Author's Note: Thank you my wonderful reviewers! I love reading your reviews – every time my email goes 'ping' with a review I get all excited and bouncy; I'm like a small child at Christmas…honestly it's just kind of sad :D
This chapter continues directly on from the last scene of the last chapter, except with one major difference…
Enjoy!
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Just One Touch – Part TwoWhat little breath she had been dragging in through her burning throat whooshed out her with a dull violent pain as Lee's fist hit her stomach, and her knees went weak. Tears sprang from Paulla's eyes, and working on instinctive animal panic her fingers scrabbled at the fingers clamped around her throat, fighting desperately for air. Her feet lashed out frantically but ineffectively, her nails found purchase on skin and dragged and she heard as if from a great distance a voice swearing and yelping in pain, her hand knocked away roughly. But the chokehold on her throat lessened and Paulla almost wept with relief, sucking in huge breaths of blessed oxygen.
"Bitch." She heard Lee swear under his breath, and looked up with blurred vision to see Lee touching the two shallow gouges her nails had left on his cheek. His eyes landed on her and she tried to shrink back against the tree – gods he looked cold; cold and determined and not at all like the idealistic young man he normally appeared to be.
"I hate you," Paulla told him almost childishly and his head snapped back like she'd slapped him again, his emotions mixed on his face into a pained mess that she couldn't read. It hurt to speak and her voice sounded strangled and rasping, and she kicked at him again – but this time he expected it and twisted his leg across to block the blow, her knee jabbing uselessly into his thigh. Lee shook her by the throat, like a helpless and mistreated puppy and Paulla thrashed, panic seeping over her quickly again, but before she could lose her senses completely he pushed her back against the tree and fixed his eyes to hers.
"You will stop the plotting, and the attacks, and the plans of violence, the terrorism. Call it what you will, but all actions that could result in violence of any kind will stop. Do you hear me? Do you understand how important this is?" There was urgent pleading in his voice and Paulla managed a defiant if trembling smirk, saying again, "I hate you, you sick bastard."
Paulla enjoyed the hurt and shame that flared briefly on his face. She wriggled in Lee's grip – not trying to hurt him, afraid he might hit her again, but trying to get loose of his hold on her throat, pushing at his chest and prying at his implacable fingers. Fighting him and knowing there was no way she could get free, but doing it anyway because…well, just because. She had to fight.
"This isn't a joke, Paulla. Our species survival could very well depend on your actions now, and I cannot risk you ruining everything," Lee hissed as Paulla stamped on his foot and abruptly pressed his body close against hers to still her thrashing; one hand still curled around her throat just enough to make breathing difficult, the other gripping a handful of her shirt at her waist.
"Go to hell." She tipped her face up to his, hyper-aware of how he felt moulded against her. Warm and lean and hard, his breath hot on her face and smelling of pine needles. His fingers digging into the flesh of her throat, making every breath a struggle and she knew bruises would bloom where he'd held her. Impotent fury mingled with a sudden spark of something that she had tried so hard to beat into nothing, but Lee Adama… Gods… A certain sick pleasure started tingling as arousal gripped, and she squeezed her thighs together tightly to try to erase the feeling.
She hated him. She really, truly despised him.
"I could kill you and no one would ever know. They might suspect, sure – but no one cares enough about you to drag me up on charges. Your body would rot somewhere and no one would bother to look for it."
That hit home because Paulla knew it was true, and she crumpled a little inside, her traitorous body still humiliatingly throbbing for him. His hand around her throat, his sharp eyes boring into her, the contempt on his face, his muscled abdomen hard against her torso… A shuddering breath escaped her lips and he misread it for fear. He smiled, a triumphant, cruel expression on his lips. In this moment he looked very little like the Lee Adama who had set up this community just over nine months ago. Paulla's eyes searched his face. She wished more than anything that she wasn't attracted to him, didn't want to…do things…things that made her…
Paulla shut her eyes, and when Lee asked her if she would stop stirring up violence she nodded weakly, imagining him throwing her to the ground and ripping her pants down, shoving into her roughly. Frakking her hard with that look of contempt on his face, calling her every debasing name he could think of while she sprawled in the mud. The flesh between her legs twitched at the vivid fantasy, arousal increasing the blood flow and making her clit throb and ache almost painfully, making her body crave to be filled by Lee, hurt by Lee. She was suddenly so wet and slick, and her constricted breath grew even shallower, her mind swirling as she grew light-headed.
