My sincere thanks to all that commented on the first chapter. It's
wonderful to know that you think I'm on the right track. Because the
information in the miniseries was limited, I'm going back to the original
series for a few details; hopefully I won't get too far off.
Forgiveness can have many levels, and a single action can affect many others.
Forgiveness By Crystal Wimmer
Chapter 2
William Adama removed his glasses as he pushed back from his desk. He was exhausted, and it was going to take more than a short nap with his head on his arm to get over it. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, hoping for at least temporary relief from the persistent throb that had taken up residence behind his eyes.
It had been an absolutely exhausting week. An exhausting few weeks, truth be told. While he had never been one to shirk responsibility or resent command, he seriously wished that the retirement he had anticipated had occurred. He was tired - mentally and physically - and it was a fatigue that even a good night's sleep, assuming he could manage it, would never relieve.
He was getting old. It was a sad fact of life, but the eager and courageous Viper pilot belonged in the same salvage yard that Tyrol had found his ship in. He wasn't "Husker" anymore, responsible for only himself and his ship, he was Commander of the last survivors of a race.
That was probably an exaggeration. His command was as much volunteer as it was expected. They had a President, such as she was, and if he could really believe in her he could let her take over. She would probably be eager to do so. But there was too much distrust in the past between military organization and political leaders for him to just hand over the Battlestar and hope for the best.
It wasn't that she was a woman. Really, it wasn't. It wasn't even that she was essentially a glorified school teacher, although their initial disagreements upon the technological status of his warship was still a sore point with him. The reality was that he had always believed he knew best - whoever he was pitted against. Military, political, or even within his own family. He didn't have it in him to back down from a battle. Lee had inherited that from him.
Lee. His son. His last surviving family member. The reality of that still stabbed him at odd moments, just when he thought he was getting used to it. But grief was a luxury that none of them could afford. As he had told the crew, they must mourn the dead later. For now, survival was the most important factor.
He'd been alone for the majority of his career. One did not become the commander of a Battlestar by sitting at home and building models with one's children. That had been the primary reason for his divorce - Iilya had needed someone who would stay home with her. She had managed while the children were with her, but once Lee and Kara had left home, and then Zak, she had found the isolation too much. She had requested the separation, and had taken care of the legalities with little assistance from him. But even following the demise of his marriage, a part of him had known she was still there. She wasn't his any longer, and hadn't really been for years, but she'd been there.
She wasn't there anymore. She was gone. Zak was gone, and Lee was as good as dead to him. There were times William thought it would be easier if his son had really died in the perceived "explosion", but he knew better. Even if Lee spent the next fifty years screaming at him over something he'd had no control over, even if he never forgave him the sin of wanting his sons to be like him, just knowing that Lee was alive to hate him was almost enough. Almost.
The accusations still hurt, of course. The kernel of truth in them placed an edge on the blade that Lee used. Maybe he had pushed his boys, but didn't every father want his children to follow in his footsteps? He'd never demanded that they go into flight training. He had encouraged it, of course, and perhaps it was easier for his boys to slip into the limited training programs because their last name was Adama. He'd never asked for that. It had simply been.
But the problem was that Lee was far too much like him. Just as William had built a career on knowing the right answer, on making the right decision in the heat of the moment, so Captain Apollo had built the same reputation. Lee didn't make mistakes. The difference, he mused, was that age had a way of teaching a man that he did make mistakes. William had learned over the years that he could screw up, and badly, and half of being a good Commander was deferring some decisions to the experts.
It hadn't been an easy lesson. He'd gone against his technician's or engineer's advice more than once, and he'd paid for those mistakes with not only his pride, but with the lives of good men. That was part of the responsibility of command. There wasn't always a right answer, or even a best choice. He knew that every decision he made could have permanent and fatal consequences. It was something Lee had not yet learned. William couldn't fault him, as he'd been much the same temperament when he'd been that young.
