by Charis
Disclaimer: Battlestar Galactica and all associated characters belong to people who are not me. I'm just borrowing.
Notes: Written for this week's challenge over at bsg1000 on LJ. In some vague and unspecific space between "Water" and "Acts of Contrition". Written to avoid schoolwork and to try, for once, to actually write a longer fic. It kind of rambles on, though. Hopefully it's not too full of crap. Kind of playing around with the interactions between Roslin and Adama; the challenge was to have one character stumble upon another during a private moment.
Somehow, she never expected Commander William Adama to be the kind of man to emote, even in private. He puts on a stony enough face that, aside from his occasional outbursts of temper and that one moment during his decommissioning speech, that it seems he might as well not feel; she certainly hasn't seen much evidence to the contrary in their admittedly brief acquaintance. Maybe that's why, when she comes over for their meeting, she pauses. She didn't think at first, slipping in past the slightly ajar door with only the softest of knocks, but what she saw inside made her greeting die before it was more than a breath.
She wants to leave, to respect his privacy, but she's already closed the door behind herself, and opening it again would only draw attention to her presence. It's vaguely embarrassing, but there's something fascinating as well, as though she can, for the first time since they've met, see her military counterpart as human.
He sits on the couch with his back to her; she cannot see his face, but the usually-rigid shoulders are slumped. The weariness is clear to read, and she realises, the sudden epiphany surprising her, that he cannot show this face to any other. The embarrassment redoubles, bringing awkwardness along with it for company, when she thinks of how she would feel if anyone walked in on her in a moment like this. He has easily been under as much strain as she as of late.
To open the door, or not ...
And then she hears it - the faintest whisper of sound. His gravely voice is just at the edge of audible, and she suspects that if she was not so busy trying to be quiet (her own breath echoes far too loudly in her ears), she might have missed it entirely. Despite her good intentions, she listens more closely, ignoring the uncomfortable press of the door into her back as she leans into it.
He is reciting names, a slow, cadenced litany that falls into the room's silence. Most of them are unfamiliar, and it is not until she catches a rank at the end of one that she realises fully what he is doing. Her hand creeps unnoticed to her pocket, and the soft sound of fingertips on paper seems even louder than her breath - certainly more than his words - but he gives no sign of noticing. This is his desk drawer. She has intruded upon his catalogue of memory, his litany of the fallen. She is not sure what to make of that.
As she stays there, poised, torn between approach and flight, she wonders suddenly why it should surprise her to see him doing this. A good leader cares about his or her people; perhaps it is clear to his people, even if it is not to outsiders like her, unaccustomed to military protocols and conventions. After all, don't different circumstances tend to different modes of expression? She remembers something like that vaguely from a psychology course, taken a lifetime ago in a university that no longer exists.
Understanding aside, that uncharacteristic guilt remains for her intrusion. Really, it's her own fault; she should know better than to have entered without waiting for some confirmation, especially - in retrospect, this is clear - when he was off-balance enough to not make sure the door was latched or keep track of the time. And while she was not due here for a handful of minutes, she has grown accustomed, even in the short span of time so far, to him being ready for their meetings even when she arrives early. She returns the favour when he comes to Colonial One instead; time is precious enough for both of them that matters must be attended to whenever possible.
Time is, she thinks, precious enough that minutes like these are all too rare. There have been funerals, and people have grieved in their own way, public and likely private, with friends and colleagues and the strangers with whom they have been thrust together. But - and she understands this all too well - while it is proper for a leader to care about the people, and to show this, it is a fine line. In a position of power, one has to appear strong at all times, even when grief cuts. Privacy is all too rare, and must be cherished.
Perhaps she should leave. She certainly shouldn't be standing here, just this side of gawking. He would, she thinks, have had that courtesy if their roles had been reversed.
But she cannot convince herself to move, as though all motion has been arrested by the soft sound of name after name. It would be wrong to disrupt this private observance in any way, far more than it would be to remain where she is. She will have to apologise, one way or another, for this. It feels as though she is scarcely breathing now, waiting for - something.
The cadence of his recitation shifts slightly, but she is distracted by her own musings and misses the words entirely. They have an air of finality, and sure enough, after another moment's silence, he straightens his shoulders and sits up. The paralysis has not yet left her limbs; when he turns around, slowly, his expression is unreadable, but she does not think he is surprised.
She does not know why she thought he would be. Suddenly it doesn't matter that she must look like a fool - the President of the Colonies, backed up against the door and no doubt looking like a guilty child caught where she oughtn't be - not when the empathy that has been waking within her finds a brief softness echoed in his eyes.
"Time already?" he asks. The words release her; she steps away from the door, takes her accustomed place on the other end of the couch, tucking the folder of reports in her lap.
"Next crisis," she murmurs, opening the top one.
It might be her imagination, but she thinks he smiles.
- finis -