A/N: Yet again, I'm not sure where this one came from, but it always seemed apparent Lee Adama's innermost sense of inadequacy, confusion and guilt was instrumental to driving him into the darker corners of self-inflicted hurt and hatred, at various points through the series.
A rather murky glimpse of Lee's character through the aftermath of Groundbreaking Day ('Unfinished Business'), 'The Passage', 'Taking A Break from All your Worries' and 'Sometimes a Great Notion' episodes.
Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot points, inherent to the show, belong to me.
Expands the time*
He knew exactly how it would've happened. Played it out in his head so many times his brain hurt. He was aware of every inflection, every minute gesture that would accompany his confession or a manifesto, more like, every fraction of an inch of her shoulders slumping down, as she'd be backing away from him with that shocked half-smile and eyes full of sore disbelief, disappointment, anguish and bitter resignation to keep her composure till she was well out of his eyesight. That cursed dignity and poise of hers, making him feel a whining pansy on a good day. She'd never guess he almost hated her for it at times. For bringing him to deem himself childishly beneath any temper tantrum he ever felt like throwing her way. It would be easier, if she'd just blown up. Just once, to help him feel justified in his own frakwittage. But she wouldn't.
He knew he'd have felt repulsive for subjecting her to that. For defying her not so much by break-up, but by betrayal. Yet he was sure what would have hit far harder was for doing just that to matter. A searing, demolishing pain, bringing his stomach to churn and his knees to buckle, as he would've watched her walk away for good. It would have hurt to hurt her. Worse still, he was woefully aware of a panicked protest, to have been bellowing deep within his mind, just as he would be delivering the well-worn and well-rehearsed apologetic lines of it not being about her, but about him. And Starbuck.
There were no doubts he'd have gone ahead with the professed claim to leave Dee, outlined that night upon Groundbreaking, were it not for Kara's impromptu marriage, and it kept plaguing his wakeful and sleeping hours alike to comprehend with blinding clarity he wouldn't have wanted to, once the prospect would have acquired palpable form. So much so he was borderline willing to hate the unsuspecting Dee for meaning that frakking much. For meaning something to him for real. Since it all of a sudden happened to turn him into a cheat, and a traitor. And a deceitful coward. And it Gods damn mattered to be that as far as she was concerned. As much as he hated to admit it. At least he had Kara to hate too, then on, for hating himself.
And Hades, didn't he hate himself. For letting Dee look at him the way she often would. As if she had the power to soothe his turmoil, to console his feverish consciousness, to see through his pathetic inadequacy. He hated it being true. He hated that she kept recognizing someone admirable and upright, beneath the obscure layer of his all but deliberately softened edge. He hated to have let go of that person. He hated still longing to be one, despite himself.
Their wedding night was the first in his entire lifetime to end him up weeping upon lovemaking. Tears shed quietly in the dark, careful not to wake her up, serene and spent in his arms. She wouldn't know he mourned her then. Lamented the fate he'd bestowed upon her alongside the nuptial vows. Mourned himself for the fate he could foresee not surviving, were she ever to opt not putting up with what their marriage held in stow. He hated himself ferociously, clinging to her for dear life in the shadowed sanctuary of their quarters. With the power enough to smother or crush her tiny frame. He hated being uncertain if maybe he should. Before it wasn't too late. Before he hadn't hurt her otherwise. Before he'd have to hate himself for loving her.
Dee fainted in their quarters. Fatigue and starvation of the past weeks finally catching up on her. He stumbled through the hatch, around midnight, high on the dizzying, if equally toxic, combo of sleep deprivation, radiation, hunger, stims and Kara's smoldering kisses. Kara needed comfort, or, maybe condemnation, after Kat, and he was just too damn tired to try and deny her both. He was too tired of feeling useless. He was too tired of not being sure where to fit, anymore. Or how, for that matter. He was too tired of estimating for hours on end if there was a single chance to have salvaged Pegasus, somehow, if he'd made the right call to have sacrificed his ship. He was too tired of choking on rage over a perfect chance to get even with the Cylons to have been flushed down the drain for the sake of Karl frakking Agathon's misplaced loyalties. He was tired to gulp down nauseating fright at the very idea his father could have been the one ultimately complicit in obliteration of humanity. He was beyond tired of hating himself.
