Title : What's my Line?
Author : Helen C.
Rating : PG-13
Summary : He's not a savior. The Fleet doesn't need another savior anyway; it needs a miracle and he's just one man—not even a soldier, not even a pilot anymore.
Spoilers : Everything aired so far is fair game.
Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Ronald D. Moore and Universal Television Studios to name but a few. No money is being made. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
AN. This one is… weird. The first part is heavily angsty, the second is relatively light-hearted and full of snarky!Lee, and the third falls somewhere in the middle. So, obviously, tone-consistency issues. That's just the way it popped into my mind. If it can help, consider this as three only-vaguely-related ficlets. I do.
AN2. Heartfelt thanks to joey51 for her help with this. As usual, I tinkered; all remaining mistakes are mine.
What's my Line?
Helen C.Part One
Ever since the beginning of the war, Lee has grown used to hearing people talk about destiny—yet another thing that didn't use to be an issue back when he was a cadet and the issues of politics, ideals and faith, didn't worry him.
President Roslin is the dying leader whose destiny it is to lead them all to Earth (a mythical planet from their sacred writings), even if it means splitting the Fleet in two and losing her soul over the quest.
Leoben once told Kara that she had a destiny and Kara believes it, no matter how much she tries to dismiss it. It's a big part of the reason why Lee has to live with the image of her Viper exploding in front of him burned into his memory. Neither time nor Kara's return make it easier.
His father is the Fleet Commander, the one who protects them all, the one who has to be strong for all 40,000 of them even if it kills him—and Lee is growing increasingly scared that it will, but prays that it won't. Except he doesn't pray, because he has always been a die-hard atheist, and that's the only thing about himself he still recognizes from before.
"You were born to accomplish great things," a priestess tells him as he walks past her in a crowded hallway. He doesn't even know which ship he's on. He's too busy thinking about his failed marriage, Kara's return and what it might mean, the trial and the verdict and the loss of his commission, to pay attention to details such as what he's going to eat today and where he's going to sleep.
The priestess is waiting for him to reply, so he does. "Right," he says, and spares her a polite smile because after all, she's not responsible for the mess his life has become.
She grabs his arm when he tries to sidestep her, her grip surprisingly strong for such an old woman, her fingers digging into his biceps. "You need to believe in yourself," she says, her intent gaze seeming to pierce right through all his defenses, stripping him naked in the crowd, leaving only himself—and with time, he has grown used to the fact that most people don't think that he has much to offer. Hell, maybe they're right.
At least, in the military, he could do something that mattered, could make people's life a little better by being a good pilot.
What good did he ever do as a civilian? Partly thanks to him, the biggest traitor to the human race got away scot-free, and maybe it wasn't worth sacrificing his whole life for the sake of his principles. Maybe if he had done what he was told instead of rebelling again, he would still be in a position to help the Fleet.
"The answers won't come from others, Mister Adama," the priestess says.
How do you know my name? he wants to ask. What do you know about me?
She's still talking, though. "Only you can know what you think. Only you can decide which of your convictions are worth fighting for."
"No," he blurts out.
She holds his gaze and for a second he feels hatred—for this woman who doesn't know him and presumes to tell him who he is, for his father and the President who refused to listen, dismissing him like an annoying kid to be sent off to bed, for Romo who listened too well and dragged him into this, for Kara who tried to kill herself, for Leoben who put the idea in her head, for the Cylons who destroyed everything he loved, for Baltar and for himself. Mostly for himself.
"Your words heal," he priestess says, and Lee laughs, a desperate, broken, bitter sound that shames him.
He knows about destroying a lot better than he knows about building—he who keeps antagonizing his father, who ran out on his pregnant girlfriend, who committed murder and abandoned his own people and gave up when things got too hard.
"You'll remember one day," she says.
There's no mistaking the compassion in her eyes and he wants to hit her, no matter that she's an eighty-year-old woman. He restrains himself. He has that much dignity left.
He's surprised when he hears himself asking, "Remember what?" his voice foreign to his own ears.
"That for every life you sacrificed, you saved another. That for every word you said who hurt someone, another of your words helped."
You're wrong, he wants to tell her. You have no idea.
"You see far ahead, Mister Adama. You see what we should be, as well as what we are. Sooner or later, we will need that, if we are to survive."
He's not a savior. The Fleet doesn't need another savior anyway; it needs a miracle and he's just one man—not even a soldier, not even a pilot anymore.