But it didn't make the words any easier to hear.
William leaned forward and rested his head on his arms. He thought longingly of the bunk he'd had set up in his new office, but going that far simply seemed to be too much effort. He would just close his eyes for a moment. Just a moment.
The buzz of the door made him want to scream. He could ignore it. He could order who ever it was to go away. He'd earned the right to a few moments shuteye.
But it could be important. It might be the President, with more orders that he didn't necessarily want to follow but would have to carefully examine and negotiate prior to either implementing or ignoring them. It might be Tigh with another report on casualties, or possibly Tyrol or Qualla with news he'd been wanting on the status of their few remaining fighters.
Whatever it was, it wasn't likely to go away just because he hadn't slept, really slept, in over ninety-six hours. The faster he dealt with it, the faster he could get to that bunk he so desperately needed.
With a great deal of effort, he stood and walked the distance to the hatch - nearly eight feet. He supposed he could have simply called out, but standing up brought him closer to that cot. He lifted the lever to release the door and allowed it to swing open. Then he just stared.
Lee stood there, looking very uncomfortable. While they had agreed to talk "later", William hadn't really expected to see his son for quite some time. Lee shifted his feet as he did when nervous, and for the first time in memory he wasn't meeting his father's eyes with accusation.
"Commander?" Lee prompted, when all the elder man could do was stand there with his mouth hanging open.
William pulled himself together and stepped back to usher his eldest son into the small office, the door swinging quietly closed behind them, latch falling quietly into place. There was little space in the room, and he had to back nearly into his desk to allow Lee the space he always demanded.
Lee stepped in, glancing around at the office. "This is a step down, don't you think?" he asked quietly.
It was that. But the luxurious living quarters he'd possessed had been large enough for two families to live comfortably, and his office was now set up as an isolation center for minor illnesses. The irritating viruses and bacteria that they had always lived with were dangerous in the overcrowded living conditions of the Galactica, and the sick had to go somewhere.
"It serves my needs," he told his son simply. "I understand you've moved into our main pilot's quarters."
Lee nodded. "I've never liked being in VIP quarters," he admitted. "I'd rather take a bunk with the rest of the squadron."
"And the space was necessary."
"Yes, it was."
William nodded. He knew that his son, whatever his faults, was both practical and unselfish. It hadn't surprised him when the guest quarters had shown up on his manifest as an available space to relocate colonists. They had lost more than one ship to the FTL jump, either burning out engines that hadn't had adequate time to prepare, or using up fuel that they didn't have. It only made sense to consolidate ships to conserve resources. Of course, even that decision had it's own difficulties, such as overcrowding, but it was better than the alternative.
Lee didn't appear inclined to continue the discussion, nor did he ever meet his father's eyes. Despite the single hug they had shared - a mutual acknowledgement that they were indeed family - the distance between them had not really changed since Lee's return.
"I came to apologize," his son told him abruptly, eyes focused clearly over William's right shoulder. "It has come to my attention that someone else was responsible for promoting Zak."
"I see," William answered. He wasn't sure what he should feel about that. Relief? Vindication?
"But that's not what I'm apologizing for," Lee told him. "Kara passed him. I understand why she did it, and that she didn't mean it to happen that way."
William nodded, not really understanding. Yes, he'd known that Kara was the one who had passed Zak in Basic Flight. He had known for over a year. He'd had his suspicions based on occasional slips on her part, and it hadn't been very hard to verify. Rank had its privileges, after all. But it hadn't been something he wanted Lee to know. The young man had needed to focus his anger somewhere, and it was better laid on an old man than a young woman who was already punishing herself enough.
Lee took a deep breath, letting it out as a slow sigh before he finally met his father's eyes. "Can we sit down, please?"
William gestured to his bunk, still neatly made after more than three days in the office. The only chair in the room was at his desk. He watched Lee sit, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. He debated taking the chair, but decided to take a chance and sit next to his son instead.
