Hope you enjoy the story. Thanks for reading and reviews are always welcome!
'She rocks in the treetops all day long, hoppin' and a boppin' and a singin' her song!' Thank you, Little Bird, for the beta! You really do rock!! This story would certainly not be what it is without your tireless help. You kicked my butt out of laziness and for that I am truly grateful!
Tempest
"What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?"
–William Shakespeare, The Tempest
Droplets trickled down Laura's foot and collected at the end of her toes. Forced down by invisible gravity, the silver beads swelled before jumping back into the blue pool below. Laura's foot followed them, again dipping beneath the ripples, allowing the soothing liquid to splash against her leg. Light mist from the fountain kissed her face. With her eyes closed she could feel the warm rays of the Caprican sun peeking through patches of fluffy clouds. Waves from the pond and her hair shimmered in unison as both bathed in the light.
The contrasting temperatures between sun and water loosened her rigid shoulders, made her appreciate simple sensations she often ignored. Here, in Caprica's Riverwalk, Laura's lungs filled; her chest lifted and she held air inside momentarily before allowing it to spill back out. Outside in the fresh air, hearing the chirping of birds and the click of people walking by on the street calmed the tempest of her thoughts. The sun's warmth, the smell of pine and hot pavement, the rejuvenating feel of the deep breath lulled her into a moment of tranquility. Someone in the distance laughed. The sharp cackle was offensive.
Her hand traveled over the cotton fabric of the jacket resting on her lap as her foot continued to make lazy circles below the reflective surface. In a few minutes she would board the ship bound for the Galactica and the decommissioning ceremony. The rest of her day would be spent in space.
Laura's audible groan was muffled by streaming water.
Who will really care if I go?
Her departure time was only a pretense for what she was really asking.
With slow deliberation her eyes opened. Green trees lining the Riverwalk leaned into the breeze, leaves fluttering. Tarnish spread across the base of the bronze commemorative statue in the center square. In memory of the first cylon war; a half-dozen metal soldiers formed a defense around a small group of civilians. All six had given their lives in a futile attempt at heroism. She had walked by that statue thousands of times on her way to work but only today did she detect the blemishes.
A cheerless smile assailed her lips as she shifted her focus. An insignificant crack meandered up the sidewalk leading to the base of the impressive stairway. The stairway formed the luxurious entrance to the Presidential Headquarters. The classical architecture of the president's office had lost none of its majesty though the building itself appeared dwarfed by the sleek modern towers on either side.
Had the people bustling up the steps always looked so grimly determined to get where they were going? Had she been one of them? Did these strangers strolling by notice the unwilling conduit of gloom channeling darkness into the carefree streets of Caprica?
Sunlight bounced off the white pavement and blue pond, producing prisms that sprinkled the world in vivid colors. A grinning child was lifted off the cascading steps and into a woman's embrace.
Silver beads and wispy zephyrs and happy children could not deny fact; Laura's body would fail. Air would no longer sustain her. Smell, taste, touch would disappear like the rays of the sun behind a dark endless cloud. Then all would go dark, forever.
Reaching for her shoes, her eyes swept over her home one last time. If only the brilliant minds of Caprica had devised a way to bottle up the fresh air and take it along. Space always made her feel cold. Death and space were allies. One always followed the other. They raged war side by side to freeze and shatter the good moments.
She decided to go before she tainted her home with frost from the vast emptiness she held inside.
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In the CIC, stationed at the command center with all eyes on her, Laura Roslin felt the thick isolation of space.
"Madame President." Tigh's eyebrow lifted.
"Wait." Roslin's low reply caused Tigh to lean forward.
"Sir, multiple contacts on dradis," Dee's voice echoed throughout the CIC.
Silence poured into the room. Dradis flickered with the buzz of tiny red dots but Roslin kept her focus on Tigh. Lee stood close enough she could feel his shoulder next to hers, offering silent support. Due to the nature of the mission she had summoned Lee with her to the CIC, regardless of his status as a civilian or her irritation at his recent behavior. Roslin depleted none of her energy to discover if the biting terror she worked to conceal was mirrored in Lee's blue eyes.