"You'll stop?"
"Yes," Paulla breathed, vertigo sweeping over her and making the world reel sickeningly as she opened her eyes and stared into Lee's. So blue. Gods she disgusted herself. Her hand clasped over Lee's that gripped around her throat; not trying to pull his hand away, just resting her fingers over his.
"Can I believe you?" he asked, and Paulla tried to nod, couldn't.
"Yes," she whispered again. Lee paused and stared at her carefully, as though trying to look into her head and read her thoughts.
"You remember what I said. If anything else happens – anything – then I'm going to stop you. Permanently." Lee's eyes dropped and he added under his breath,
"Gods help me."
Then he looked back into Paulla's eyes and she stared back at him silently and unblinking. He looked so cold. Like all emotion had just been…shut off. Fear began to overwhelm the twisted arousal fluttering inside her, and Paulla was almost thankful. But then Lee's hand began to tighten and Paulla once more couldn't breath, and that horrible, animal panic began to seize her brain and shake it again, and her hands clawed and wrenched at his and her feet kicked out – unsuccessfully. Her vision started getting dark spots in it, and her hands fell away from his, a ringing starting in her ears.
Paulla stared into Lee's face with her darkening vision and saw no hope of mercy, no twinges of guilt or shame. Just steely resolve.
Why? He said he believed me. He said…
And then his hand released her and Paulla crumpled heavily to her knees, gasping in huge, agonising breaths, fingers digging into the mud as she fought to stay conscious, black spots dancing in front of her eyes. Her hair fell around her face as she stared dizzily down at the mud, her clenched fists half buried in the muck, her chest rising and falling and throat searing with each breath. She heard him speak her name and looked up, movements feeling too fast and clumsy. Lee was squatting on his heels, and his hand slipped beneath her chin and his fingers tilted it further up toward him and instinctive fear squirmed inside her. She couldn't breathe…couldn't… Her breath caught and her heart raced.
"All I needed to do was not stop and you would be dead right now," he said, and Paulla blinked, trying to clear her muzzy head and foggy vision and make sense of his words.
"I won't have you endanger this community. And if you do anything that risks it, next time I won't stop." There was pain printed on Lee's face now, his blue eyes narrowed and crinkling lines at the corners, his voice strained as though he had been the one getting choked. Paulla believed him. Believed he would kill her. She tried to keep her head up, swaying weakly on all fours in the mud, and his bloody lip caught her eye, smeared with coagulating blood and puffy from her slap.
"I won't stop next time," Lee repeated and Paulla wondered hazily if he was trying to convince her or himself of that. She nodded and breathed deep, dropping her head as his fingers released her chin and staring blankly at the sticky oozing mud underneath her.
Paulla heard him get up and leave with slow squishing steps in the mud, heard the crackle and brush of the undergrowth as he headed into the forest. Her muscles trembled from adrenaline and fear – and desire mingled with disgust – and her throat felt tender, half-closed and bruised as frak. Paulla retched weakly but nothing came up, struggling off all fours and sitting on her ass in the mud - she couldn't get any filthier, physically or metaphorically. At least her insidious and unwelcome desire had been obliterated by dizzy nausea now.
Paulla sat for a while, knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around her knees, head resting on them. Tried to summon the feelings of hatred she had toward Lee, rather than the confusing and sickening thrills of arousal. When she finally felt strong enough to move she stumbled down into the stream and sat down in that. The icy water was shocking and her skin puckered into goosebumps but Paulla forced herself to lay back in the shallow water, almost completely submerged, long hair floating out with the current. There was something cleansing about letting the crystal clear snowmelt wash away the mud and soothe her hot, swollen throat. Her thoughts were clear and sharp as she lifted herself out of the water and began slowly and painfully gathering up her forgotten washing, hands trembling and teeth chattering from the cold.
Frak Lee Adama. Paulla would be a slave to no man, and whether his threats were idle or sincere, she wasn't going to obey his orders like a dog at his heels. She smiled slowly to herself, fingers rubbing firmly over the bruise on her abdomen – the pain spurring her on. No, if Lee thought he had broken her then he was sorely mistaken. She would just have to be more careful, that was all.