Lee was silent for a long moment. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I misjudged the situation, and I was horribly unfair to you." He looked up and met William's gaze head-on. "I had no right to say the things that I did. I had no right to," he took a breath, "believe the things I did." With that said, he looked away again. "I couldn't forgive you, so I certainly don't expect your forgiveness, but I needed you to know."
William wanted to lay a hand on his son's shoulder, but he knew the gesture wouldn't be appreciated. Lee had never been terribly physically demonstrative. Ironically, he felt no anger towards his son. He felt no resentment or irritation at the fact that his son hadd not believed him for two years, that his son would instead choose to believe that he cared more about flight status than life. What he felt, he decided, was sadness. Sadness, and worry. If he could not forgive his father, what chance did a friend have?
"I did want him to be a pilot," William offered. "You were right about that. I wanted him to be something I could understand, and relate to, and I wanted to be able to keep him close. I'd missed you both so much growing up, and I was hoping to get to know you as men. As a pilot, even on another vessel, we would have at least run into one another in the course of duty."
"He wanted the same thing," Lee told him. "He even talked about trying to get stationed on the Galactica when he got through training."
"That would have been," he swallowed heavily before continuing. "Been very nice."
"Kara loved him," Lee said softly. "You could see it every time they looked at each other. She never would have intentionally put him in harms way."
"I agree," William said.
"You knew, didn't you?"
William considered lying for a split second. The last thing he wanted was to face his son's wrath for a legitimate reason. But a warrior owned up to his actions. "I knew."
"And you didn't say anything? Even when I said. he things I said."
"Zak loved her," William explained. "We all do. With love, there's forgiveness."
"But why didn't you tell me. One word, one explanation, and I could have understood."
"Pride, I suppose," William explained. "Being told and believing are two separate things. You hadn't believed anything else I'd said, so I didn't see a reason to involve Kara on the off chance that you'd believe that. I wanted you to believe me because I was your father, not because I gave you a rational explanation."
"Now I know where I get it," Lee said with the beginnings of a grin. William simply stared. He hadn't seen Lee smile in over two years. Always intense and serious, Zak's death had seemed to kill what little fun was in him. He had often reasoned that Lee would relax around those he was comfortable with, and acknowledged that he wasn't one of those people, but he'd never seen it.
The comment so mirrored his earlier thoughts that William returned the smile tentatively. "I've seen some similarities."
"You forgave Kara?" Lee asked.
"Of course."
"So did I. That's why I came to apologize."
"I don't understand," William admitted. He didn't like the feeling any better than he ever had, but he was reluctantly getting used to feeling clueless where his family was concerned.
There was another deep breath, and Lee's smile was gone. "I could forgive her without even thinking about it, but I couldn't do the same for you. She did exactly what I accused you of, used her position to put him where he shouldn't have been, but I can't hold it against her. I wish I could tell you exactly why that is, but I'm not sure I really understand it. I do know that it was wrong, though. You deserve better."
"Lee, you were in so much pain," William offered. "When it happened, I don't think you could have forgiven anyone. You weren't ready."
"Maybe," he admitted. "But it doesn't make it right."
"Not everything is." Then, holding his breath, William reached out and patted his son's back. It was as close as he could come to what he wanted, a bone-cracking embrace like those he used to get from his boys when he came home on leave. He was satisfied when Lee didn't pull away.
"Would you like to go down and get a drink?" Lee offered quickly, as though if he didn't say it quickly he might not be able to. "There's no alcohol in the officer's mess, but we could get something and maybe talk some more."
William didn't have to consider ninety-six hours without sleep. He didn't have to consider fatigue, or his glasses being on his desk because he was so tired that he couldn't focus with them any better than without them. His son had offered to talk. His son had offered him a drink. "That sounds good," he told him. "I'm due for a break."