"Madame President." This time Tigh growled with rising agitation.
"Wait." A tone lower attested her unyielding determination. Her voice was law. Stern. Indifferent. The total opposite of the torrent churning inside.
"Sir," Dee's voice again, "The cylons are opening fire."
"Madame President!" Tigh's brow wrinkled in lines up to his forehead.
Roslin's eyes narrowed and her grip on the edge of the command center intensified. Tigh's allegiance was being tested, and Roslin knew full well it did not belong to her.
"Mr. Gaeta—"
"Wait, Colonel." Obstinate, resolute. She folded her arms across her chest, fortifying herself against both Tigh and the white hot pounding of her heart. Tigh's mouth dropped open but no sound was produced. His hesitation implied respect which Roslin was deeply aware of. New Caprica had changed them all.
"This is a military decision. I have my orders." The single piercing eye sent prickles through her.
From the twisted snarl on Tigh's lips Roslin could see plainly his desperate struggle between duty and friendship. His eye pleaded with her for a simple answer but there was none to be given.
"Mr. Gaeta, proceed with jump," Tigh pressed on.
With the order Roslin felt her chest tighten, but she remained silent. Tigh had made his decision, and though it was the wrong one, she expected nothing less.
"But, Colonel—" Gaeta voiced the objection Roslin held back.
"That's an order!"
From the expressions on the faces around the room, and the silence in which everyone worked, Roslin could almost see a wave of palpable emotion splashing about the CIC. Lee's eyes were glazed over; his face pale and narrow.
Please…
She sent up a silent prayer, but for the sake of self control did not risk adding further detail. In her minds eye she could see space crowding the outer hull of Galactica, coagulating her soul. A longing for the fresh air of Caprica consumed her. The trees waving their green leaves, the people marching up a long stairway, the slightly cracked pavement absorbing the sunlight…
Within seconds the familiar disorienting feeling of the world shrinking swept through the CIC. A flash of light, and dradis no longer hummed with activity. Roslin gripped the command center, balanced herself, and sent an apprehensive glare from Lee to Tigh.
"Report!" The urgency embedded in Tigh's voice disheartened Roslin more than she allowed herself to acknowledge.
"The fleet has come through safely," Dee announced in solemn tones.
Seconds passed. Minutes. With each beat of the limitless silence in the CIC, Roslin felt the air bleeding from her lungs. Space crushed the CIC, suffocating her, as the cold penetrated her skin. Out there a wounded ship sunk into the enemy's abyss.
"The cylons haven't followed us through," Dee said, offering hope through a weakly composed voice.
"The old man did it," Roslin heard Tigh mutter to himself.
The old man.
Her knuckles turned white as she continued to grip the command center.
Lee hurried with swift, precise movements to the station where his estranged wife sat.
"Petty Officer, is there anything else on dradis?" The strangled voice with which he ordered fell somewhere between a wish and a void of empty hope.
Roslin closed her eyes to shut out the stricken faces around her. She refused to let herself be a conduit of despair.
"Nothing," Dualla choked out.
Please, no…
Roslin heard Lee moving as she fought her own grief to maintain control of the situation. At her side Lee seized the headset and put it to his ear.
"Starbuck, this is Galactica Actual, do you copy?"
Static fizzled in reply. The sound was deafening. Maddening. Roslin stealthily put a hand to her mouth, hoping the action would hide the slight quiver of her lips.
"Starbuck, respond!" Lee ordered.
From just in front of her, Roslin watched Tigh shift slightly from one foot to the other. Everyone waited, breath held, for the answer.
Please, don't let this happen…
"Damn it, Starbuck!!" Lee mangled the headset and pounded his fist on the command center.
"He trusted you!! You came back from the dead and he frakking trusted you!!" Lee was frantic now, like a wounded animal backed into a corner.
Roslin numbed herself to her surroundings. Someone had to do something. President Roslin could act now, for the good of the fleet. Laura might not have even survived the fatal blow just received.
As if looking through the eyes of a stranger she reached out and saw her hand land on Lee's shoulder.
"Lee," she consoled.