And there his wife was, sprawled on the floor, in front of him. Still and placidly beautiful, even through shades of exhaustion to mar her features. He was too phased out, apparently, to get scared right away, so just knelt by her, hand venturing out in slow motion to caress her slacked jaw-line, over her neck to feel for pulse, more out of firmly drilled instinct than obligation. Slower still, he bent closer to catch the whiff of her breath, barely audible as it was.
A surprisingly serene part of him wondered if he might just let it stop. Lie down beside her and wait patiently till her breathing came to a quiet halt. For it would mean his would, too. He'd been on full life-support ever since the Blackbird. Earlier even, if he were honest. What if it ceased hurting, that way? He'd considered the prospect once, and it had hardly ever seemed more appealing going ahead with letting go. Maybe, if he'd spared her the atrocity of looking him in the eyes, reading him for what he was, what he'd become, what he couldn't help doing, it would stop hurting to love her.
She stirred, moaning softly, and he snapped out of the woozy reverie, remembering to panic. Her limp hand was clutched within his own, later on, in a secluded cubicle of the med-bay, as he stayed by her bedside, too drained to move. Holding on to her. As always. All the way till it was time for him to head for the CAP briefing. Grateful he wouldn't have to meet her gaze. Not just yet. At least it didn't hurt loving her that much, while she was asleep.
Cheap ambrosia effectively burnt his throat into a parched wasteland, the pounding toll in his ears mingled with the faint clank of the tiny band on the hallway floor, behind the empty crates. The ring slipped out of his palm and all he could fathom thinking about at the moment was that he didn't want to die. It must have looked pathetic, and every single bit as appallingly disgusting as it felt, and true. He lost her, lost his ring, lost his grasp. He was well aware to be drowning and he knew with the finite, desperate clarity of a doomed man he didn't want to go down like that. Through the end of the worlds and countless close calls he could hardly recollect ever being so abhorred by the prospect to never make it back. Hating himself hurt so much it didn't quite occur to him to hold sobs back.
Tears, battled valiantly at the Joe's bar, all the while walking her back home, one arm clasped a tad too tightly around her shoulders, lest she should change her mind, seeped their way out eventually, as he held on to her in the dark stillness of their quarters.
Never a man of much faith, he marveled if it had ever felt that cathartic for a true believer to be spared one's life. Salvation. He'd never bothered to assign the idea much credibility before. It would seem he had the name to match the concept, then on. And the face. And the feel, the scent, the taste and the voice.
The sheer experience of awe felt so close to grace, as he gripped her, relaxed into sleep within his embrace, giddy basking in the rhythm of her heartbeat, he had to wonder if it was even appropriate to transcribe it as sensual. Then again, he was hardly the clergy material to institute a worship order at her altar, much as he felt compelled to, at the moment. So he went on silently spilling the salty potion of his deliverance into the crown of her hair, pondering if lack of hurt could ever keep feeling like home. If lack of hatred would someday feel like losing his mind.
It was a good time to die, he mused almost tranquilly, as Helo's broken tearful voice trailed off, explaining, consoling, anxious. Not earlier in the day, no. Not right after having trodden on murky ashes of their promised home-world. Not when he felt a despicable fraud, hiding from many a prodding glare within all too familiar confines of the pilots' ready room, petrified by the necessity to face the Quorum, or any one of his people, for that matter, to shatter the dreams, they'd pinned so assiduously to everything he stood for, once and for all. Not then.
But of course, she reached out and called him home. Called him on who and what he was able to be, was entitled to be, reminded him to embrace the responsibility he'd always been up to shouldering. He clung to her faith for dear life. As always. And he did it. He managed to come up with the narrative of hope, just like she believed he would. It failed to save her, but it made her proud. And he could die that man. Looked forward to it, in fact, as Helo's account of her gun on the floor, amidst the puddle of her own blood, drew to a shaky close, expecting the world to go black any moment then.
As the colors finally blurred into dense twilight around him, he'd wonder randomly how come he was still alive. Or maybe, he wasn't and just failed to tell the difference. It hurt to breathe, that much was true, around the dull throbbing ache that seemed to have overrun his entire existence, as of lately. But it didn't hurt loving her. Not anymore.
*Pain—expands the Time—
Ages coil within
The minute Circumference
Of a single Brain—
Pain contracts—the Time—
Occupied with Shot
Gamuts of Eternities
Are as they were not—
(By Emily Dickinson)