Lee nodded and stood to open the hatch. William took a deep breath, controlling his emotions with the well-honed practice of a warrior, then followed his son into the hallway.
(to be continued)
Forgiveness can have many levels, and a single action can affect many others.
Forgiveness By Crystal Wimmer
Chapter 2
William Adama removed his glasses as he pushed back from his desk. He was exhausted, and it was going to take more than a short nap with his head on his arm to get over it. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, hoping for at least temporary relief from the persistent throb that had taken up residence behind his eyes.
It had been an absolutely exhausting week. An exhausting few weeks, truth be told. While he had never been one to shirk responsibility or resent command, he seriously wished that the retirement he had anticipated had occurred. He was tired - mentally and physically - and it was a fatigue that even a good night's sleep, assuming he could manage it, would never relieve.
He was getting old. It was a sad fact of life, but the eager and courageous Viper pilot belonged in the same salvage yard that Tyrol had found his ship in. He wasn't "Husker" anymore, responsible for only himself and his ship, he was Commander of the last survivors of a race.
That was probably an exaggeration. His command was as much volunteer as it was expected. They had a President, such as she was, and if he could really believe in her he could let her take over. She would probably be eager to do so. But there was too much distrust in the past between military organization and political leaders for him to just hand over the Battlestar and hope for the best.
It wasn't that she was a woman. Really, it wasn't. It wasn't even that she was essentially a glorified school teacher, although their initial disagreements upon the technological status of his warship was still a sore point with him. The reality was that he had always believed he knew best - whoever he was pitted against. Military, political, or even within his own family. He didn't have it in him to back down from a battle. Lee had inherited that from him.
Lee. His son. His last surviving family member. The reality of that still stabbed him at odd moments, just when he thought he was getting used to it. But grief was a luxury that none of them could afford. As he had told the crew, they must mourn the dead later. For now, survival was the most important factor.
He'd been alone for the majority of his career. One did not become the commander of a Battlestar by sitting at home and building models with one's children. That had been the primary reason for his divorce - Iilya had needed someone who would stay home with her. She had managed while the children were with her, but once Lee and Kara had left home, and then Zak, she had found the isolation too much. She had requested the separation, and had taken care of the legalities with little assistance from him. But even following the demise of his marriage, a part of him had known she was still there. She wasn't his any longer, and hadn't really been for years, but she'd been there.
She wasn't there anymore. She was gone. Zak was gone, and Lee was as good as dead to him. There were times William thought it would be easier if his son had really died in the perceived "explosion", but he knew better. Even if Lee spent the next fifty years screaming at him over something he'd had no control over, even if he never forgave him the sin of wanting his sons to be like him, just knowing that Lee was alive to hate him was almost enough. Almost.
The accusations still hurt, of course. The kernel of truth in them placed an edge on the blade that Lee used. Maybe he had pushed his boys, but didn't every father want his children to follow in his footsteps? He'd never demanded that they go into flight training. He had encouraged it, of course, and perhaps it was easier for his boys to slip into the limited training programs because their last name was Adama. He'd never asked for that. It had simply been.
But the problem was that Lee was far too much like him. Just as William had built a career on knowing the right answer, on making the right decision in the heat of the moment, so Captain Apollo had built the same reputation. Lee didn't make mistakes. The difference, he mused, was that age had a way of teaching a man that he did make mistakes. William had learned over the years that he could screw up, and badly, and half of being a good Commander was deferring some decisions to the experts.
It hadn't been an easy lesson. He'd gone against his technician's or engineer's advice more than once, and he'd paid for those mistakes with not only his pride, but with the lives of good men. That was part of the responsibility of command. There wasn't always a right answer, or even a best choice. He knew that every decision he made could have permanent and fatal consequences. It was something Lee had not yet learned. William couldn't fault him, as he'd been much the same temperament when he'd been that young.
But it didn't make the words any easier to hear.
