A/N1: Back on the issue of bridging narrative gaps as far as Lee Adama's and Anastasia Dualla's dynamic is concerned. It took Lee roughly a month to recuperate from his gunshot injury in 'Sacrifice', season 2, while his Old Man was quite apt to hike the forests of Kobol in roughly two weeks after a similar incident. The reasons for Lee to lag back on recovery might have not all been of the purely physiological kind. Featuring Admiral Adama.
Set in between 'Sacrifice' and 'The Captain's Hand'.
A/N2: My knowledge of the logistics of gunshot wound recovery is meager at best, so whatever inaccuracies there might have transpired, are mea culpa.
Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot points, inherent to the show, belong to me. The title belongs to the namesake song and whoever has written/performed it.
Cry me a river
Doc. Cottle puffed grudgingly at the ever present cigarette, inspecting the monitors with controlled concern. Captain Adama stopped making any notable progress. Fair enough, neither was he getting worse, so no substantial premise for full-tilt panic yet, but still… His Old Man had been up and about in ten days after roughly twice the injury, being roughly thrice the age, too. Lee Adama wasn't even remotely fit to get up within the same timeframe. Cottle glanced back at his patient. The wounded Captain was not asleep, though dull apathy, cloaking the usually intently vibrant eyes, fixed now on the distance between the cubicle privacy curtains and the med-bay hatch, could not very well pass for alert wakefulness either. Seeing as the Admiral left some half an hour ago, after the mandatory morning check-up visit, it was hardly his father Apollo was conjuring to appear, mesmerizing the doorway, Doc. Cottle reckoned, taking another draw.
She hadn't been in for five days. He could recall waking up to her presence, for the first time since the darkness closed firmly up above him, eagerly swallowing the whirlwind of lights and noises, his father's anguished appeals to hang on and himself whole. He could remember soothing warmth and sadness, enveloping the enclosed space around them. He was aware of the voice, calling him steadily, as the darkness drew nearer once more. He did remember assuring certainty he wouldn't be lost that time.
She kept her word and was right there, when he woke up again. Oddly smiling and tearful simultaneously, she welcomed him back. Really back. It felt home. His drug-fuzzy mind opted to make a note he liked home. He liked the smile as well, better than the tears. Pain-killers induced haze and all, he wouldn't bet he didn't actually voice, or rather, rasp the latter conclusion. The way she flushed and busied herself with helping him to some water through a straw suggested he, probably, did. Being high, apparently, an excuse enough to take up mischief, he did remember avowing to see to it that she blushed more often. He liked that.
It wasn't until a couple of days later that he learned about Billy. She was composed and seemed determined to soldier on, but he could sense melancholy lingered. Wishing dearly he could be of more support at the moment, he squeezed her hand and professed he was sorry. He meant it, indeed. Whatever he'd made of the President's aide, Billy didn't have it coming. Truth be told, he owed the hapless guy twice, by then, too. Firstly, for proposing to Dee, thus effectively sealing her decision to end their thing in his own favor. Selfish or mean of him, he was quite aware of rather not having it the other way around. Ultimately, for placing himself between her and the bullet. Lee was beyond sure he wouldn't rather have it any other way. Something exceeding affectionate gratitude in her gaze made him seriously consider caring less about being selfish or mean over that one.
Ever nagging, if partially dimmed, pain and all the medication caused dizziness, notwithstanding, he grew pretty fond of the convalescence routine, established through those days. The Admiral would come regularly, in between CIC shifts, and actually manage to fare on as a worried parent, driving Doc. Cottle up the bulkhead, much to Lee's own amusement. That was, by far, the most he could remember his father being truly there in his entire life, before and after the world's end. He was basking in the comfortable equilibrium they seemed to be capturing, for the time being.
Dee seemed to spend most of her off-duty hours by his side, too. She would at times have to make herself sparse though, if the Admiral was not through with his visit, inside one of the empty cubicles, or enhancing companionship with nurse Ishay to obtain accurate accounts of his progress. He would then be dutifully, if semi-teasingly, chastised for trying to conceal crucial information about his current state of health by a flippant 'fine'. He grew quite accustomed to enjoy the smile his best angelic 'guilty-as-charged' face would never fail to earn him.
