A/N: Lee Adama seemed so achingly lonely right upon the shocking news of Dee's suicide arrived. And could really use a hug, or a sympathetic ear, or both.
Set through the rest of the dark night of after-Earth and after-Dee ('Sometimes a Great Notion', season 4). Helo's POV. Lee & Helo friendship.
Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot-points, inherent to the show, belong to me.
Kin to sorrow*
Silence was the worst, Helo reckoned, watching him move quietly about the office for the past quarter of an hour or so. To deal with him, wailing and bawling out loud, would've been a whole world easier. Helo would come up, scoop the bereaved friend into a firm hug, despite inevitable violent protests (it never failed to amuse Karl Agathon Apollo seemed to harbor delusions, still, of being able to stand half a fighting chance), and not let go till Lee managed to cry himself into some semblance of sleep.
At least, that was the plan, originally, as Helo set to pilot a Raptor to Colonial One, battling incessantly threatening tears of his own. Not to look to his right, at the co-pilot's seat was the hardest. Dee was seated right there, mere several hours ago. Helo could not help a wave of searing queasiness, whenever stumbling over the notion he might've done something more, might've foreseen trouble brewing, having witnessed her, sad and shaken, on their way back from the ashen planet.
There was no way of telling for sure what drove Karl to kiss Sharon, still stoically gulping down inaudible tears over Hera's sleeping form, good-night and head for the flight deck. On and off amicable terms over an assortment of Cylon-related issues, not that they'd ever been the chummiest of buddies with Lee, but seemed to reach quite an amiable truce and unspoken understanding upon the notorious incident with Dr. Roberts to have nearly cost Dee her life. It could very well be the vision of Apollo's tormented grimace, as he stormed into the med-bay that day, still clad in flight-suit, sweat-soaked, ghostly pale and semi-coherent. Helo's and Colonel Tigh's joint efforts would've only sufficed to hold Major Adama in place long enough for Doc Cottle to get the message of Dee not being in danger across. She survived back then, unlike tonight…
It could've been the innermost urge, on Helo's part, to seek refuge and absolution in the company of the one man, he was certain, to be flogging himself a lot more ruthlessly for overlooking her horrendous decision. Separated or not, Helo knew better than to rely on Lee's lack of care or emotional investment. He was there to watch Apollo greet Dee at the altar on their wedding day, as well as to bid her good-bye on Galactica's hangar deck not too long ago, fighting poorly veiled tears of reverent awe both times, beholding the young woman as nothing short of an angel, sent by benevolent deity to atone for his many sins.
Starbuck brushed by, without as much as sparing Helo a glance, a forlorn and haunted air about her, as he approached the prepped Raptor. However craving Kara's input on that one rescue mission – if anything, she'd been Apollo's close friend and all but family for years – Helo couldn't help admitting she hardly appeared anyone's pillar of support at the moment. Further still, he wondered if she might be needing one herself. But that would have to wait till the next morning, at the very least. Helo had an unsettling hunch it was to be one Hades of a long night.
Lee's back was to the hatch-way, forehead leaned on the bulkhead, an index finger drawing small, slow circles on the rotund porthole, overlooking the desolate orb of Earth. Karl hesitated a bit, uncertain all at once if his meddling would even be appropriate or welcome at a time like that. Helo's hand still hovered over the doorframe, not quite descending to produce a knock, when Lee turned around, meeting the unexpected guest's concerned gaze. There was no greeting, per se, as Karl finally walked in. Just a soft noise, escaping the parched lips, closer resembling an exhausted moan, driving Helo instantly torn between conflicted urges to choke on a sob of his own, to embrace the man and beg for forgiveness or to flee without ever looking back. The puffy, tear-stricken eyes, regarding him shift from foot to foot by the entrance, were those of a wounded animal, pleading for mercy. So much so the sight was physically painful to bear.
A couple of steps closer were all Karl could manage, however, before warned against approaching farther by a barely discernible tilt of Lee's hand. Helo had seen his fair share of cracked glass, prone to shatter upon a slightest of touches, to recognize Apollo's achingly obvious apprehension of contact. But Karl wasn't immediately asked to leave either, which was fine with him.
