Disclaimer: I do not own Battlestar Galactica or the characters. I make no profit from the story – I'm just playing in RDM's sandpit.

Author's Note:

First off, thank you to everyone who read – and reviewed – Episode One: If Wishes Were Fishes. I'm so glad to know people enjoyed it, especially those who reviewed! Reviews are possibly the best things ever – they're what give me the motivation to keep writing when my muse is off being an uncooperative bastard. Thank you!

Secondly, Episode Two is T rated, but a hard T, and at points may slide towards an M rating –chapters with M-rated portions will be indicated at the top of the chapter. Swearing (does frak count as swearing, really though?), violence and adult themes may abound, but there's nothing really graphic.

Thirdly, well, just enjoy!

# # #

The one room cabin was quiet, the small windows condemning it to a drapery of gloom. The fire was smouldering, not really needed for its heat, but necessary if one wanted to have a cup of tea. The forest around the cabin was still, and inside, just as still, sat Lee Adama, a fired clay cup in his hand. He sat on a rough-hewn wooden stool at the equally roughly put together wooden table, staring at a knot in one of the logs in the cabin's wall as he sipped at his pine needle tea and wished it were alcohol. It was nearing evening and the sun was a globe of burnt orange and gold low on the horizon, rich light glinting through the forest outside and lancing a few stray rays into the cabin.

Lee sighed and tried to feel something other than emptiness, and failed. His mind was blanketed with a suffocating layer of fog and he felt leaden, miserable. Every evening for the past five nights he had sat and waited for Kara to come home. He sat and drank his pine needle tea and tried not to cry into it while he wondered what the hell had happened to his life. And every night at midnight Lee banked the fire, latched the cabin door, and went to bed. Alone.

He hadn't seen Kara since she had left him to Tigh's tender mercies. Luckily, the Colonel hadn't done anything more than rough Lee up a bit, but he had seen the look in Tigh's eyes and that hurt worse than any blow. Not just anger, but confused disappointment. Like he couldn't understand Lee's position, his actions, his beliefs. At the end Tigh had stepped back from Lee after a blow that left the younger man's mouth bloody, and said,

"Bill would be frakking ashamed of you." And Tigh wasn't trying to hurt Lee or goad him; that was the worst part of it. Tigh simply genuinely believed that William Adama would be disappointed in his son. And maybe he was right.

Lee's head was bowed, the fired clay cup forgotten in his hands, tilting so a few drops slipped over the rim and onto the plank floor. Tigh had told him to go not long after that, his voice tired. Lee had been unable to meet the man's eyes. He blamed himself for the attack.

Romo Lampkin's attempted assassination hadn't been Lee's idea – in fact, the complete opposite. He had tried his best to cool his peoples' tempers and prevent violence. But the fact remained was that it had been Lee who had begun the anti-technology movement and kept it going, it had been Lee who had pushed the issue, inflamed the people. Although it hadn't been his hand that held the knife, it had been his words and his leadership that had led to that moment. Boxey would never have thought to attack Romo if Lee had just let the issue go, and accepted that the colonists were going to keep their technology. And yet.

And yet… Despite the attack on Romo, despite Boxey's death, Lee still knew that he wouldn't stop his efforts to convince Romo and the Council to destroy the orbiting fleet. Frak it, he believed in it. He couldn't just abandon his beliefs. He was in this until the end, whatever end it might bring him to.

"Damnit."

Lee sighed and put his now cold tea on the table, running his fingertips over the uneven wood surface. A thin beam of sunlight crossed the tabletop where his fingers traced, staining his tanned skin in tones of orange and gold. He needed someone to confide in; an advisor, a friend. But there was no one that Lee could trust whom would be willing to talk to him. He was alone in this.

His eyes cast towards the bed in the corner of the cabin, thoughts of loneliness bringing him back again to Kara's absence. It had been five days, and somehow it felt like months. He couldn't focus without her, he kept worrying about her, missing her. He was a wreck. Lee loved Kara like she was a part of him; he had since that first night – from the moment he had laid eyes on her in her apartment, Zack proudly showing off his fiancée. Gods, he still felt guilty about that, even all these years later.