"I don't believe in the gods," he says, his last defense against this woman trying to push him into a role he doesn't believe in, doesn't want.
"It doesn't matter." He sees that light in her eyes—the one the believers always have when they talk about their faith, proving that it sustains them in times of doubt. "They don't need you to believe in them, just as long as you believe in yourself."
With that, she pats his shoulder and releases him, vanishing into the crowd as suddenly as she appeared, leaving him alone among strangers.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Three hours later, he has eaten some processed algae and gotten himself a cot in a communal room for the night. When he steps in, the other three occupants of the room shoot him a disinterested look before going back to what they were doing—one of them lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, the other two listlessly playing triads.
It's the middle of the day. Lee wonders if this is what these people do all day. He never stopped to consider what life was like on the Fleet until he resigned from the military. What little he saw during his odd visits on civilian ships or when he investigated the black market wasn't heart-lifting, but he didn't really think about what most civilians did all day.
It has been so long since the last time he was a civilian himself.
He gets to the only unoccupied cot and sits down, setting his bag next to him. A change of clothes, a toothbrush and a razor. And of course, an envelope containing papers he tries (and fails) not to think about.
After the first day of the war, all he had left were his uniform and his flight suit, and not even a change of underwear.
After the Pegasus exploded, all he had was his uniform.
He stopped long ago trying to accumulate things. They don't matter that much.
Your words heal.
He snorts to himself. Sometimes, it seems that the end of the world turned everyone into mystics.
Sometimes, he almost envies people their faith.
There was a time when he had certainties. He thought that his father represented everything that was wrong with career officers putting their crew before their own families. He thought he was born to fly. He thought he wouldn't follow into his father's footsteps and wouldn't hurt the people he loved.
He thought he would always manage to be proud of himself, or at least be able to look at his reflection and not drop his gaze.
Of course, all that was before Zak's death, before he advised the president to leave civilian ships behind in order to save those who could be saved, before he blew up a civilian transport (gods, there were children on board and these faces at the windows are still staring at him accusingly), before he committed mutiny and murder. Before he cheated on his wife. Before he allowed his best friend, the woman he loved, to die because he didn't want to read the signs.
Kara's back, he reminds himself, as he has been doing a lot since they took her—kicking and screaming—to the brig.
Kara's back, and she's still the same old Kara. And they think she's a Cylon, and they won't let you anywhere near her, and they're right, because no matter what the right decision is, you won't be able to make it.
The only problem is he doesn't trust his father or the President or, gods forbid, Tigh, to make the right decision either.
His eyes are starting to burn and he rests his elbows on his knees, hiding his face in his hands.
He doesn't recognize his father, doesn't recognize the woman he used to admire so much, doesn't recognize himself.
Kara's in a cell.
They must have started interrogating her now. What if they don't like her answers?
What if she's a Cylon—the enemy. Artificial. Mechanic. Not real.
Are they going to kill her then? Push her into an airlock and open the outer hatch and watch her be sucked into space?
Would he still love her if she was a Cylon?
No.
Yes.
"Hey, you okay?" someone asks from next to Lee, startling him. He raises his head and blinks as he comes face to face with one of the other occupants of the room—one of the triad players, a forty-something man with hair that's starting to gray at the temples—and notices how unnaturally silent it is. He shoots a look around, wondering how long he stayed motionless, lost in his world. Everyone is looking at him.
He says, "Yes," not caring one bit that he sounds like he doubts it himself.
"You sure?" the man insists.
The other triad player is looking at them both, waiting for his answer too, and Lee nods. "Sure."
It's just that now that his anger and his self-righteous indignation are spent, now that his grief has abated, now that Kara's back, he doesn't know how to fix the situation they find themselves in.
"Well…" the man says, retreating back to the table.
Lee swallows thickly, throws a strangled "Thanks," over his shoulder, waiting for a nod of acknowledgment before lying down on the cot.
The envelope in his bag seems to scream, beckoning for his attention, but he doesn't want to deal with it.
Yet another thing he hadn't seen coming; like his father, he has been served with divorce papers, and he has another decision to make. He might still save his marriage, if he's ready to fight hard, if—
If he abandons Kara to her fate. If he acts like he doesn't care anymore about what happens to her.
If he pretends he doesn't love her anymore.
He was never much of an actor.
Sighing, he blindly reaches for his bag and unzips it, never taking his eyes off ceiling, wondering how long he could keep doing that without going insane while life is going on around him.