Lee lowered his head, closed his eyes, and hurled the headset across the room. The receiver exploded against the wall and fell to the floor in pieces. Roslin's fingers firmly gripped him.
Roslin felt as though she might split in two. Lee's grief swam into her heart, yet she could do nothing more to calm either of them. Not here. Not now.
Dualla stepped out from behind the station and cautiously approached. One touch of the petty officer's hand and Lee pulled away from Roslin's grasp. The rejected hand of comfort hovered alone in space until Roslin quickly jerked it to her chest. Lee slumped into his wife's arms and his muffled bereavement filled the CIC.
I was supposed to die first...
Space shrouded Laura's shoulders like a cloak, freezing her to the bone. She had to get out of the CIC.
"Colonel Tigh," Gaeta's voice did not fair well. "It's the press," he covered the phone with his hand, "They want a statement."
Tigh innately turned to Roslin. Everyone else's thirsty eyes fell on her. The mantle of her position had never felt so arduous.
"Madame President?" Tigh probed impatiently.
Roslin hugged herself in effort to fight off the icy chill settling in the CIC. She thought of Caprica, of the fountain in the Riverwalk; of sun dashed ripples and fresh air and pine; of the statue dedicated to the heroic soldiers who died in vain for a lost cause. The statue: decaying with age, not properly cared for, forgotten by those who passed by each day.
"Tell them," she began, and out of necessity cleared her throat, "Tell them, the jump was successful and that we are assessing our…" She stopped, let her arms fall, and continued. "…damages. We will give them a complete statement when we know more. Excuse me."
Shocked, disappointed faces formed the gauntlet barring her escape. Each pair of eyes on her felt like a punch in the gut. She knew the fleet, those standing in the CIC, needed her to be placid and nurturing amidst the recent events. Maybe she could be, but she had to defeat the killing cold within before she could care for her people.
Roslin ignored her mantle in order to seek the only refuge she knew.
Once there, she opened the hatch, stepped inside, and closed it firmly. The elevated room temperature thawed her enough to trigger a flood of silent tears. Laura groped for something to balance herself on. Air was hard to come by. Disoriented and aching, she gasped and staggered and finally landed on the couch. His couch.
"No," the dry whisper scratched her throat. She could not be certain whether the word was meant to reprimand the escaping tears or to mourn.
Space snuffed out flickers of hope. Her cancer, her grief, and anger combined, determined to stop her from functioning. Everything was rigid. Coherent thought splintered into pieces. All she could do was sink into the leather folds and let memories fuel the turmoil inside.
I would be dead, my son would be dead…You were wearing a really bright red dress…You'll die inside, likely move your cancer right to your heart…Not guilty is not the same as innocent…Has the whole world gone mad…You're still standing…Crap, unacceptable, whatever you think this is…I can't see you as a blond…The battle maybe, not the war… Smells like the inside of an old shoe…Let's find this tomb of yours… Get your fat, lazy ass out of that rack…He's a good kid…What the hell are you saying… I forgive you, Laura…
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The little girl dangled her feet over the side of the seat and reached into her backpack. The disorganized contents delayed her from finding the item she was hunting for. Her fingers made contact with parched, wrinkled leather. She tugged the book into the dim light of the Colonial Aircraft. Aunt Margo had given her the ancient family heirloom during her visit; an old copy of the Pythia Prophesies which she excitedly thumbed through. Her family would be impressed.
With a huff of impatience, the girl slapped the book down on her lap and strained upward to peer over the top of the seat in front of her. Nothing but the bald spot on the head of the man in front of her came into view. She smirked and looked out the small window. Her breath coated the glass in fog. With one stroke of her sleeve she wiped the haze away. There were tiny dots of people on the hanger deck, walking or running as they prepared the ship for launch.
A low mummer filled the front off the ship and grew closer as the stewardess approached. The familiar blond woman leaned across the man sitting next to her.
"Sweetheart, could you come with me?"
She instantly knew something was wrong and wrapped her fingers around the book.
"Why?" Innocent eyes inquired.