William leaned forward and rested his head on his arms. He thought longingly of the bunk he'd had set up in his new office, but going that far simply seemed to be too much effort. He would just close his eyes for a moment. Just a moment.
The buzz of the door made him want to scream. He could ignore it. He could order who ever it was to go away. He'd earned the right to a few moments shuteye.
But it could be important. It might be the President, with more orders that he didn't necessarily want to follow but would have to carefully examine and negotiate prior to either implementing or ignoring them. It might be Tigh with another report on casualties, or possibly Tyrol or Qualla with news he'd been wanting on the status of their few remaining fighters.
Whatever it was, it wasn't likely to go away just because he hadn't slept, really slept, in over ninety-six hours. The faster he dealt with it, the faster he could get to that bunk he so desperately needed.
With a great deal of effort, he stood and walked the distance to the hatch - nearly eight feet. He supposed he could have simply called out, but standing up brought him closer to that cot. He lifted the lever to release the door and allowed it to swing open. Then he just stared.
Lee stood there, looking very uncomfortable. While they had agreed to talk "later", William hadn't really expected to see his son for quite some time. Lee shifted his feet as he did when nervous, and for the first time in memory he wasn't meeting his father's eyes with accusation.
"Commander?" Lee prompted, when all the elder man could do was stand there with his mouth hanging open.
William pulled himself together and stepped back to usher his eldest son into the small office, the door swinging quietly closed behind them, latch falling quietly into place. There was little space in the room, and he had to back nearly into his desk to allow Lee the space he always demanded.
Lee stepped in, glancing around at the office. "This is a step down, don't you think?" he asked quietly.
It was that. But the luxurious living quarters he'd possessed had been large enough for two families to live comfortably, and his office was now set up as an isolation center for minor illnesses. The irritating viruses and bacteria that they had always lived with were dangerous in the overcrowded living conditions of the Galactica, and the sick had to go somewhere.
"It serves my needs," he told his son simply. "I understand you've moved into our main pilot's quarters."
Lee nodded. "I've never liked being in VIP quarters," he admitted. "I'd rather take a bunk with the rest of the squadron."
"And the space was necessary."
"Yes, it was."
William nodded. He knew that his son, whatever his faults, was both practical and unselfish. It hadn't surprised him when the guest quarters had shown up on his manifest as an available space to relocate colonists. They had lost more than one ship to the FTL jump, either burning out engines that hadn't had adequate time to prepare, or using up fuel that they didn't have. It only made sense to consolidate ships to conserve resources. Of course, even that decision had it's own difficulties, such as overcrowding, but it was better than the alternative.
Lee didn't appear inclined to continue the discussion, nor did he ever meet his father's eyes. Despite the single hug they had shared - a mutual acknowledgement that they were indeed family - the distance between them had not really changed since Lee's return.
"I came to apologize," his son told him abruptly, eyes focused clearly over William's right shoulder. "It has come to my attention that someone else was responsible for promoting Zak."
"I see," William answered. He wasn't sure what he should feel about that. Relief? Vindication?
"But that's not what I'm apologizing for," Lee told him. "Kara passed him. I understand why she did it, and that she didn't mean it to happen that way."
William nodded, not really understanding. Yes, he'd known that Kara was the one who had passed Zak in Basic Flight. He had known for over a year. He'd had his suspicions based on occasional slips on her part, and it hadn't been very hard to verify. Rank had its privileges, after all. But it hadn't been something he wanted Lee to know. The young man had needed to focus his anger somewhere, and it was better laid on an old man than a young woman who was already punishing herself enough.
Lee took a deep breath, letting it out as a slow sigh before he finally met his father's eyes. "Can we sit down, please?"
William gestured to his bunk, still neatly made after more than three days in the office. The only chair in the room was at his desk. He watched Lee sit, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. He debated taking the chair, but decided to take a chance and sit next to his son instead.
