Big thank you to my wonderful beta, lanalucy.
Snow
It should have been like this the day of the bombing, snow covering the city, the sharp bite of cold squeezing her fingertips and toes. But it had been a bright and impossibly warm day when it had happened, even for late winter in Caprica City. If it had been a snowstorm, surely her family wouldn't have surprised her for an impromptu lunch. If the weather hadn't been so unexpectedly balmy, she would never have gone out for that walk. She was lucky that she hadn't been inside the building; that's what people told her. But surely luck wasn't supposed to feel like this.
The memorial was deserted tonight. They'd aired a clip on the five o'clock news, an eight second still that showed a few mourners laying flowers down against the cold granite. The snow hadn't come yet at the time of the filming; but now the flowers that had been placed earlier were buried underneath the drifts. The network had squeezed the coverage of the one year anniversary of the tragedy in between a stock market report and a warning about the snowstorm.
Laura stood alone in her navy blue pea coat with her gloved hands shoved in her pockets. Her body was rigid with cold but she didn't really feel it. The fifty-two names on the monument were illegible in the darkness, obscured by the white flakes that were rapidly sticking. She didn't need to see them though. She knew where to find their names and her eyes moved to the familiar location.
Edward Roslin
Sandra Roslin-Stewart
Cheryl Roslin
It was still a surreal feeling, even a year later. You never think that the people whom you love most in the world will be reduced to etchings on an oversized plaque. The tears came sooner than she'd expected but there was no one to hide them from here, so she didn't.
His leather jacket offered little protection against the bitter chill of the wind as it whipped through the empty park. The red scarf around his neck, which was supposed to make him feel warmer, only seemed to choke him. Tom hastily loosened the heavy fabric. One overlong piece of disrupted scarf hung haphazardly over his left shoulder for one moment before the wind claimed it entirely. He let it go.
He noticed her before she saw him but it was only for a moment. It was too dark to make out her features; the only thing that he could tell was that he was looking at the figure of a woman. He hadn't expected anyone to be here, not now, not in a snowstorm, not well after midnight. She flinched when she saw him, a natural reaction for a woman alone in a park, late at night. He was sure that he must look ominous as he approached her with his unruly black hair and dark jacket.
"You can stand with me if you'd like to."
Her words immobilized him. Somehow, he hadn't expected her to speak. It didn't seem logical. She seemed more apparition than human being. A figment. And if he had imagined her speaking, she would have uttered a shriek of surprise or an accusatory reproach at being disturbed. Her compassionate invitation left him speechless and he was usually a man of many words.
He backed away from her, slowly, as if she had pointed a loaded gun at him rather than extending an offer of comforting solidarity. The irony staggered him.
"I'm sorry," he said. The words were both condolence and regret but she would understand only half of their meaning.
He retreated into the night and the snow and the blessed dark.