"Well…" the stewardess hesitated, "You're family can't come get you as scheduled. We are going to put you on another flight and—"
"Dad and Mia were going to get me, why can't they?"
From Caprica to Geminon and back had been the girl's least favorite part of the trip to see her Aunt. The plane was scary to ride on by herself, even though she was eleven going on twelve. She did not want to be delayed in getting home. Plus, she was what her mother called a 'stubborn snork.'
The stewardess exchanged glances with a few of the passengers. Her clammy hand rested on top of the smaller one.
"Honey, I'm afraid there's been an accident…"
Worry stuck to the girl's skin like her moist breath on the cold window. Defeated and afraid to ask more questions the child nodded and silently gathered her things. The rest of the journey home was a continual struggle to fight off the empty stillness of space. Laura's only ray of comfort was the memory of fresh air from her home.
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Over the soft rumble of Colonial One's engines, a ringing phone, and muffled voices, Laura Roslin inaudibly turned the page. The office was empty save for her lonely outline. The report in front of her carried Saul Tigh's signature now, not the Admiral's.
Tigh's report was precise but it lacked the natural sophistication of Adama's prose. Only fragmented sentences registered as she skimmed the pages, recounting the events of the last few days.
…cylons agreed to swap the secret of the Ion Nebula for Admiral Adama… Kara Thrace selected to carry out the mission…President denied approval…Raptor escaped and engaged enemy once information was transmitted…two shots rendered Raptor ineffective…jump commenced…Raptor lost…vital data retrieved.
Laura gently set the report down. Space outside the small windows might as well have been starless. Gaeta had deciphered the cylon message, and the fleet drew one step closer to finding Earth. Hope washed through the ranks more violently than it had during settlement on New Caprica. Despite the excitement, Laura was unable to plant even the barest faith in the information Adama sacrificed his life to obtain.
The glossy frame of her glasses felt brittle as she removed them and pressed her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose. Three days and nights had passed since his death. Her eyelids were heavy with lack of sleep. The establish routine now: she would toss in bed for a few agonizing hours until her eyes began to water, then she would cry until the fountains ran dry and toss some more.
The nightly ritual did not bother her, but the lifted eyebrows and worried glances, even from Saul Tigh, did. The puffy redness circling her dry, tired eyes she concealed with charm but it was impossible, even for her, to fool everyone. Every time she had a meeting with Tigh, his gawking eyes said he knew more than he let on. She had yet to address the press about the admiral's death, and few people remained unaware of her objection to trusting the information acquired from the cylons. However, Tigh's dismal stare carried with it more than simple common knowledge. 'Evasive' and 'withholding' precisely defined his recent behavior.
With an inelegant shudder she rested her arms on her cluttered desk. During the past few days it had become increasingly difficult for her to tell the difference between the pain caused by her illness and the despair over the loss of her companion.
Laura closed her eyes and drew in a few deep breaths, trying to get passed whichever one was ailing her this time. She swiveled in her chair, contemplating whether or not she would have to make a dash to the bathroom. With another deep inhale, and a spontaneous shiver, she decided this pain was not from her cancer. This pain was much worse. Retching for a few minutes would be a welcome relief compared to the heartache.
Absently, she brushed her hand over the care-worn leather bound scriptures next to Tigh's report.
Now that he's gone, you realize how much he meant to you. Don't think for a moment you have the right to be bitter. You knew time was short and still you did nothing. Bravo, Laura, you royal coward. Wear your crown proudly.
These thoughts were as haunting and powerful to her as the nightmares she used to have of the accident that killed her father and sisters. In order to focus on her job, her mission, she had to steel herself against these feelings. The dimming flare of hope she relentlessly clung to could suffocate too easily under the burden of her regret.
"Madame President," a soft mumble floated from behind the curtain. Quickly she blinked back her consuming desolation. Numbness took over her body; a common and welcome sensation.
"Come in." She put her glasses back on before the guest appeared. Thank Kobol for her glasses. They managed to hide the tell-tale signs of what she was experiencing.
A finely cut figure appeared in the doorway in a suit and tie. Laura refused to let herself grow accustomed to seeing Lee Adama out of uniform. This was the first time she had encountered him since the dark day in the CIC. Secretly she was glad he had avoided her, because she had to magnify her numbness tenfold when he entered.