Truth be told, he grew increasingly accustomed to many a thing he wouldn't have guessed he craved, or even needed, months ago. A warm small hand, learning to find its way into his own out of habit. Anchoring him on this side of turmoil. Nudging him incessantly away from the dark tempest. The same hand on his forehead, checking for fever or sweeping away a stray strand. The familiar voice, giving a mocking account of the latest comms news or Colonel Tigh's CIC atrocities. The voice, calling them all home, now ringing with joy, hitching with concern or retreating into a mirthful silence for him alone. Eyes brimming with caring glow, luminous enough to keep the ever lurking shadows securely away from his current premises. He could believe himself really getting used to that.
He could remember feeling well enough, or pumped up with medication enough, the other day, to be plopped up in bed, while talking to his father through the 'breakfast' visit, the nurses labeled it. The Admiral would actually bring his morning coffee mug over for that one. He inquired about Starbuck then. Since she was not admitted to the med-bay, he reckoned she made it out of that shooting Hades unscathed, or so he hoped. The Admiral seemed taken aback Starbuck hadn't showed up yet to fill him in on the Air Group proceedings. Further still, Lee remembered, quipping smugly, lamely too, if he were honest, that Starbuck, perhaps, didn't dare to attempt a recon, since Dee and the Admiral were on watch at all hours. The quizzical furrow, scored from his father, made him literally choke on the foot in his mouth and wisely abstain from more detailed comments. The pain-killers, apparently, had a way of doing genuinely bizarre things to his brain.
He wouldn't mind Kara come over to check on him, of course. Maybe, admit she was sorry and cared to let it be known. Though, deep down, he could actually deduce why she, most likely, wouldn't. Zak would do it too, all the time. Huddle away in the farthest dark nook, upon conducting a wrongdoing, and feel profoundly sorry for himself, until someone (Lee, more often than not) came up and relieved him of his misery. Zak would get away with an awful lot, that way, without as much as an apology. Used to annoy the Hades out of him. Shooting him within an inch of his life should, probably, amount to a wrongdoing, even by Starbuck's standards.
Dee never showed up that day. Neither the next one, nor the day after. His father would infallibly stick to his daily visiting hours; the pilots would pop in every so often (sans Starbuck, but that was to be expected), to be compulsively shooed away by the nurses for all the horrific, and noisy, accounts of a most recent dog-fight, unnerving the rest of the patients; the deck crew sent out a 'get-better' party; Ellen Tigh, of all people, made a fuss of stopping by 'poor dear Lee' with a trayful of fresh fruit he shared around the med-bay, later. Not a hint of Dee.
As hours, adding up to days, ticked by, he caught himself being, somehow, genuinely intrigued by an area of the med-bay, nearest to the entrance, or greeting whoever pulled away the privacy curtains of his cubicle with embarrassingly misplaced anticipation. Incidentally, damn the injury, he had all the time in the world to thoroughly rationalize why it only made sense she wouldn't care to stop by anymore. Delayed shock could have kicked in, and she was finally blaming him for Billy's untimely demise. Or worse still, she could be regretting not going along with the marriage proposal and blaming him for Billy's demise twofold. Or, quite possibly, she could've realized, in retrospect, Billy had been her Mr. Right all along, and wouldn't spare him another thought or minute, having condemned him for good re: Billy's demise.
By the end of day four, marked accurately by his father's calls, he firmly made up his mind there was no point to care all that much. Never had been. Not that he ever presumed there was anything there, anyway, other than amiable camaraderie, or most fleeting, superfluous attraction, maybe. Not that he ever wanted it to be anything but. Not that he come to rely on her subtle supportive tenderness to guide him to a relatively safe heaven where hope might reside. Not that he couldn't do without. He'd done a pretty fine job, so far, hadn't he? Both before and after the world's end. He felt like kicking something, too. Hard. Or throwing a weepy tantrum. Or both. Gods, those drugs had to be really messing up with his mind!
