BSG Fic: Denouement
Feb. 12th, 2008 10:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
andverygingerTitle: Denouement
Author: Becca (AKA Galatea)
Fandom: BSG
Summary: A follow-on from "Crossroads, Pt. 1": Lee and his father deal with fallout from the president's testimony. (Adama/Roslin implied.)
Spoilers: Up to "Crossroads, Pt. 1."
Disclaimer: I totally don't own BSG or the characters. I just took the hot rod out for a joy ride. They all really belong to Ron Moore, Universal Television, Sci-Fi, and all those other big people who get to go back to work soon.
Author's Note: Cookies go to my friend, Denise, for giving this a quick once over. Any mistakes you see now are my own.
“You knew.”
Admiral Bill Adama glanced up over the rim of his glasses, finding his son standing just inside the hatch to his quarters. Behind him, Saul Tigh hovered just over his right shoulder. Glancing back down, he quickly scrawled his signature on a form and passed it back to the exec. “Thanks, Saul.”
The colonel took the folder, narrowing his single eye at the well-dressed younger man. “You want me to escort this civilian off the ship?”
In the hatch, Lee Adama straightened; his father bristled. Despite everything, Lee was still his son. “Saul – I’ll see you in the CIC.”
“Right.” Tigh rounded the corner, tapping the folder on his opposite hand. As he neared the hatch, however, he brushed slightly against Lee’s shoulder. “Sorry, kid. Depth perception’s not what it used to be.” Smirking, he ducked into the passageway.
A long moment of silence followed his departure. Neither Adama made an attempt to move. It was Lee who finally spoke, repeating his statement. “You knew.” His father remained silent, and he continued. “You knew and you were trying to cover for her.”
Again, the elder Adama said nothing. Grey eyes flared behind his lenses, but he said nothing. Lee stepped forward, pressing what he saw as his advantage. “So when did she tell you? In one of your meetings? Over coffee? Or was it some late-night pillow talk?”
“That’s enough!” The voice emerged hard, sharp as the admiral erupted to his feet. “Like it or not, she is still President of the Twelve Colonies, and Commander-in-Chief of this fleet. She deserves your respect.”
“Her office deserves my respect,” Lee retorted, “but she tried to make a mockery of our justice system. You can’t expect me to respect her for that.”
“She was the one locked up down there. The world was going to shit down on that planet, and she carried enough respect that they arrested her, questioned her about the insurgency.
“Do you know where she was when we arrived?” The admiral continued. “The back of a truck, in the middle of nowhere. The firing squad was ready. Her hands were tied, and they were being lined up...”
Lee watched as his father gripped the edge of his desk until his knuckles paled. When he spoke again, his voice was a strange mixture of barely contained anger and -- dare he think it? -- fear. “Your client was the driving force behind that. He surrendered the colony, he signed the execution orders. Regardless of the court decision, she has every right to be angry -- to be pissed at the man.”
Slowly the admiral met his son’s stare. “She’s still human, son.”
Lee reeled, feeling as though he’d been struck. Eighteen months ago, he might have shrugged off such a revelation; eighteen months ago, he had been willing to split with his father and follow her into the very depths. Such devotion seemed fitting for a goddess on par with Hera herself.
But he had been “Captain Apollo” then: strong, determined, invincible – possibly a god himself. Time had changed that. They had lost so many, and the war...it dragged on and on and on. “Captain Apollo” had long since fallen to the wayside. He had been replaced by a wearier, warier Major Lee Adama... and Major Adama didn’t have time or energy for hero worship.
Still, there was something special about Laura Roslin. As President of the Colonies, she had frequently been denied the luxury of emotion; her resilience and quiet strength seemed to further separate her from the fleet of mere mortals. Lee had to admit that even his weary, wary self still placed her on a dais, if no longer a pedestal. But after New Caprica, the goddess was angry; she was frightened; she was hurt. And she wanted Baltar to pay for leaving her weak and vulnerable.