"Mr. Adama, what can I do for you?"
Steady Laura, steady.
"Madame President." He paused and a peculiar emotion shadowed his face. Roslin was at a loss to read him. The glistening of his eyes attacked her heart fully. She gripped her hands together tightly under her desk.
"I have some…good news," Lee choked over the words, and a smile broke through the shadow. Hope was a jagged bullet shooting through Laura's heart. Tigh entered behind Lee, gawking and smiling widely.
"Madame President."
Laura instantly recognized the raspy tone repeating her title. A chill fluttered down her spin once his full commanding visage stepped into the center of her office, a blaze of light in the downpour.
Bill!
"Admiral." Despite her effort to obscure it, her breathless tone disinterred the depth of her joy.
Laura rose from her chair and rapidly stepped toward Bill, wanting nothing more than to...forcibly stop herself in front of him and clinch her hands behind her back. She was a professional, after all.
It was unbearable hell without you.
"How? Why?" Distress, confusion, and eagerness pervaded her voice.
Bill was smiling a little, but his eyes hinted at volumes of secrets.
"We had to convince the cylons Kara and I were dead, and, unfortunately, that meant convincing you too. Kara piloted the damaged Raptor behind an asteroid where we waited until Tigh could send someone back for us. Only the three of us knew. It was a military decision," he explained, as if this were a routine meeting.
At the moment Laura wanted nothing more than to beat the living crap about of Bill Adama. Military decision!? And Tigh knew!? She was grateful he was alive, but Lords help her, she was going to kill him herself! And the gawking, tight-lipped Tigh too! Foremost in her thoughts was 'airlock.'
Lee ducked his head and scratched the back of his neck. Tigh continued to gawk at her, which caused her to grind her teeth together. Bill stood the same way he always had. From the frowning brow, to the gold ring on his left hand, to the instinctive warmth he emitted, nothing had changed.
Laura shook her head in disbelief and paced back toward her desk. She stifled the defiant, hopeless laugh that wanted to spill from her lips.
"Will you excuse us?" The solid voice smoldered through her office, indicating to Laura he sensed her resentment.
With narrowed eyes she watched Tigh oddly bow as he left, nearly stumbling when he turned. Lee's lips curved into a sympathetic smile and the blue eyes of his father openly acknowledged happiness. Adama's son followed Tigh and disappeared behind the blue velvety curtain.
Once they were alone, Laura said nothing, merely allowed the tenseness of her shoulders and the thunder clouds in her eyes show Bill how infuriated she was. His hands rested, one on the other, neatly below the last button of his uniform.
"You're upset." Bill stood as steady as a lighthouse in a roaring tempest.
"Hell yes," Laura hissed. "You couldn't have told me? I may have objected to the mission but that is beside the point. Once you decided to go through with it, as President of the Twelve Colonies, I had the right to know! Telling me was not your prerogative it was your obligation! I thought we ended this childish secret keeping on Kobol." She could feel her hair swishing around her shoulders as she shook her head.
"If you hadn't played the part, and waited as long as you did to jump, the cylons wouldn't have bought it. I was counting on your heart." Flames consumed Laura's last links to self control.
"So I was your stooge?" Her voice dripped with gooey disgust. "How flattering." She pursed her lips together in a mock smile.
Her eyes fell closed and she turned her head. Her hands balled into fists as she folded her arms. Knots in her stomach crept up to her shoulders and her muscles constricted even more. She leaned against her desk and waited for his response.
Though her eyes were closed, Laura could hear soft steps across the carpet of the room. Her glasses floated away with the touch of the warm fingers near her face. Tears and wrath became increasingly harder to barricade.
She felt his hands slide along the skin of her cheeks, but instead of drawing her head upward, his forehead met hers. A faltering breath escaped her lips and she felt a tear fall, only to fizzle into the hand remaining on her face.
"Laura." A man like Adama could say so much in one word.
The unbearable veil of frost holding her captive began to melt.
"I thought you were dead." Her voice was little more than a strangled accusation.
