This is my first Battlestar Galatica fic and, as such, I might be a little off with characterization at first, but bear with me. Hopefully, this should, by the end, track through the entirety of the series, so be prepared for spoilers throughout as I'm attempting to fill in the blanks with scenes we didn't see. My main focus will be on Roslin and Adama (but I may include other character stories if I feel like it haha) and starts in the miniseries, as Laura awaits her diagnosis. Enjoy
Laura never understood why they made these offices so bare. A lamp. A desk. The only thing to distract you: the sky. She supposed the simplicity was a pathetic attempt at creating a relaxing atmosphere. Relaxing. Nervous giggles erupted from the woman's throat. Yes, it's very relaxing waiting for your doctor to return with news of how early to begin planning your funeral, she mused, bringing a halt to her laughter. She would wait until it was absolutely necessary to think of her mortality. As it was, she found herself focusing on birdsong, the sound sweeter than all previously consuming thoughts. She smiled, a slight curve of her lips. It didn't reach her eyes, but prevented tears from further clouding her vision.
Ms Roslin prided herself on her ability to remain outwardly stoic; a requirement for her job – most often when Mrs Adar visited her husband's workplace after another night of the pair staying at the office after hours – and something she was heavily relying on for her oncologist's return. She would have realized this expression's uncanny resemblance to one her mother had often worn, had she thought about it. But she hadn't, so she didn't. Thoughts of her mother were reserved for occasions such as the anniversary of the woman's death and, therefore, she missed many of the similarities between the two. The one she was now presented with had other ideas and refused to be avoided, as though history wished to repeat itself. All this has happened before, and all this will happen again. She shivered, remembering the many times she had been made to echo these words, though she couldn't remember their origin. Was it possible that these words, repeated so often in childhood, now held significance in her own life? Her mother: a teacher, a cancer patient and, though it hurt to admit it, a woman not afraid to use her 'feminine charm' to get what she wanted. Here sat Laura, Secretary of Education, awaiting biopsy results and sleeping with the President of the Twelve Colonies.
The opening of a door behind her jolted her attention back from her thoughts, from the birdsong, the desk and the lamp. Presented with a manila file, the room suddenly seemed too cluttered, too claustrophobic. Her future now sat in her lap and she realised that this was not the time to be philosophical.
Colonial 798 should have left the dock over half an hour ago, but Laura's appointment had lasted long than the twenty minutes she had set aside for it and, after receiving her diagnosis, she had been in no hurry to reintegrate herself with polite society and instead made a detour through some of Caprica's backstreets, mingling with shady market stall owners. In her current state, she felt no better than them; the positive tumour diagnosis weighing her down, both emotionally and physically. Distracted by various trinkets shining in the midday sun, she paused at a table, eyes glazing over them. One interested her; the plainest on the table. A simple silver bracelet.
"How much for the bracelet?"
Her pocket five cubits lighter, she moved from the shifty eyes of the stallholder and back into the open space of a main street. Uncertain of where she wanted to be, the redhead let her feet guide her, their memory of the familiar streets seemingly better than that of her own mind.
Soon wandering through Caprica Park, she paused once more, edging along the rocks, towards the shallow stream that passed through the greenland. Water had always fascinated Laura, though why she had never known. Water relaxed her, calmed her heart, slowed her breathing, gave her time to think and that was what she needed now.
The water of the Colonies was not all the same; Caprica's was bluer than the others. The same shade as her father's eyes. The Roslin eyes seemed to have missed her, but featured on every other family member's face, including her sisters'. As a child, she had often worried about this fact, questioning her true heritage until she was reminded that her eyes, like the rest of her were just like her mother's. Too much like mother.
A soft sigh escaping her lips, her shoes came off; in a setting such as this, there was no need for the formalities, especially when her feet plunged into the ice water, the cool a refreshing change from the beating sun above. In her mind, she imagined time slowing, the cold of the water freezing those around her, their movements reaching a standstill. Joggers trapped mid-stride. A child paused, tongue centimetres away from a fresh ice cream. Everyday routines halted. She needed more time. More time for life. But, as the Caprican clock chimed, she knew that time was exactly what she didn't have.