On some level, Lee had been aware of this crack in the marble. It had, he realized, left him feeling betrayed, used. Perhaps that was why he delved so deeply, so willingly into his cross-examination of the president -- he wanted to see her pay. His questions sliced and eviscerated; he stripped her of her political mantle, leaving her bare before the masses.
There was one political lesson the president had learned, however, and one he, as defense, should have known as well: Never ask a question to which you don’t already know the answer. That was why she pushed him, had him drag the revelation about her cancer from her. He had sought to destroy her credibility as a witness and, in the end, stood in the center of a stunned courtroom as she reclaimed not only her political power, but her spiritual clout as well. He frowned. She had paid for her perceived betrayal, but he had paid for his own.
Embarrassment coursed through his veins anew with the memory. So shell shocked from the testimony at the time, he had not processed exactly the silent communication between his father and the president, nor had he understood the admiral’s constant interjections. In the heat of the moment, he attributed them to his father’s sense of duty – protecting the President – or maybe his antique sense of chivalry. As he stalked the passageways of Galactica afterward, however, the scene replayed endlessly in his mind. He had seen that type of communication before: First with Starbuck, and more recently with Dee. It was a language of wordless communication, born of time spent together, of shared campaigns. Suddenly, his father’s protests took on a larger meaning.
The realization rekindled the feelings of betrayal. This time, however, the blast was directed toward his father. The Old Man knew about her cancer; knew why she was drinking chamalla tea; knew she was experiencing “visions” again. Hell, he probably even believed them at this point. He also knew his son was diving headlong into a line of questioning that could end only one way. But he chose to try and stop Lee, to try and keep her from being exposed. Not because of his duty or some misplaced sense of honor, but instead because he cared for her.
It seemed Zeus had been toppled from his pedestal as well.
“You knew how it was going to end.”
To this, the admiral could only nod. Crossing the room, he poured himself a small glass of water. He stood for a moment and contemplated the clear liquid before speaking. “I knew.”
“And yet it was her you were protecting.”
Time passed, punctuated by a long silence. Lee remained before his father’s desk, watching as the older man rounded the room and took a seat on the overstuffed sofa. When he spoke, his voice was softer, laced with gravel. His attention never left his water glass. “When you were eight years old, you wanted a red bicycle for your birthday. You’d never ridden a day in your life, but you were determined. So, against your mother’s better judgment, I went out with my hazard pay, and bought a red bicycle.
“That afternoon, we took it out to the sidewalk. You remember that? You were ready to climb on, take off racing down the sidewalk, just like your friends. Problem is that riding a bike takes practice and balance, and you had neither. But you refused my help, didn’t want me anywhere near you as you tried to ride for the first time --”
“And wiped out about two feet away.” Lee gave a snort of laughter. “I still have the scars to prove it. What’s your point?”
“The point is that no father likes to see his kid take a fall, least of all when it could have been prevented.”
The younger Adama arched his brows. “So you were protecting me?”
“I was trying to protect you both. You’re still my son.”
Shaking his head, Lee stuffed his hands down into his pockets. He regarded his father with an expression that was both amused and pensive. “So what is she?”
The Old Man paused before speaking, choosing his words carefully. “Pythia. Hera. Madam President.”
“Laura?”
Adama nodded. “Laura.” He drained the last of his water.
Lee knew immediately by his father’s tone which of those identities he held most dear. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How long?”
To this, the admiral shrugged. “Cottle won’t say just yet. He caught it early this time, but...We still don’t know if the diloxin treatments will work.”
“Dad, if she is Pythia...” Lee felt his heart constrict in his chest, unable to finish the thought aloud. He could see the taut lines around his father’s lips, the worry in the way he narrowed his eyes.
“If she’s Pythia, I already know how this is going to end.”
The younger Adama suddenly found himself at a loss for words; his anger dissipated. “I...I’m sorry, Dad.”
“So’m I, son.” He rose from the sofa, depositing the glass onto the coffee table. There was a shift in his manner, and he was once again in command. “Was there anything else, Counselor?”
A sad smile touched the corner of Lee’s lips. “No, Admiral. I think I’ve said my piece.” His chin brushing his chest, he turned and disappeared down the passageway, considerably more philosophical than when he arrived.