- Sorry, kiddo. It's just the good ole me again today.
The Admiral contemplated studiously schooled surprise followed by decidedly matter-of-fact disinterest on his son's face with a barely concealed amused smirk. Never the one to pretend he was apt to read his elder child even remotely accurately enough, the Admiral, however, was familiar with a peculiar 'I-don't-care-if-she-doesn't-care' look, transcribed all over Lee's countenance at the moment. The last time Bill Adama could recall witnessing similar stoic resignation in the way his lips were pursed, was when Lucy (or was it Macy?), a five-year-old Lee's kindergarten flame, turned down his affections.
To see his son inert and quiet, though, - creepily evoking the earliest hours of the injury that were to give the father in him shudders for the rest of his days - let alone visibly upset, made the old man stifle a sigh. An unsettling realization began to dawn, the likes of which every parent was destined to arrive at sooner or later: that it one time just would not be enough for 'daddy' to simply be there to make it all better. He started pondering the idea ever since the Blackbird incident and was musing now whether it could still help if 'the Admiral' took over from there yet again, giving Lee a what he hoped was a cheer-up squeeze on the good shoulder, in the meantime.
Spotting Petty Officer Second Class Anastasia Dualla make a hasty retreat from the med-bay threshold, just as he was exiting from Lee's partition, left the Admiral wondering. Bumping into Dee, instantly unnerved and flustered, the next morning, in the midst of a carefully hushed conversation with nurse Ishay behind the obscuring confines of the med-bay hatch door, drove the father to replace an initial frown with a borderline impish grin.
Hades, the girl all but saved Lee's life back there on Cloud Nine, and provided she had the guts to kick the mighty Bill Adama efficiently into reconciling the fleet and going after his son on Kobol, from the overall look of it, she definitely had a way of plunging the said son out of his most recent funk. While she was still around, that is. Poorly veiled disappointment in Lee's subdued demeanor and half-hearted greetings he welcomed his father with, alongside her, apparently, stealth ongoing visits, made sure to transpire unbeknownst of their mutually favored patient, brought the Admiral to gruff silently over kids those days.
The Admiral's order, no, scratch that – the Admiral's request, as she was relieved from a CIC shift, was crystal clear: stop by the med-bay and pass on to Captain Adama his father's greetings enhanced by his apologies for not being able to make it that afternoon, due to a council, scheduled with the President. The Captain, of course, could've been informed via a phone call to one of the medics, but Admiral Adama made a precise point voicing an assumption Lee would not feel abandoned, were the news and apology personified by a friendly face. The Admiral's requests to be carried out more promptly, than orders ever should be, off to the med-bay she went, half-hoping he was asleep, when she arrived.
She hadn't talked to him for several days, by then. Came to the infirmary compulsively twice a day, in between her shifts, to get an update on his progress, or catch a glimpse of him sleeping, all the while determined to go unnoticed. Her mole, nurse Ishay, was instructed to keep her visits secret. She knew it was, probably, stupid. But the conversation with his father, five days into his recuperation, she was forced to overhear, while waiting for her cue once the Admiral left, suggested she was not the one welcome by his bedside. The girl only needs so many hints, and it'd been preposterous enough to presume they were headed somewhere once. So she made herself sparse, relieving his recuperation of her obnoxious presence for whomever he deemed more appropriate to grace it.
Caring less was easier negotiated than done, though. She needed to know how he was doing, if he was getting better. At all times. So much so she could barely sleep or function coherently, once word got out Doc. Cottle was not all too pleased with his progress. She missed him. She missed talking to him; the faint, vulnerable or full-tilt naughty smile dramatized accounts of the latest fleet scuttlebutt would earn her; the feel of his hand clasped securely around her own, the way their hands developed an unquestionable habit of meeting halfway on top his sheets; his pout or the innocent puppy look, employed skillfully whenever called on giving the medical personnel grief over whatever inadequacy of the day being pinned to a hospital bed supplied. She missed him so much it hurt.