Lee was silent for a long moment. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I misjudged the situation, and I was horribly unfair to you." He looked up and met William's gaze head-on. "I had no right to say the things that I did. I had no right to," he took a breath, "believe the things I did." With that said, he looked away again. "I couldn't forgive you, so I certainly don't expect your forgiveness, but I needed you to know."
William wanted to lay a hand on his son's shoulder, but he knew the gesture wouldn't be appreciated. Lee had never been terribly physically demonstrative. Ironically, he felt no anger towards his son. He felt no resentment or irritation at the fact that his son hadd not believed him for two years, that his son would instead choose to believe that he cared more about flight status than life. What he felt, he decided, was sadness. Sadness, and worry. If he could not forgive his father, what chance did a friend have?
"I did want him to be a pilot," William offered. "You were right about that. I wanted him to be something I could understand, and relate to, and I wanted to be able to keep him close. I'd missed you both so much growing up, and I was hoping to get to know you as men. As a pilot, even on another vessel, we would have at least run into one another in the course of duty."
"He wanted the same thing," Lee told him. "He even talked about trying to get stationed on the Galactica when he got through training."
"That would have been," he swallowed heavily before continuing. "Been very nice."
"Kara loved him," Lee said softly. "You could see it every time they looked at each other. She never would have intentionally put him in harms way."
"I agree," William said.
"You knew, didn't you?"
William considered lying for a split second. The last thing he wanted was to face his son's wrath for a legitimate reason. But a warrior owned up to his actions. "I knew."
"And you didn't say anything? Even when I said. he things I said."
"Zak loved her," William explained. "We all do. With love, there's forgiveness."
"But why didn't you tell me. One word, one explanation, and I could have understood."
"Pride, I suppose," William explained. "Being told and believing are two separate things. You hadn't believed anything else I'd said, so I didn't see a reason to involve Kara on the off chance that you'd believe that. I wanted you to believe me because I was your father, not because I gave you a rational explanation."
"Now I know where I get it," Lee said with the beginnings of a grin. William simply stared. He hadn't seen Lee smile in over two years. Always intense and serious, Zak's death had seemed to kill what little fun was in him. He had often reasoned that Lee would relax around those he was comfortable with, and acknowledged that he wasn't one of those people, but he'd never seen it.
The comment so mirrored his earlier thoughts that William returned the smile tentatively. "I've seen some similarities."
"You forgave Kara?" Lee asked.
"Of course."
"So did I. That's why I came to apologize."
"I don't understand," William admitted. He didn't like the feeling any better than he ever had, but he was reluctantly getting used to feeling clueless where his family was concerned.
There was another deep breath, and Lee's smile was gone. "I could forgive her without even thinking about it, but I couldn't do the same for you. She did exactly what I accused you of, used her position to put him where he shouldn't have been, but I can't hold it against her. I wish I could tell you exactly why that is, but I'm not sure I really understand it. I do know that it was wrong, though. You deserve better."
"Lee, you were in so much pain," William offered. "When it happened, I don't think you could have forgiven anyone. You weren't ready."
"Maybe," he admitted. "But it doesn't make it right."
"Not everything is." Then, holding his breath, William reached out and patted his son's back. It was as close as he could come to what he wanted, a bone-cracking embrace like those he used to get from his boys when he came home on leave. He was satisfied when Lee didn't pull away.
"Would you like to go down and get a drink?" Lee offered quickly, as though if he didn't say it quickly he might not be able to. "There's no alcohol in the officer's mess, but we could get something and maybe talk some more."
William didn't have to consider ninety-six hours without sleep. He didn't have to consider fatigue, or his glasses being on his desk because he was so tired that he couldn't focus with them any better than without them. His son had offered to talk. His son had offered him a drink. "That sounds good," he told him. "I'm due for a break."
Lee nodded and stood to open the hatch. William took a deep breath, controlling his emotions with the well-honed practice of a warrior, then followed his son into the hallway.
(to be continued)