DISCLAIMER: See AUTHOR'S NOTES

SPOILERS: You have been WARNED!

Many Thanks to emmaockham for her patient beta and wonderful comments.

And a tip of the hat to karihan for her wonderful story "Essence"

This chapter "overlaps" canon. So it's AU, but isn't all fanfic? This chapter is also long so I'm posting it in Four Parts.

CHAPTER FOUR

(takes place during and after "Pegasus" and "Resurrection Ship")

Fitting the Curve

Part Four

Commander Adama pulled off his glasses and laid them on top of the reports littering his desk. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his char. Just a few moments, then I'll finish. He sighed. The paperwork seemed to have tripled and he had all of it to do again.

His expression turned grim and he sat up. Helena Cain was a good pilot. Adama hadn't hated Cain; he had violently disagreed with her, and had almost killed her. Even before the Cylon attack on the Colonies, he had disagreed with the path she followed; a path that led to public recognition and early promotion.

But he had never hated her.

He was saddened by her loss. Killed by a Cylon. Aboard her ship. His hand strayed to the left side of his chest, pressing on the omnipresent ache that lingered there. All this has happened before, all this will happen again. He rubbed his eyes. Two assassination attempts against the Fleet Commander, one successful. Both shot by Cylon agents aboard their battlestars. Maybe they'll come after me again. Is this the Cylon plan? Is this how they plan on breaching our defenses? He shook his head to clear it of useless speculations and re-donned his glasses.

In less than an hour he worked his way through the papers on his desk and reached the bottom of his in-box. The only thing that remained was a packet from the Colonial One. It consisted of a large envelope bound to a sheaf of paper.

He pulled the packet apart and held the papers. It was the promotion list he had given to Roslin a few weeks earlier. Adama leafed through the list, and smiled when he saw the President's signature approving all the promotions. Good news. His smile faded as he recalled that some of those promotions were now posthumous.

He picked up the large envelope and froze with it in his hands. I haven't seen one of these since . . . since the orders came from Fleet Headquarters that turned the Galactica into a museum and sent him into retirement. He turned the envelope over in his hands. The return address read "Office of the President" instead of "Colonial Fleet Headquarters." But as before it was addressed to "William Adama, Commander, CF." He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Sooner or later, we can't hide from the things we've done anymore. I offered her my resignation once. If she's asking for it now, I'll give it to her. He opened the envelope and spilled its contents onto his desk.

Inside were several sheets of official appearing paper and another envelope, one he recognized as being from President Roslin's personal stationary.

Laura's stationary.

He felt comfortable thinking about her as Laura now. He had accepted sometime after their return from Kobol that he cared for her deeply, and that he needed her. He even thought that he might love her, but he knew she was dying and was saving her energy for her work; she had none to waste on him. He picked up the envelope. It was addressed to "Bill" in her spidery handwriting. He opened the envelope and pulled out the enclosed note.

Bill,

Tom Zarek may be right about one thing. We need to stop clinging to the past. The old ways of governing no longer apply to our current situation. We need to create a new paradigm.

Back on Kobol you forgave me – and I let you. I didn't ask for it nor did I really accept your forgiveness; at the time I didn't feel I needed forgiving. However the events of the recent past and the observations of my closest advisor have now made me think otherwise.

Please accept this act as my way of humbly asking for your forgiveness and showing you I have truly accepted it.

And please forgive me for all the loose threads I'm leaving you. It is my prayer that this advancement will aid you in that struggle.

And Bill, I forgive you as well -- even though you have never asked.

That's what family does, isn't it?

Laura

P.S. Be at the press conference. (1400 tomorrow on the Colonial One.)

Adama blinked. Family? The ache in his chest flared. She forgives me. Even when she's apologizing she's in control. He chuckled. Closest advisor? Billy? He paused, puzzled; then it hit him. Advancement?

Adama laid down Laura's note and picked up the pieces of paper. They were orders from the President of the Twelve Colonies and the Quorum of Twelve promoting William Adama to the rank of Admiral and appointing Admiral Adama to the newly created post of "Fleet Admiral, who is the senior ranking member of the Colonial Fleet, acts as principal military advisor to the President, is granted command of all military forces, and is charged to protect Humanity from all enemies -- external and internal."