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The house was dark, and Romo had no idea what time it was. It could have been nine in the morning or nine at night – the shutters hadn't been opened since the day of Jake's death. Romo had cremated his body by himself – he hadn't even wanted Manya there, in the end. He didn't want to risk breaking down in front of her. No, he had watched Jake's body alone, watched as it burnt to bone, flames leaping up into the hot air of the plains, making the air shimmer more than usual. And then, when it was over and done, Romo had gone to Joe's and gotten several large bottles of Joe's strongest brew. He had shrugged off any sympathy or calls to come and drink with people. No, Romo had gone home and started drinking, and he hadn't stopped until all the alcohol was gone and he was dead drunk on the floor. He had closed the shutters that night and hadn't opened them since.
Romo played with the lip of the bottle he held now – half empty, and he wasn't drunk enough. He stretched out on the bed, bottle cradled to his chest, gulping occasionally at the contents. The alcohol was potent and seared his throat on the way down, tracing a warm trail from his lips to his stomach. He thought about Manya, about saying Faye's name during that messy encounter that never should have happened. And that, of course, made him think about Faye.
Romo closed his eyes and tears trickled from the corners, making his cheeks itch and tickle and he scrubbed them away. He didn't want to cry, but the tears came anyway, unbidden and unwelcome. He had tried for so long not to feel anything about Faye. He had thought of her, spoken of her – even joked about her. But it had all been intellectual, divorced from any feelings just like they had been at the end. Still together but apart, their relationship a tangled mess of sleeping in the spare room and avoiding each other's eyes at the breakfast table – emotionally estranged. And so he had estranged himself from his grief and his devastation as best he could. And just as back then, so long ago, he had realised he couldn't deny how much he needed her – now he couldn't deny how much he grieved for her.
Jake's death had been the catalyst Lance's hadn't been; finally triggering a release of all the emotions Romo had tried to deny himself. And with the floodgates opened, everything had come thundering through and it drowned him, crushed him under its weight. Not just Faye, but Jennifer. Kate. And gods, if grieving for one's wife was bad, then grieving for one's children was a living hell. He dug the photo out of his bedside drawer and held it carefully in trembling fingers. It was the only one he had. They had looked so much like their mother, but with wide smiles and sparkling eyes so unlike Faye's grave countenance.
Jennifer had been beginning to take notice of fashion and prettiness; wanting all the right clothes and sneaking tubes of her mother's lipstick to paint her childish mouth. Wanting to be like the other little girls and make pretend she was a woman at the tender age of eight. Although behind the longing to fit in with the other girls had been a quick, sharp mind – Romo had heard more convincing arguments from Jennifer than he had from many a prosecutor. He looked at her round face in the worn photo. Grinning at the person behind the camera – it had been Romo, and he remembered that afternoon with painful clarity. She would have been twelve now, if she had lived – gods he hated thinking that. If she had lived. Because she was dead now. Dead. Frak. She would have been giggling about boys and having sleepovers with gaggles of other girls, and would have probably thought Romo was a great embarrassment.
Romo took another long drink, waiting for the blessed numbness that inebriation brought. Unfortunately, first he had to pass through the maudlin stage. He took another drink, staring at the beige screen that walled off his bedroom without really seeing it.
Kate had been five and had just started school a few months before…before. Only five and she had already been walking around with her nose permanently stuck in a book. Tall and gangly, all long coltish limbs; Faye couldn't get her into a dress, they were too impractical, she had told her parents with a serious expression on her delicate face. For a moment she had looked the spitting image of Faye, and then she had grinned and Romo had melted. She may not have liked dresses, but she had emulated her older sister in stealing Faye's make up and they would catch her in the bathroom with a face like a clown's. If Romo couldn't find her inside, then he looked for her outside, and would find her nestled in the fork of a tree's branches with one of her books. He wondered where her body lay. If she had been reading.