Author: Becca (AKA Galatea)
Fandom: BSG
Summary: A follow-on from "Crossroads, Pt. 1": Lee and his father deal with fallout from the president's testimony. (Adama/Roslin implied.)
Spoilers: Up to "Crossroads, Pt. 1."
Disclaimer: I totally don't own BSG or the characters. I just took the hot rod out for a joy ride. They all really belong to Ron Moore, Universal Television, Sci-Fi, and all those other big people who get to go back to work soon.
Author's Note: Cookies go to my friend, Denise, for giving this a quick once over. Any mistakes you see now are my own.
“You knew.”
Admiral Bill Adama glanced up over the rim of his glasses, finding his son standing just inside the hatch to his quarters. Behind him, Saul Tigh hovered just over his right shoulder. Glancing back down, he quickly scrawled his signature on a form and passed it back to the exec. “Thanks, Saul.”
The colonel took the folder, narrowing his single eye at the well-dressed younger man. “You want me to escort this civilian off the ship?”
In the hatch, Lee Adama straightened; his father bristled. Despite everything, Lee was still his son. “Saul – I’ll see you in the CIC.”
“Right.” Tigh rounded the corner, tapping the folder on his opposite hand. As he neared the hatch, however, he brushed slightly against Lee’s shoulder. “Sorry, kid. Depth perception’s not what it used to be.” Smirking, he ducked into the passageway.
A long moment of silence followed his departure. Neither Adama made an attempt to move. It was Lee who finally spoke, repeating his statement. “You knew.” His father remained silent, and he continued. “You knew and you were trying to cover for her.”
Again, the elder Adama said nothing. Grey eyes flared behind his lenses, but he said nothing. Lee stepped forward, pressing what he saw as his advantage. “So when did she tell you? In one of your meetings? Over coffee? Or was it some late-night pillow talk?”
“That’s enough!” The voice emerged hard, sharp as the admiral erupted to his feet. “Like it or not, she is still President of the Twelve Colonies, and Commander-in-Chief of this fleet. She deserves your respect.”
“Her office deserves my respect,” Lee retorted, “but she tried to make a mockery of our justice system. You can’t expect me to respect her for that.”
“She was the one locked up down there. The world was going to shit down on that planet, and she carried enough respect that they arrested her, questioned her about the insurgency.
“Do you know where she was when we arrived?” The admiral continued. “The back of a truck, in the middle of nowhere. The firing squad was ready. Her hands were tied, and they were being lined up...”
Lee watched as his father gripped the edge of his desk until his knuckles paled. When he spoke again, his voice was a strange mixture of barely contained anger and -- dare he think it? -- fear. “Your client was the driving force behind that. He surrendered the colony, he signed the execution orders. Regardless of the court decision, she has every right to be angry -- to be pissed at the man.”
Slowly the admiral met his son’s stare. “She’s still human, son.”
Lee reeled, feeling as though he’d been struck. Eighteen months ago, he might have shrugged off such a revelation; eighteen months ago, he had been willing to split with his father and follow her into the very depths. Such devotion seemed fitting for a goddess on par with Hera herself.
But he had been “Captain Apollo” then: strong, determined, invincible – possibly a god himself. Time had changed that. They had lost so many, and the war...it dragged on and on and on. “Captain Apollo” had long since fallen to the wayside. He had been replaced by a wearier, warier Major Lee Adama... and Major Adama didn’t have time or energy for hero worship.
Still, there was something special about Laura Roslin. As President of the Colonies, she had frequently been denied the luxury of emotion; her resilience and quiet strength seemed to further separate her from the fleet of mere mortals. Lee had to admit that even his weary, wary self still placed her on a dais, if no longer a pedestal. But after New Caprica, the goddess was angry; she was frightened; she was hurt. And she wanted Baltar to pay for leaving her weak and vulnerable.
On some level, Lee had been aware of this crack in the marble. It had, he realized, left him feeling betrayed, used. Perhaps that was why he delved so deeply, so willingly into his cross-examination of the president -- he wanted to see her pay. His questions sliced and eviscerated; he stripped her of her political mantle, leaving her bare before the masses.