Everything between Lee and Kara since then had been just like that night. Wanting each other, desperately. But always circumstances dictated that it wouldn't be right, it wouldn't work out. Except for that one night on New Caprica. Drunk as frak and rolling on the ground like the universe was each other and nothing else existed. It had been perfection, and even now it hurt him to remember it, followed as it was with the less pleasant memory of finding out she had run off and married Anders.

Gods. Why had she done that? Was it all because of that night they met? Did she still feel guilty about that too? It was like everything they did together had been trapped into the pattern established that first evening.

Lee groaned and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, trying to gather his rambling thoughts. His head hurt and he itched for a drink, but he had finished up his private store of moonshine two nights ago, and didn't want to show his face in Landfall to go to Joe's Bar. Last time he had been in Landfall had been the day Romo was stabbed, after Tigh had released him, and on his way out of the settlement he'd been accosted by a couple of the President's supporters. Extremely fervent fellows, one of them very skilled with unusual uses for the common garden spade. Lee had come out of that distinctly second best, with a black eye to add to the list of bruises Tigh had bestowed upon him. They were still fading, his face a mottled yellow-green. No, Lee was staying clear of Landfall for the next few weeks.

He ate at last as the sun dropped down further, only a glowing red-orange sliver above the horizon. Meat and greens boiled in a misshapen clay pot, padded out with unleavened bread. The meat was tender and tasty but the bread and greens left something to be desired – still, a damn sight better than the algae they had been reduced to eating in the Fleet though.

Lee nursed another cup of tea through the long hours until midnight, trying to think of ways to rein in his dangerously restive followers. He was teetering on the knife's edge, his power over them wavering dangerously, thanks mostly to Paulla. All he could do was try and speak to them, to convince them that in the end, violence wasn't going to solve their problems. He searched and scraped for a way to do that, unsuccessfully.

And then as the sky darkened to deep navy and midnight drew near, Lee's mind kept drifting back to Kara. She had been so cold when she had escorted him to Landfall with Hotdog, her shoulders stiff and her eyes hard and unnaturally bright. When they had gotten to the lock up, she had dismissed Hotdog, and for a moment Lee thought Kara was going to relax then, to stop being that painfully cold stranger and talk to him. Oh, she'd frakking talked to him all right. Harsh frakking words with her hands trembling and her face turned away from his, like looking at him disgusted her. And then she'd locked him in a cell and turned him over to Tigh, to play punching bag for an hour or so. Gods.

The lone candle Lee had lit at eight had burnt down almost seven half hour marks – it was nearly midnight. Lee got to his feet with his now cool cup of tea in hand and wandered out of the cabin, squinting up at the stars and the iridescent disc of the moon. It was peaceful out here, a kind of serenity in the air. It didn't escape being marred by his loneliness. He dumped the remaining liquid on the rather sad looking flowers Kara had planted beside the cabin door to try and make the place look more like a home. The plants were flowering, the colours silvery by the bright light of the full moon. Lee resisted the sudden urge to dig them up and fling them at a nearby tree, or stamp on them and grind them into pulp. That would be childish. He went back inside with a sigh.

He tossed the cup in the wooden bucket that served as a sink and raked his hands through his hair. He suspected he knew at least part of why Kara had been so cold to him, why she had stayed away from him for so long. There was a mural on the wall above the fireplace – an image of the Battlestar Galactica loomed gracefully against a background of stars, the smaller ships of the fleet painted huddled safely behind her bulk. A strange image for the wall of the leader of the anti-tech faction, but Lee was glad Kara had thought of it. He looked at the mural, and he thought of his father. It was like it kept him near.

She had painted it with Boxey by her side, the boy mixing up paints and slathering on the black of space, dotting careful stars on top. Boxey had helped her and Lee dig the garden and plant the vegetables when they had first picked the spot for their cabin. He had gone into Landfall with Kara once she had joined Landfall security, and dogged her every footstep – to the bar, to the break room the Landfall patrol relaxed in, even out on patrols themselves… The kid had adored Kara. Lee had seen the light of teenage infatuation in Boxey's eyes. Less of late, with Boxey becoming more immersed in the divide between the two factions, and Kara placing herself more and more on what Boxey – and Lee – considered the wrong side. But still. They had both cared about the kid, and just six days ago Kara had shot him dead without even blinking.

