A/N: Denial is one of the more common initial stages of grief. Lee Adama was not spared its clutches, going through the aftermath of Dee's demise.
A sort of an introspective drabble, focusing on Lee's state of mind in between 'Sometimes a Great Notion' and 'A Disquiet Follows My Soul', season 4.
Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot points, snippets of dialogue, inherent to the show, belong to me.
Taught by thirst*
When Zack and, more recently, Kara, died, he remembered spending most of the his hours, waking or otherwise, wallowing in how much it hurt. Tangled in sorrow. Stuck, meticulously nursing every pang. Piling up every sting of memory. Admiring the ever growing mound.
Those days, after Dee, he'd catch himself wondering, amused, how much it didn't. Not really. There was no pain, whenever the vibrancy of her laugh resonated through Galactica's hallways, he had to pass but on occasion now. No ache surfaced as any glimmering flicker would conjure the glow, her gaze infallibly harbored for him alone. Guilt never settled its smothering shroud, while he attempted to backtrack every moment of the ultimate day they shared. Nor was he crushed by regret, allowing his reminiscence to venture farther back, into every single gift of her proximity he was awarded to treasure. Despair proved redundant, once the freezing void consumed her small coffin.
His heart wouldn't clench as the metal band, still enclosing his finger, grazed the skin into cool awareness. No torment stirred his mind, whenever a recollection of anguished contempt, mirrored deep within her eyes once, was evoked. Joy fled the memory of engulfing radiance, her smiles issued. Awe was foreign, were he to dwell on fulfilling grace of her absolutions.
The world didn't shatter, leaving him to tread barefoot on piercing glass. Alone. Every step – a penance. Faint echo of her voice – an urge home. 'If anyone can give them a reason to go on – it's you…' The Quorum. Step on. 'You're an Adama.' His father. Step on. The fleet. Step on. The Quorum again. 'You're a soldier, who needs a war.' Zarek. Step on. The rebel Cylons. Step on, and on, and on… 'I'm so proud of you'. Every stifled groan along the way – a vow. Each picked up piece – a razor-sharp testament. Bloody trail to highlight his progress.
Chances were, it was not his breathing, choking on her name, regardless of whether uttered out loud or summoned in silence. Neither were there prickly shards, spilled on the floor out of picture frames and near empty perfume flasks, nondescript tidbits and jacks - his meager legacy, smashed off the table in a single fit of suffocating fury - slitting his palms, when stashed reverently back into their tiny sepulcher. And those were not tears, soaking his pillow at night, were they?
*Water, is taught by thirst.
Land - by the Oceans passed.
Transport - by throe -
Peace - by its battles told -
Love, by Memorial Mold -
Birds, by the Snow.
(Emily Dickinson)