And now she was going to let him in on how the Admiral was sincerely sorry for dumping his convalescing son for the preferred company of the revived President, and that would be it. As easy as that. She released a breath she wasn't aware to be holding, stepping through the curtains.
Playing possum seemed like a sound idea, as the steps drew near. He wasn't particularly in the mood for visitors. Hadn't been in the mood for visitors for a while, to be honest. Whomever bothered to come up, surely, wouldn't dare wake up a gravely injured patient in severe need of any scrape of rest he could get. His father, most definitely, wouldn't be deterred and would pull up a chair to spend the timeframe, scheduled for the occasion, by his sleeping side anyway. But those were not his father's steps approaching…
He was searching every corner of ailment exhausted mind frantically for the most spiteful thing to say. She didn't come here on her own accord. Not because she wanted to find out how he was, not because she cared, or, might be, missed him. Not at all. She was carrying out his father's command. The Admiral indeed couldn't have appointed a better executive for that particular errand! On the shallow note, he was placated somewhat, she appeared, at least, obviously uneasy and longing for a release.
The words, angry, hurt, explicitly needy, to be true, found their way eventually, discharged in rapid succession to inform she needn't have troubled herself with coming over at all, he could really make do without arranged, let alone ordered, calls. He sure did, for a time, have reasons to believe his company was amusing enough for a certain colleague to seemingly enjoy it, but not anymore. He had every opportunity to get convinced the said colleague had, most likely, far more appealing appointments on her schedule than wasting time on entertaining a barely coherent invalid.
Looking up, breathless with exertion from the extended soliloquy, he was primarily amazed at how tiny and fragile she looked, standing by his side. Appalling him further were tears in her eyes, as she glanced up – not of insult or indignation, as was to be expected, but of relief and regret, of all things. Her voice small, as she spoke up in reply, he was let known she just opted not to prevent any possible recons, being on watch at all hours.
As phased out memory seeped back in, he could feel panic splash bile right on his tongue, making him nearly heave with self inflicted disdain. Whatever he meant, if anything noteworthy at all, by the idiotic witticism back then, she got it horribly wrong. By no means could he have been wishing to get rid of her. He thrived on her presence too much, to voluntary discard it like that. Again. Not that he could make her believe now, if he claimed otherwise. To add insult to injury, it was blatantly obvious his ongoing misery was of his own making. Would keep being just that, for there was no way he could persuade her to reconsider, was there?
His eyes, instantly sensitive of the overhead lighting, had to be squeezed shut, head shaking ever so slightly in defiant woe, a hushed grunt passing for a lament over preciously special things patently frakked-up before even given a chance to commence. He didn't quite expect relief to be that cathartic when she was surprisingly still there, regarding him with heartfelt compassion, as he ventured to open them back. Deliverance bread courage and he dared as far as to tug at her fingers with his good hand, urging her to meet the guilty plea in his stare. Searing shame drowned in awe, making him choke on excuses, as she quietly recited his daily register of blood pressure and pulse by heart. Benevolent empathy washed over in a soothing wave, as he held her gaze, bringing her palm to his lips. He was quite astounded he might actually get away without an apology that once, while voicing an unwavering point of much preferring her smile to tears.
Upon weighing his options, the Admiral eventually adhered to what seemed like the wisest one, if not the most appropriate, given the circumstances – to retreat discreetly, while still unnoticed. Sure enough, he wouldn't mind some time with his son before the visiting hours at the med-bay were up, having missed the afternoon call, but he'd rather not interrupt what he bore witness to, provided Lee's state of distress as of lately. The diminutive Petty Officer was seated with her back to the entrance by his bedside, so there was no way of assessing her expression, but reflected in his son's eyes, focused intently on her face, was placid, admiring affection and peculiar, carefree brilliance, the likes of which Admiral Adama had yet to recall in the anguished, moody young man his son had become through the recent years, let alone recent hideous months. Above all, the Admiral found himself stupefied by catching a glimpse of what he didn't remember Lee doing in an excruciatingly long while either – sport a genuine smile, dimples and all.