His steady hands continued to hold her face. Laura silently cursed herself each time a tear reach his fingers. The more tears she failed to stop, the more likely Bill was to realize how much losing him affected her.
"You have my word, Laura, I will not leave you to do this alone." His forehead moved away from hers and was replaced briefly by his lips. The skin of her forehead was pleasantly scorched by the ephemeral touch. There was a lurch in the pit of her stomach that reminded her of something like passion but she flicked the notion away by attributing it to drained emotions and lack of sleep.
"Frak you," she barked. Mixed up with her fury was a feeling of elation and gut-wrenching joy. His blue eyes glowed with offered comfort but she refused to take any. Another tear broke free of her defenses.
"If it makes you feel any better," he began thoughtfully, with a pleasant smile, "In a few months I'll be going through the same hell you just did."
The unmitigated gall of his statement ignited the building aggravation inside her.
A venomous slap hissed across his face. The moment her hand smacked Adama's cheek she regretted the action, more for the vibrating sting of her own skin than for the pain she intentionally inflicted.
"Good." Her fierce growl was sincere.
Eyes locked in a silent war as each of their wills battled for domination. A red mark cascaded down Bill's cheek but he remained motionless, apparently unperturbed by the swelling. She wanted to keep hitting him until he gave her some kind of reaction. Her wish was realized abruptly.
Bill swung his impressive arms around her shoulders and stringently pulled her entire body against his. Denying him only increased the burning intensity of his arms. The action left her breathless and struggling against her better judgment, but she hugged him back with the same crushing fervor. Fire met water and the steam of hope emerged.
Who will really care if I go, she remembered asking herself what seemed like a century ago. She knew the answer now.
"Damn you for making me need you," she whispered near his ear. Fingers nimbly coiled through the curls trickling down her back.
"I love you, too. It's not enough just to live; you have to have something to live for." The gentle thawing timbre of his voice made her knees turn to liquid. His grip loosened but Laura clung to him, afraid to let go for fear of plunging into a puddle on the floor.
Her cheek grazed the heated skin of his injured face as he ended the embrace and took her face in his hands again. Against her will, Laura let her eyes dissolve into his. He smiled and brushed a tear trail from her face.
"So," his smile turned devilish, "You are glad to see me."
"Frak you."
"I'm beginning to see a theme here, Madame President. Are you trying to tell me something?" The innocent way he asked the question made her subdue the urge to slap him again. The sneaky hands now resting on her waist were repealed and Bill stepped back. She sent him the most malevolent glare she could produce and rounded her desk, deliberately placing the large object between them. Layers complex emotion stretched before her like a blistering wildfire.
"There is a lot to deal with, now that your back." In need of a distraction to avoid his eyes, she anxiously lifted a pile of papers and placed them in the corner of her desk.
"Like the press," Adama perceptively pointed out, his hands once again calmly united, "You haven't talked to them since…"
Laura maintained focus on organizing the scattered reports.
"I couldn't face them." Her tone was nonchalant but she knew Bill was aware of the magnitude of her statement. "And you weren't here to tell me to get my fat, lazy ass out there." She snuck a glance up and was rewarded with a playful look of mirth on the face of the admiral.
"Admiral, Madame President, I'm sorry to interrupt." Tigh started to speak before his was fully in the room.
"Starbuck is waiting to speak with you both, and the press is practically climbing the walls."
Laura lifted her eyebrows, amused by Tigh's avoidance of her gaze.
Bill picked up the glasses he had placed on the desk and presented them to her with an outstretched arm. The soft smile he wore seared the ice from the deep wound losing him had caused her. A wound she knew would take more than one day to heal. She accepted the token, and her fingers lightly brushed over his. The steady heat of his hand was a comfort to her.
President Roslin slipped her glasses over her ears and sat in her chair.
"Alright, Colonel. Show Starbuck in," she consented.
The Colonel nodded and exited. Adama sat across from Roslin in his familiar chair and she smiled lovingly. Her beacon burned anew and guided her back from the tempest of the last few days. Space outside shrunk from the light shinning in Laura's office.