admit, I miss him.
Anger stirs slightly within me and I frown. There's still a part of me that resents my feelings. When did I grow accustomed to having him around? When did I start needing him there as a sounding board and a confidante? Even now, I can recall every conversation we've had, everytime he's touched me; the images of our first kiss are particularly vivid, even as weak as I was at the time. There just hasn't been time for a second. It's really only a matter of time, however -- if I survive this. If he comes back.
The hiss of hydraulics is ever present as the Cylon shepherds watch their flock. As I open my eyes, another one marches by, making its usual patrol. There's a tension in the air, as though time itself has been suspended, waiting for the cue to re-engage. I wonder idly if the Cylons can feel it, too. It's bubbling just below the surface -- for all of us -- as we wait for the Fates to intervene.
The red beam of a passing sentry washes over me and I straighten. My chin adopts a defiant angle as it leans in for a closer inspection. It knows me, who I am, and what I was. For that, I warrant special attention.
A long moment passes. I can hear the rain tapping gently on the Centurion's metal casing, can hear the gentle whir of the machinery within. Somewhere deep inside, it eventually decides it doesn't have orders to kill me -- at least not now -- and so it turns and resumes its post. I release a breath I didn't know I was holding.
I stand watching for a long time after it has disappeared behind a steady curtain of rain.
I will survive this.
He will come back.
So say we all.