He dropped the orders on his desk and fell back in his chair. Frak. It really is a world gone mad. 'Fleet Admiral'? Damn political . . . He stopped mid-rant. Billy Keikeya.

A devious smile spread across Adama's face as he turned to his bookshelf. He searched for a particular volume. Once he spotted it, Adama pulled a battered copy of The Warrior's Manual from the shelf and flipped to the chapter on "Customs, Courtesies, and Protocol" to read the script for a promotion ceremony. Oh, Mr. Keikeya, if Dee has pointed you to the procedures, no doubt you've informed the President on the proper protocol for a promotion ceremony . . .

XXXX

President Roslin sat in a chair on the Colonial One. The tears flowed down her cheeks, as she again tallied their losses. Commander Adama was seated in the neighboring chair, leaning forward, offering comfort merely by his presence.

Roslin sighed. "I still wonder if it was worth the cost."

"We are still here," Adama said quietly. "While it is a tragedy that so many have lost their lives, we have struck a blow against the Cylons. A blow they will not soon forget." He bowed his head. "It's sad that Admiral Cain lost her life as well."

Roslin cocked her head at Adama. "But it certainly solved one of our problems. That is one mess I'll not be leaving for you to clean up . . ." The President held out a small black box. "Admiral."

Adama leaned forward and took the box. He flipped open the top, nestled inside were the insignia of an admiral in the Colonial Fleet.

Roslin continued, "In a moment I'll explain to the press that we need a Fleet Admiral and announce your promotion."

Adama nodded. He continued to stare at the contents of the box. "Are you planning on pinning these on my collar, Madame President?"

Roslin cocked her head. "Yes, Admiral. That is how it's done."

"These are new," Adama said, frowning.

"Yes, Bill they are new." Roslin narrowed her eyes. "Is that a problem?"

"Warriors are a superstitious lot. Pilots even more so." Adama looked at Roslin. "Did you know that a Viper pilot never wears his first set of wings?" When Roslin shook her head, he continued, "Viper pilots break their first set of wings into two pieces and never allow the pieces to come together. Pilots believe if those pieces are ever together again, on that day that pilot's luck will run out."

Roslin drew her brows together. "What does that have to do with the insignia?"

"It's just another example. Wearing new insignia is unlucky. When an officer is promoted to flag rank, a mentor gives them an old set of insignia for the promotion ceremony – for luck. The old insignia brought their original owner luck -- as they have survived and prospered."

Billy stepped into the office. "Madame President, the Press Corps is ready."

Adama stood. Roslin leaned forward and tried to stand. She pushed on the armrests of her chair, but failed to gain any leverage. She fell back, muttering, "Frak."

Adama reached for Roslin's arm. "May I, Madame President?" He smiled at her.

Laura smiled back. "Please."

Adama carefully took her arm and helped her to her feet. She staggered and he gripped her arm more tightly. Easy Bill. She's in pain. She's dying. He wished he could make both those facts go away.

Last night, after reading Laura's note in his quarters, and the script for a promotion ceremony, he knew Billy had told the President that protocol demanded she pin the insignia on his collar and then step back and salute the new admiral. But he had decided a salute wasn't enough. For me or for her.

She gained her feet and he left his hand on her arm, steadying her. He gently turned her to face him and found her eyes. "You wouldn't want to cause me bad luck, would you Madame President?"

"Of course not, Admiral." Roslin tried to smile.

Adama reached up and brushed Roslin's hair away from her face. "In that case . . ." He let his hand linger on her cheek, enjoying the softness against his callused palm. "You'll have to kiss me."

Roslin laughed, surprised. "Kiss you?" She put a restraining hand on Adama's arm.

"Yes, Madame President, and since you can't do that in front of the press, we'll just have to do it here, now." Adama leaned forward; slowly his eyes fixed on the President's -- Laura's -- lips.

Roslin's other hand came up to rest against Adama's chest. "A kiss for luck Admiral?' She smiled.

"Yes, Madame President, we'll fall back on another tradition." He saw her eyes close and her face tilt up toward his. He breathed into her mouth as their lips met. "The good luck kiss."