A soundless while later, the pacing commenced. Lee would walk back and forth without any apparent trajectory, stepping carefully around assorted pieces of furniture, apprehensive to disturb the order, pausing ever so briefly to venture a gossamer stroke over that object or another - the back of a chair, the lampshade, papers scattered on the desk, a picture frame, the whiteboard rim - as if determined to assert their reality. That persistent, angular motion made Helo think of sharks, doomed to be on the move at all times in order to stay alive. Not daring to bring the woeful race to a halt on his own accord, Helo had to settle for keeping a watchful eye on the distraught friend from the fairly unintrusive distance, ready to step up whenever necessary. Somehow, an idea seeped into a far-off nook of Karl's mind, that Dee would, most likely, appreciate him doing just that.
The words came afterwards, once Lee had slumped on the couch, the strain of the adamant stroll around the room taking its toll finally, arms clasped around midsection, rocking slightly in sync with the tempo of hollow, clipped speech. Erratic confessions, Helo had no way of being sure were even intended for him to hear. Was on occasion sure to have known all along. Galactica was a small ship, after all. Things he'd been inadvertently let privy to having the clear potential to make Captain Agathon think less of Lee Adama, had Helo been not forced to observe the overbearing regret, visibly chipping at the man's bleeding heart as he persisted in going through the torturous inventory of his alleged failings.
"I know what you think." – Helo started, not having anticipated to be addressed, or even acknowledged anytime soon. The absent expression of Apollo's stare, grim and not quite focused onto any particular spot over Karl's shoulder, suggested the latter might, in fact, had not been the issue.
"I know you think I wasn't a husband enough, didn't care enough to have the right to assume… to feel…" - Lee's lips quivered, voice breaking notably, as it trailed off, his right hand busy worrying the wedding band, circling his finger, in getting increasingly agitated anguish.
Helo had to double take at the suggestion, figuring out a plausible way to persuade the distressed Adama hardly anything could've been farther from those estimations. Helo was decidedly done assessing, let alone judging, however discretely, the shortcomings of Apollo's marriage, having once picked up a virtually demolished by loss of both his wife and his ring Lee off a hallway floor. The stirred up reminiscence of irrevocable devastation, nearly palpably radiated around the desperate man, was among considerations to have brought Karl Agathon on Colonial One that night around, in the first place.
By the time disagreement and, if God so had it, comfort, acquired conceivable enough verbal shape in Helo's mind, Lee was back on his feet again, dancing out of reach of both the initiated soothing touch and the word of solace. The onslaught of self-deprecation was giving way to the fractured memories of recently snatched elation. Snippets of things she said and meant, smiles she gave, vows she confirmed, promises she issued.
Helo couldn't blame the guy for that. She indeed seemed so full of joy and hope, upon the return trip from Earth, there was no way of figuring out she'd given up without the power of clairvoyance. Clinging to that knowledge would make getting through closer to manageable, or so Karl hoped, speaking up for the first time, since arriving, to recount his own recollections of the ultimate couple of minutes in her company. The way she giggled, bouncing Hera in her lap. She'd have made a great mother someday… Helo recognized voicing the latter observation for the mistake it clearly was no sooner than his vis-a-vis had gone suspiciously stiff, face color transfusing from previously ashen to pasty white, ethereal almost, before doubling over, overcome by long overdue nausea.
Lee's countenance was still eerily blanched, skin cold and clammy, as Helo succeeded in maneuvering his barely responsive form to a semblance of sitting position up against the wall in a cramped bathroom at the back of the office, once the wrenching heaves subsided. One arm clasped firmly around the young Adama's shoulder, Helo allowed the limp frame, drained of corporal and spiritual energy alike, mold into his own, in search for support the man's conscious control had assiduously banned for hours so far. Eyes wide-open, Lee was mesmerizing the blank distance with a stare oozing glazed torment in place of moisture only to be expected, given the situation. Helo had a feeling it was not the end of the night yet, though. Not a relief, but a respite, for the time being. The agony was far from over.