Lee sat back on the stool at the table, staring into the low burning fire, hands laced behind his neck, thinking. There was nothing else to do with these long lonely evenings once you got sick of playing One Man Stand and ran out of drink. His eyes flicked to the candle – time to latch the door and go to bed. Without Kara. Again.

Lee had a theory as to why Kara stayed away, and he suspected the reason had very little to do with the anger she held toward him for his part in the tragic frakking mess. He had heard what had happened the afternoon the President had been stabbed, although the stories always varied a little. Eyewitnesses were notoriously half-blind and deaf, and hallucinating to boot. But from all the different versions, Lee thought he had put together a pretty accurate account. Everyone had agreed that she had kicked the boy's body, after. Actually kicked him, like Boxey meant nothing, like he was just dirt to her. Lee's jaw clenched at the image it drew in his mind and the flames of the fire wavered as his vision blurred. Boxey wasn't just some hired scum, wasn't just a common assassin. He deserved some respect for everything he had done and been before that single afternoon – for the painting, for the hours spent finding and bringing back plants for their garden, for the way he watched Kara shyly with that sickening, longing puppy-love written all over his face.

Lee thought maybe Kara hated herself. He could understand that. He hated her a little bit too.

# # #

Twenty-three drinks in and she still hadn't forgotten. She couldn't stand and yet she could still see it all in front of her eyes, plain as day.

"Another." She was slurring and the glass in front of her divided into two glasses, then back into one again.

"You've had enough."

"Godsdamnit, I said I wanted another!" She roared and slammed her fist onto the bar top, the glass jumping off the bar with the force of her blow. They circled in front of her eyes, round and round – all the things she wanted to forget, floating in front of her. That moment when she had realised it was Boxey…

"Starbuck…" Joe sounded tired, concerned, and Starbuck didn't give a frak.

"I said I wanted another." Icy cold and quiet this time, every word enunciated with as much precision as her half-numbed tongue could manage.

"Starbuck…" Her hand shot out, reflexes still sharp, and seized Joe's wrist.

"Give me another godsdamned drink, Joe." And he did, muttering curses at her under his breath that rolled off her back like oil. She sipped at the vile brew Joe was serving tonight, barely tasting it now.

If Lee had just shut that frakking bitch Paulla up – Starbuck knew she must have had something to do with it. If Boxey had just listened to Starbuck when she'd told him so many frakking times that the whole godsdamned debate wasn't that important. If Lee had just stopped trying to be some holy frakking crusader.

Frak.

Her head felt extremely heavy all of a sudden and she had to brace herself against the bar with her hands, her stomach lurching disconcertingly. If Lee had just let the whole godsdamned issue end with Romo Lampkin's decision to keep the ships – he was the frakking President, it was his decision to make, godsdamnit.

"Starbuck?"

Her drink found its way to her mouth, Starbuck gulping down the liquid with abandon, near half of it dribbling down her chin as her lips refused to work properly. If Boxey had just…just…not. Just not done it. If he had just thought for one frakking second.

"Starbuck are you okay?"

If she hadn't shot without thinking.

"Starbuck?"

She tried to say 'shut up, Joe', but it came out,

"Shup, Jho."

He had only been fifteen. He had his whole godsdamned life ahead of him, and she'd poured that life out onto the dirt. She had. Two twitches of her godsdamned finger and Boxey was dead, his life soaking into the parched earth around him.

"Starbuck, give me the godsdamned drink." A hand – Joe's she assumed – grabbed at the half-full glass and she yanked it away, draining it in one gulp and smirking with spiteful triumph.

"Mo'." She held her glass out for another refill of the scorchingly strong liquor.

"No. I'm cutting you off, Starbuck."

"Fra – fraky', Jho." Her words came out all garbled and she blinked repeatedly but her vision wouldn't clear, Joe a blurred person-shape before her.