His brain was dulled enough by the alcohol, and it dwelled on things he wanted to pretend didn't exist. It wondered if they had died instantly, or if they had survived the initial attack only to die slowly of radiation sickness. If they had been together at the time, or if the girls had ended up separated from Faye, dying alone and frightened. He imagined Jennifer and Kate without him, without Faye, too small to have a hope of fending for themselves. Imagined them clinging together and crying hopeless tears. Dying. The blast? Murder by looters and criminals? Radiation poisoning? Starvation? So many possibilities. And except for Faye – maybe – they had been alone.And Romo hadn't been there.
He should have been there.
Gods.
He tucked the photo back in its drawer, and he drank, just like he did every night now; anytime, in fact, that he wasn't working. And Romo spent a lot of time not working – more than usual these days now he had Louis Hoshi as his efficient assistant. And so Romo sat at home and drank and drank until his mind was too heavy and muddled to torment him, and oblivion crept over him. He put the bottle to his lips again and nothing came out, and he held it up, examined it with fuzzy eyes and a tilt to his head. It was empty. Huh. He didn't remember drinking it all…somehow time had slipped away from him. He smiled. Reached out for another bottle.
There was always more alcohol.
A while later – how much later Romo didn't know but this new bottle was only half full now – a sound raised him from his drunken stupor. He blinked and listened. Knocking at the door.
"Romo? Romo, are you all right?" Manya's voice came muffled through the door and he groaned. He didn't want to face her. He wasn't sure why, but he knew there was a reason… He – he remembered it vaguely. How long ago it had happened Romo didn't know, but he remembered what had happened, and like most things wished he could forget. Telling her that he didn't care about her and then frakking her with the coarse vulgarity and gracelessness that only a drunk could achieve, and then saying Faye's name.
"Romo! If you don't answer this door I will get Showboat to break it down!" Manya's voice snapped through the air, perfectly audible even through the door. Romo swore to himself and struggled off the bed. Feet tangling in the sheet he nearly tripped over and stumbled against the wall with a dull thump and a curse. Romo's head was spinning and he felt like vomiting; so frakked it felt like the floor was swaying under him as he took cautious, clumsy steps. He clung onto the edge of the screen for a second, blinking hard and shaking his head, trying to clear it a little. It didn't help. So he had another drink from the bottle that was still in his hand instead. That didn't help either.
"Romo! I swear to the gods, I am serious!" Manya's anxiousness penetrated the fog that enveloped Romo's mind and he started walking again, the distance from bedroom to door suddenly seeming immense.
"One minute!" he tried to call and it came out slurred and hoarse instead of crisp and smooth like he had intended. Gods he was a bloody mess. Romo paused before he opened the door, running a hand over his mussed hair and rubbing his face vigorously. He generally tried to tidy up himself up slightly when he had to go out and be the President – even just a quick wash and fresh clothes did wonders. But there was no chance to do that now. Romo knew he must look like death warmed up; eyes no doubt bloodshot and red-rimmed, his usual several days' stubble a scruffy two-week growth that complemented his equally scruffy clothing, his skin pallid and his hands trembling slightly. It couldn't be helped. And he was so drunk that his moment of caring what Manya thought of him came and went swiftly. The only thing that worried him was that she would try to fix him up, cut him off from his supply of alcohol again.
He had another long swig just in case she tried and succeeded.
"Manya." He opened the door just wide enough that he could stand in the opening and block her from coming in. It was light out still, the sun bright enough that it was probably mid-afternoon. Manya and Showboat were standing close together and talking in quiet, worried tones, and both stopped mid-conversation and stared at him with mingled embarrassment and concern. So they had been talking about him. Romo found he had a distinct lack of caring. The blessed bloody alcohol, working its magic. He realised with brief consternation that the bottle was in full sight of the two women and then decided he didn't care about that either – even took a sip while meeting Manya's eyes. Frak her. He could drink if he liked. But instead of feeling stupidly rebellious, Romo just felt ashamed as her brown eyes met his without accusation or judgement but just a deep sadness.
"How exactly can I help you, Ms Yelizarov?" he asked and a part of his brain was horrified by how inebriated he sounded as he swayed in the doorway. Manya looked him up and down and her face was filled with pity that Romo didn't want.
"I just wanted to check that you were okay, Romo."
"I'm fine. Perfectly well, thank you."
Showboat was staring at Romo and he raised an eyebrow, staring back. She turned away, embarrassed, and resumed her proper position by the doorway, eyes focused on the street and not Romo and Manya. Romo turned his raised eyebrow on Manya.