His fingers close on the thick paper of the envelope and he takes it out, opens it. He and Dee didn't get a religious blessing, so it's just an administrative formality. Just one sheet of paper for him to sign, and their marriage will be over.
He glances quickly at the standard form, then stares at his wife's neat signature at the bottom.
"Does anyone have a pen?" he asks aloud. He doesn't really expect an answer so he's surprised when one of the men replies, "Yes."
Lee sits up and catches the pen thrown at him. "Thanks," he calls.
The shrug he gets in reply is expected. "I just hope it works," the man says.
I hope it doesn't, Lee thinks, but whatever his flaws might be, procrastinating isn't one of them. He doesn't even feel like apologizing to Dee for his actions during the trial. For not loving her enough, for not loving her like he promised he would, maybe. Not for what he did. He realizes now that if he had to do it again, he would, even knowing what it cost him, even if he's still not sure it was the right thing to do.
He scribbles his name next to Dee's, surprised that he doesn't feel more empty, more sad, more anything.
They married forever, for better and for worse, and it should feel like he's losing something important, but it doesn't.
He refuses to read anything into that.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
All night, Lee thinks about the priestess, her words haunting him.
You were born to accomplish great things.
He wants to ask the president how she felt when she learned that her destiny was to be the dying leader, their guide to Earth. Once upon a time, he might have, but he burned that bridge when he convinced Romo to let him interrogate her.
The President, like his father (like himself), isn't the kind of person who forgives easily. She might be able to move on eventually, but she won't forget, just like his father never forgot Kobol, and just like Lee never forgot Cain.
For the most part, he thinks that the priestess was full of crap. No big surprise, considering that it's the opinion he holds about most religious people. He doesn't feel like the universe has big plans for him—and if it does, well, it's screwed, because Lee never did well with big plans.
He doesn't think he's any different than the other 40,000 people on the Fleet, ordinary people who're just holding on as well as they can until they find a place where they can belong again.
But what about the meantime? What if it takes us another few years? What if it takes us a lifetime? Will you spend the rest of your life waiting for the goal to be within reach?
Will you spend your life sitting on the sidelines while others make decisions about who you are and what you should do? Or will you try to make your voice heard?
He did make his voice heard, even if it was through Romo's maneuvering.
Only you can know what you think. Only you can decide which of your convictions are worth fighting for.
Just like he fought against the coup d'état, just like he fought for Baltar's right for a trial. Just like he argued for the virus to be used against the Cylons before they could cross another line and put an end to the human race altogether. Just like he murdered Phelan because he had crossed a line.
Nothing makes his opinion worth more than the next guy's, but it's his.
Great. So, now what?
He rolls over to his side, fingering the wedding ring he's still wearing. His father never got rid of his; does he cling to the past that much? Lee doesn't think he'll still be wearing that ring in another ten years, but he's not ready to throw it away just yet. Nor is he ready to throw Kara to the wolves until he can make sure that she doesn't at least want his help.
He's not sure what he should do but he knows what he wants to do.
Decision made, he closes his eyes and waits for sleep to take him.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
When he enters the brig, the visitor badge hanging around his neck, Kara is doing push-ups on the floor of her cell. She gets to her feet slowly, glaring at him and he savors the sight of her, breathless and dizzy and a little afraid of the violence of the feelings he still has for her.
It feels like centuries since the last time they were so close to each other and here she is—not the woman who betrayed him on New Caprica, not anymore, but Starbuck; his best friend, the one who saved his life, the one who challenges him mercilessly, for better and for worse.
She's behind bars again, and he has sprung her from jail so many times in the past that he can almost believe that this is just another brawl gone bad, just another simple case of signing her out and sobering her up. He'll sign the register, she'll get out and then they'll laugh it off.
"What the hell took you so long?" she asks. He can see she's taking in the civilian clothes, the three-days stubble on his face, and catches her concerned glance. "New look?"
"Like it?" he replies evenly. "Sorry about the delay, I had a few things to take care of. You've been waiting?" he adds with a smile meant just for her.
"Starbuck waiting on Apollo's lazy ass? That'll be the day," she retorts, her eyes wrinkling a little as she smiles up at him, and suddenly it doesn't matter anymore if everything else in his life has gone down the drain with the trial, doesn't matter if he doesn't know who he is anymore, because no matter what, she does. As long as one of them gets their head together, they'll be all right.
TBC