She could still see Boxey's body clearly though. On the dirt. So small. So vulnerable. Sprawled disjointedly, eyes filmed with dust and staring blankly at the sky. Not seeing the beautiful blue above him. Not seeing anything ever again.

"I – I…"

The room tilted alarmingly.

"For fraks sake Starbuck!" Joe's voice was so very angry, and so very far away.

The glass tumbled out of her nerveless fingers as she fell back, hitting the ground hard, legs tangled in the bar stool. She stared up at the ceiling; head tilted slightly to the side, lips parted and trying to move. Everything was swirling. She couldn't – couldn't see right. Couldn't speak. Couldn't think.

But she could still remember. Lee standing there in the cleared patch of forest, his eyes looking through Starbuck like she was nothing. Like she was a stranger. Lee staring at her with his features fixed in that horrible disbelieving expression, with Boxey's blood still on her hands. Murderer.

"I – I di'n't mean it." Shook her head.

"Di'n't mean it."

Joe's hands on her shoulders, shaking her gently. Her hand waved around weakly, batting at him, still staring up at the ceiling and not seeing it.

"Ge' 'way f'm me." Starbuck sputtered at Joe and then fell silent as memory flashed in technicolour clarity and Joe's blurry face faded away.

The feel of Boxey's body when she kicked him. The sound it had made. Gods, the sound. Why had she frakking done that? Why?

Starbuck flinched and wetness leaked from her eyes as the moment replayed viscerally in her head. The feel. The sound.

She rolled half onto her side and retched. Her stomach convulsed and the alcohol splattered the ground, even viler coming up than going down. Joe swore and jerked back from her and Starbuck wished she were dead. Wished she could sink into the ground, cease to exist.

"You're all right, Starbuck." Joe's tentative hand patting her shoulder with rough awkward comfort and she flailed at him. A godsdamned drunken, stinking mess flailing on the floor. What the frak had she come to?

She sobbed and retched, curling into a ball, memories still crystal clear even as everything else fragmented around her.

"I di'n't mean it!" She muttered absentmindedly as her stomach finished emptying itself, and tried to force herself upright with Joe's hand gripping her shoulder. Then everything whirled and went splotchy and darkened, and her head hit the dirt floor, hard.

She just wanted…

# # #

"I can't!"

"I believe in this, Helo. Not in…what Boxey did…but in the idea, the cause. The life. Do you understand that?" They kept their voices low so as not to wake Hera, fast asleep in her little nest of a bed in the corner.

Every night since the assassination attempt they had repeated this argument, and every night they went around and around in circles.

Helo shook his head, face pained.

"I can't. I can't side with a movement that sent a child out to kill someone who I know is a good man. Even if the lifestyle has appeal." His godsdamned sense of justice. Athena stepped down from the doorway to Helo, standing in the moonlight with his mouth taut and regretful. Frak but he was gorgeous. She smiled at him softly, arms twining around his waist. He returned her soft expression, one large hand smoothing over her back. All she wore was a thin cotton dress and the night air was cold, Helo's hand warm.

"I guess…I guess it's not even so much the movement. It's that I don't want to leave here." Athena admitted, waving a hand around the two of them.

"This was meant to be our home, our fresh start." Her smile was a little bitter and cynical as she tilted her head back to meet Helo's eyes.

"A whole new life on Earth, wasn't that the plan?"

"Yeah." He rubbed her back soothingly. The cabin behind them – only two rooms, but it was theirs, they had built it. The garden beside the house, filled to bursting with lush edible plants. The creek gurgled and babbled over the round river stones nearby, and the view down to the plains where Helo had cleared the trees was bathed in silver. This was Athena's home now, more than anywhere had ever been – except Galactica. She didn't want to leave it. The baby kicked and she nudged back gently with the heel of her hand. This was a nice place to raise children. Not like the shantytown that was Landfall.

"This is our home, Helo." Her voice was little girl small. She felt his chest heave as he sighed.

"I don't want to leave it either."

"So let's not."

# # #

Author's Note:

So, the first part of Episode Two – I hope you enjoyed it!

And if you did enjoy it, just click on the little button below that says 'Review' and leave me one :)

The next chapter should go up on Monday (NZ time).