There was one political lesson the president had learned, however, and one he, as defense, should have known as well: Never ask a question to which you don’t already know the answer. That was why she pushed him, had him drag the revelation about her cancer from her. He had sought to destroy her credibility as a witness and, in the end, stood in the center of a stunned courtroom as she reclaimed not only her political power, but her spiritual clout as well. He frowned. She had paid for her perceived betrayal, but he had paid for his own.
Embarrassment coursed through his veins anew with the memory. So shell shocked from the testimony at the time, he had not processed exactly the silent communication between his father and the president, nor had he understood the admiral’s constant interjections. In the heat of the moment, he attributed them to his father’s sense of duty – protecting the President – or maybe his antique sense of chivalry. As he stalked the passageways of Galactica afterward, however, the scene replayed endlessly in his mind. He had seen that type of communication before: First with Starbuck, and more recently with Dee. It was a language of wordless communication, born of time spent together, of shared campaigns. Suddenly, his father’s protests took on a larger meaning.
The realization rekindled the feelings of betrayal. This time, however, the blast was directed toward his father. The Old Man knew about her cancer; knew why she was drinking chamalla tea; knew she was experiencing “visions” again. Hell, he probably even believed them at this point. He also knew his son was diving headlong into a line of questioning that could end only one way. But he chose to try and stop Lee, to try and keep her from being exposed. Not because of his duty or some misplaced sense of honor, but instead because he cared for her.
It seemed Zeus had been toppled from his pedestal as well.
“You knew how it was going to end.”
To this, the admiral could only nod. Crossing the room, he poured himself a small glass of water. He stood for a moment and contemplated the clear liquid before speaking. “I knew.”
“And yet it was her you were protecting.”
Time passed, punctuated by a long silence. Lee remained before his father’s desk, watching as the older man rounded the room and took a seat on the overstuffed sofa. When he spoke, his voice was softer, laced with gravel. His attention never left his water glass. “When you were eight years old, you wanted a red bicycle for your birthday. You’d never ridden a day in your life, but you were determined. So, against your mother’s better judgment, I went out with my hazard pay, and bought a red bicycle.
“That afternoon, we took it out to the sidewalk. You remember that? You were ready to climb on, take off racing down the sidewalk, just like your friends. Problem is that riding a bike takes practice and balance, and you had neither. But you refused my help, didn’t want me anywhere near you as you tried to ride for the first time --”
“And wiped out about two feet away.” Lee gave a snort of laughter. “I still have the scars to prove it. What’s your point?”
“The point is that no father likes to see his kid take a fall, least of all when it could have been prevented.”
The younger Adama arched his brows. “So you were protecting me?”
“I was trying to protect you both. You’re still my son.”
Shaking his head, Lee stuffed his hands down into his pockets. He regarded his father with an expression that was both amused and pensive. “So what is she?”
The Old Man paused before speaking, choosing his words carefully. “Pythia. Hera. Madam President.”
“Laura?”
Adama nodded. “Laura.” He drained the last of his water.
Lee knew immediately by his father’s tone which of those identities he held most dear. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How long?”
To this, the admiral shrugged. “Cottle won’t say just yet. He caught it early this time, but...We still don’t know if the diloxin treatments will work.”
“Dad, if she is Pythia...” Lee felt his heart constrict in his chest, unable to finish the thought aloud. He could see the taut lines around his father’s lips, the worry in the way he narrowed his eyes.
“If she’s Pythia, I already know how this is going to end.”
The younger Adama suddenly found himself at a loss for words; his anger dissipated. “I...I’m sorry, Dad.”
“So’m I, son.” He rose from the sofa, depositing the glass onto the coffee table. There was a shift in his manner, and he was once again in command. “Was there anything else, Counselor?”
A sad smile touched the corner of Lee’s lips. “No, Admiral. I think I’ve said my piece.” His chin brushing his chest, he turned and disappeared down the passageway, considerably more philosophical than when he arrived.