To the Best of One's Belief
Lee Adama was slumped on the sofa, one foot against the fake wood table, a half-empty glass of their last bottle of decent liquor in his hand. Only the bottle belonged to him, alone, now. He stared at the unmade, empty bed, where only one pillow lay rumpled from use. Tonight he'd use them both, just so he wouldn't have to face the other pillow, all straight and accusing there on the sheet. He threw back another swallow.
He was doing it again, questioning his own motives and decisions. It was clearer during the day when people traded reasons and accusations, threw their unrestrained energy at you. It was what he was used to. He was trained for speedy on-the-fly decisions. Being one-eighth of a second faster than the other guy meant you lived or died when you were in the cockpit of a viper.
Seems it meant your life, here, as well. He'd lost them all. Everyone he really cared about. Kara had led the way, of course. He had been her wing man, was supposed to have her back, yet she had streaked away from him, thrown herself into the center of the storm and vanished in a flash of fireworks, calmly telling him it was all right. All right. He had barely heard her through his own, desperate screaming.
He closed his eyes and heaved a deep breath before raising the glass to his lips, a small sip this time. It would be too easy. Never again would he take that path of complete degradation - it had been a promise to himself. Even now, when his personal life was so much emptier.
The Admiral didn't trust him. No matter what he did or how many times he proved himself, it made no difference. No sooner would he begin to feel close to his father than they would be at one another's throats.
He believes I would lie to him. He called me a coward. How could he? Both hands grasped the glass tightly, as if some kind of truth could be squeezed from the amber liquid. He probably thinks I'm just whining about Mother, too. A nerve in the finely-formed and tense jaw twitched. For a moment he was nine years old again.
He sprung up, took two steps, hesitated, turned, put the nearly empty glass on the table and strode toward the head, flinging off the already-loosened tie, to join the suit jacket that lay across the back of the sofa. At the small sink, he splashed his face, wiped a hand across his chin and leaned forward on his hands, peering at his reflection in the mirror.
Did I do it out of anger at him? Is that all it was? The eyes stared back for interminable seconds, as though the reflection would tell him a truth nothing and no one else could. Green eyes superimposed the blue, before they burned and blurred, and he blinked, stood straight and grabbed a towel. Perused his shirtsleeved arms. The shirtsleeves were rolled up, but wet just the same. The front was splashed as well. Old habits; he would have to develop new ones. The buttons, too, weren't as reliable as those on uniforms, and he would now have to do his own sewing if any popped.
Once under the sheet, the extra pillow crushed to his stomach, Laura Roslin's face appeared, her pleading voice whispered in his ears. He hadn't known. None of them had. Correction. Likely his father had. It was why he'd tried to stop it. Stop him. Why had he wanted to be the one to do it? The thought that he might have wanted to get to his father through her made him sick. Was it because she had disappointed him? Had he wanted to hurt her just a little, wanted her to know it was Lee Adama who exposed her, if he couldn't for the other, then for this? That wasn't it. They were trying to hide something which had bearing on the trial and a man's life. They had already decided Baltar was guilty. They had a vendetta against him, so they thought it was fine to hide it.
Lee wanted to question Laura because they thought they could hide this from him. Once gain, the people in the highest position of power were failing in their duty to uphold the laws of the colonies and principles of humanity. He avoided thinking about what that meant to him personally. He avoided thinking of where the hurt became anger.
It was only that the result had hurt more than he had ever imagined.
Tomorrow the judges would give their verdict, and Lee Adama didn't care what it was. Gaius Baltar was a treacherous, dishonorable human being, but was he guilty of treason? What mattered was that he had been given a fair trial. What remained of humanity, in spite of their nearly impossible situation, hadn't yet sunk to lawless mob rule.
He was lonely and disheartened, and had no idea what he was going to do after the trial. He'd have to move out of here, leave Galactica. But he had felt a lot worse when he thought he'd lost Dee before. Now he had lost her, lost them all, and it wasn't as bad. Except for that lurch halfway between his stomach and his heart. It only happened during those precious moments when he had succeeded and managed to focus on the trial, on anything else, and life would almost be normal again. It would hit him then, a physical thud from the inside, the knowledge she was gone forever. The explosion was imprinted on his mind in slow motion, in incandescent, spinning fireworks of every sparkling color imaginable against the dark, brooding, swirling cloud.
He opened his eyes and stared, blinked. It was clear. If she were here now, he wouldn't hesitate. He'd been cheating then. Cheating on his wife, cheating on Kara, cheating on himself. Where had his integrity been then? That was the answer he'd been looking for. In spite of all of it, he'd sleep well tonight. He'd done everything for the right reasons, for his convictions. He may have lost the others, but this time, he hadn't lost himself.