The reprieve was more than welcome, however, giving Helo time enough to endeavor a silent prayer. Something that should've been done long ago, he chastised himself, for the sake of her voluntary doomed soul as well as for that of the man, catatonic with dismay, by his side, all too eager to condemn his own for as long as Helo had known him. And far longer than that, apparently. Benedictions delivered, he peered down on the subdued Adama again, only to catch the vanishing glimpse of transformation, the gaze, previously paralyzed in dilation, shifting to focus slowly, through miles of distance and years, and memory. From scorched Earth, over the torrid Algae Planet, all the way back to the once tranquil skies of New Caprica, Helo presumed, or, might be, even earlier. To Pegasus, and Cloud Nine, and Resurrection Ship battle, and return from Kobol. Or as far back as the early premises of worlds' end, for all Helo knew.
A storm brewing steadily on the horizon, lightning flashing over the shreds of reminiscent awareness held both dear and excruciatingly exposing, or obscured from disuse, or deemed insignificant, unreliable or untrue. When the gates of heavens broke loose eventually, Helo was ready, securing the hold over Lee's shuddering form, bracing himself to offer shelter for as long as it would take. That was what he was there for all along, wasn't he? Not a tempest it was, though, but a hushed torrent, Apollo's tears flowing, unrestrained and, fortunately, uninhibited any more, soaking the thick fabric of Helo's tunic, where the crying man's face was buried in it. Muffled by quiet sobs was the rasping voice, hitching over the shortest of names, admitting defeat, spelling wonder, issuing unspoken confessions, pleading absolution, seeking compassion, claiming propriety, willing her back, calling her home. Over and over till the lament was completely attuned to the familiar soft monosyllable.
Ever the parent, Helo learned his cue from hours of cradling a fussing Hera, waiting patiently for the grievance to get soothed by the gradually settling exhaustion and calm. He pondered whether it should've been, in fact, Lee's father right there, in that spot on the tiled floor, clutching the weeping son close, sharing loss and pain, and ensuing despair, licking soggy bitterness and salt off his own lips. Then again, Sharon had drilled him on not questioning God's ways. Ever. If he was compelled to endure that darker of nights, to compile their usual lot, by Apollo's side, there was nowhere else he'd rather be.
For his morning CIC shift to commence was a matter of half an hour and Helo was well aware he needed to get going. They were back to the office area of the quarters, tears long dried and decorous appearances slipped back in place. There would be no gratitude voiced out loud, not right then. Nor Karl needed any, as the deeper shade of pallor ingrained itself permanently on Lee's taut expression before his very own eyes. Helo winced over a particularly violent throb of migrainne, placing a glass of water in front of Lee, seated motionless on the couch again, unwilling to leave without that one morsel of care unfulfilled. Karl's whole body screamed in sore protest, as he was forced to bend over the coffee table, to get Lee's attention by a light squeeze on the shoulder, every joint feeling crushed by a Mercury class battlestar. If anything, Lee looked worse, than Helo felt, hunched over, head plopped precariously over clasped hands.
"You should try and grab some sleep." – Helo did not expect compliance in response, so merely appreciated the lack of defiant smirk, the suggestion could have earned him.
"There's a press-conference scheduled in about forty minutes. I have to be there. There's no one else to give them… reasons."
The edge of the latter word was difficult to place, much to Helo's surprise. There was languor to be anticipated, alongside repugnance, for hours have been spent that night dodging the bitter rhetoric 'whys', Lee threw his way. And the ones concerning her choice were the least disturbing, to tell the truth. Those questioning Lee's own aptitude, or even eagerness to go on henceforth, rendered Helo all the more wary to leave. But there was determination woven into Lee's inflection too. Helo'd been exposed on more than one occasion to the Adamas' trademark obstinacy to allow a tinge of hope to surface:
"Are you gonna be alright?"
"No."
No hint of irony was discernible beyond the simple statement of fact. Helo tried to convince himself honesty in matters like that was a good sign. It could lead to acceptance, and, eventually, to deliverance. Yet, witnessing the consuming sorrow carve a rigid frown over Lee's weary features, Helo couldn't help wondering if, maybe, his comrade was facing a longer still night ahead of him, as the dawn broke.
*Am I kin to Sorrow,
That so oft
Falls the knocker of my door—
Neither loud nor soft,
But as long accustomed,
Under Sorrow's hand?
Marigolds around the step
And rosemary stand,
And then comes Sorrow—
And what does Sorrow care
For the rosemary
Or the marigolds there?
Am I kin to Sorrow?
Are we kin?
That so oft upon my door—
Oh, come in!
Edna St. Vincent Millay