"Was there any other purpose to this visit?"
"Romo…" Manya sighed, a crease forming vertically between her eyes, her mouth down turned and tired. A pang twinged at him. It was because of him that she looked so weary and worried.
"Yes?" his mouth asked, cool despite the slurring.
"Can, can we talk inside?" She stepped forward, hand reaching out toward him in a hopeful, aimless gesture. Romo found himself shaking his head,
"No. I'm afraid I'm busy at the moment."
Manya's face fell further and she glanced at Showboat, back at Romo.
"Busy drinking yourself to death?" she asked tightly and quietly, and Showboat focused intently on appearing deaf.
Romo shrugged,
"Drinking, at any rate. I think 'to death' is a bit of an exaggeration."
"You can't do this forever."
"I am completely aware of that."
"Its unsustainable on many levels."
"I am also aware of that," Romo sighed and shifted his hand on the door. He wanted to shut her out before he invited her in. And gods, a part of him wanted to invite her in and just let it all go and accept the comfort she offered him. Allow Manya to be there for him, to support him, just like she wanted. But he rejected that pitiful wish, crushed it coldly. He didn't want to do that, and he didn't need a repeat of the last time he had seen her. When had that been? This morning? It seemed like far longer than that, somehow, but then the alcohol played tricks with his mind lately.
"Romo, please. You were meant to be at a Council meeting this afternoon, and you didn't show. You're starting to neglect your duties now. This can't go on."
Frak. Romo hadn't realised… That wasn't good. He couldn't afford to slip any further. But he didn't say anything, just chewed on his tongue, staring at Manya and trying to appear unmoved and dispassionate.
"You have to face it eventually. You can't avoid it forever."
"I know. But I'll take what I can get," Romo replied tiredly, beginning to feel too sober. He nodded at Manya,
"Good day, Ms Yelizarov."
He shut the door on her before she could say anything else, and made his slow and stumbling way back toward his bed, drinking as he went. He settled back on the bed with a groan and his hand went unwillingly to the bedside table drawer, questing fingers finding the photo. He held it in one hand and the bottle of alcohol in the other, and just stared and drank, vision wavering with tears.
Manya knocked and knocked, but Romo ignored her, lost in memories of the time before; reminding him of everything he had lost. All the memories painted rosy pink with nostalgia and longing, and barbed with the sting of never-again. They drew him in and trapped him, and even the alcohol couldn't stop it from hurting. He sat alone and drank and wept, a shadow wrapped in alcohol fumes and loss.
After a while the knocking stopped.
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Author's Note: So, my big question for this chapter is… What did you think of the perspective flip on the scene with Lee and Paulla? Did I succeed in making you feel bad for her, and slightly disgusted with (or at least disappointed in) Lee? Toward the end she gets conniving again…but honestly, I would want to get my revenge on someone who choked me half to death and threatened to finish me off by going back to doing what they don't want me to. In this particular situation, I personally severely disapprove of Lee's actions, and find myself admiring Paulla as a strong female character. In the grand scheme of things, she's still the terrorist-wannabe enemy, and Lee's still the 'good guy'…and yet I think Lee's actions were inexcusable. What do you think? I always love to hear your thoughts :)
Oh, and the weird and uncomfortable sexual feelings on Paulla's part…what are your thoughts on those?
I strive toward creating a realistic and objective perspective, by making all the characters capable of doing terrible things and being terrible people (except for Helo of course, he's like the gorgeous, well-muscled moral compass for the show). I want to write 'villains' as people you can at times sympathise with, and 'heroes' as people you can be awfully disappointed in sometimes. Let's all say together, moral ambiguity. So did I achieve it?
Awww…Romo is so sad :( I just want to give him cuddles, but instead I'll probably just write more depressing misery for him before it gets any better. I'm mean that way, but in my defence it's just so fun writing him as an emotional wreck.
I described a little of his life before the Fall – I couldn't find a lot of detail on it, so I tried to fill in the blanks and (slightly) flesh out what his family was like without contradicting canon. I did good? :D
So please, leave me a review and let me know if I succeeded in making you feel sorry for Paulla and disappointed in Lee, and whether you approve of Romo's drunken, grieving misery!