Within the hour, the ship drifted leisurely above Caprica; it's speed due to it being designed more for style than anything else. This absence of speed allowed passengers the opportunity to "sit back, relax, and have a sneaky liquid lunch." As tacky as it was, the ship advertised this slogan whenever possible, often attracting the wrong kind of patron. In truth, Laura failed to see much accuracy in their tagline. The chairs failed to recline to a comfortable level; either remaining at a 90 or 180 degree angle, and, somehow, they managed to experience turbulence, even in the vacuum of space. There were much more comfortable places to relax. Any passenger heard voicing these complaints, however, was quickly satiated with the alcohol of their choice until their quarrels were non-existent.
Coincidently, this was also the cause of some of the more odd laws passed by the Quorum; many members being too drunk, too hungover or simply passed out to make truly responsible decisions. A particular favourite of one Billy Keikeya, the aid to the Secretary of Education, being that no one may discuss the stock market without standing on their head. There were two main reasons why this law passed; 1, the Leonis representative found stocks to be terribly dull, and, 2, conversations became shorter when one stood on one's head; the bloodrush causing more than a little difficulty concentrating. (It was also common knowledge that, after twelve ambrosia shots, he found it hilarious to see "heads where feet should be and feet where heads should be." However, he often shrugged this off, stating that it was most definitely not a deciding factor in this law…though it probably was.)
What amused Billy so thoroughly about this was that all applications for jobs in that sector now, by law, had to state whether or not the applicant was able to do a handstand. If you were lucky enough to be present during such an interview, you would be greeted with the surreal image of both interviewer and interviewee, upside down, discussing the latter's reasons for wanting the job.
Surprisingly, this law was also part of what made him so fond of his boss. She had offered him a seat upon his arrival for his interview and watched as he attempted to stutter his way through his qualifications. Midway through his utterances of typing speed and time management courses, she stood, silently prompting him to continue when his voice wavered in confusion. Stepping to the side of her desk, Laura kicked off her shoes and, in a less than lady like manner, hitched her pencil skirt up until it sat mid-thigh. It was then that the most graceful handstand that Billy had ever witnessed occurred. Resting her hands on the hardwood desk, Laura pulled herself up, flipping into an upright position atop its surface. There she waited, Billy's speech finally coming to a halt as her loose curls pooled over a stack of important documents.
"Sorry, I have a meeting with some rather dull people after this and I thought it a good idea to prepare myself for the inevitably awful chitchat." Even as she spoke, she found it hard not to chuckle and smiled when the young man joined her laughter. She had succeeded in quelling his nerves, now he just had to impress.
They sat together now, aboard Colonial Heavy 798, her thoughts clearly somewhere else as he ran through her schedule. He had never seen Laura Roslin flee but, as the drinks trolley made its second trip around the fuselage, she did just that, excusing herself to the small ship's bathroom.
She sat for nearly a fifth of their journey on the floor of the bathroom, clutching at her left breast, her fingers as close to the tumour as she could physically get. Unmoving, her mind drew to a standstill, mimicking her outer actions. Somewhere at the edge of her mind, she heard the ship's tannoy pulling her to her feet. She had a job to do. A ship to visit. A life to lead, no matter how short.
A single tear had escaped during her time in the small room, leaving a trail through her make up. Never had she been seen in a less than pristine state and she wasn't about to begin today; her quivering hand wiping at her cheek.
Fifteen minutes later, she left the bathroom, still shaking, though her make up now resembled something near her normal level of perfection. Returning to Billy, she sat beside him, squeezing his hand to still the quaking of her own.
"Madame Secretary, are you-" he was cut off, the look on his face prompting Laura to speak.
"Don't," her hand moved to his lips, preventing any further words from escaping, "make me stand on my head again."
This prompted a smile from the two of them, though each knew the other's wasn't genuine, "Sorry, Ms Roslin."
So please let me know what you think; any feedback is always appreciated, as I want to get this just right. Hopefully my next update isn't too far away.
Charlotte
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