Adama had spent his afternoon in CIC, and wouldn't you know, for once everything was boring and routine, offering no distraction from the turmoil in his thoughts. He found himself descending into a blacker and blacker mood, with everyone on duty trying to walk more and more softly around him until Colonel Tigh came on shift. Saul assessed the situation, steered him firmly in the direction of his office and suggested that he take a break.
Actually, what he said was, "Bill, you look like a bug crawled up your ass and died. Go pull it out before you rip someone a new one, will you?"
So the gym it was.
He tried jogging on one of the treadmills, but he found the running-and-getting-nowhere too close a match to what was happening inside his head. He stopped and went to don a pair of boxing gloves, but even the brawny marines, who at other times might have had the bravado to offer him a sparring match, were avoiding his glower today. So the heavy bags were the only option left for venting his frustration.
And his frustration grew every time his memory replayed Laura Roslin saying three words. "It doesn't matter."
The more he tried to redirect his thoughts, the more they circled back to that point. The more he thought about it, the more force went into his blows, the more snap to his fists.
She tells my son, she tells Starbuck, but she doesn't tell—
He launched into a flurry of jabs.
Just a twinge! She looked like she was deciding whether to throw up or pass out ... just a twinge my—
A series of hooking, punishing shots that would have put any of those marines on the mat instead piled into the hapless bag.
It doesn't matter! Does she actually believe that? Does she truly think that it doesn't matter that she's sick, it doesn't matter—
A left
-that she's-
A right
-DYING?
SLAM
With that last roundhouse, Adama would have sworn that the heavy bag had found a way to fight back. He certainly felt like he'd been kicked just below the heart. Reflexively he swung himself between the bag and the wall, where he could hide his agonized grimace from the rest of the room as the worst pain of the day hit him and hit hard.
He had no idea how long he stood there, braced against the wall with legs that threatened to buckle, clutching his left side, but eventually the pain eased fractionally, and he could focus on breathing again. The hot sweat of his exertion had been replaced with a much colder, clammier version.
Right. Okay, Bill, obviously you are not going to deal with this by taking it out on the gym equipment. Your body is not giving you that option. So get cleaned up and fracking calm down.
The shower cleansed his body and eased his muscles, but at one point he glanced down and saw the puckered scars of his bullet wounds, networked around with finer marks from the surgeries. His expression darkened all over again.
Wouldn't that have been ironic, if I'd been the first to go after all?
Clearly calm was going to be quite a while coming.
Too much death, too much loss. I'm starting to take it all personally.
He sighed and went to towel off and get dressed. Once back in his office, he steeled himself to confront two things he was very much inclined to avoid, his own thoughts and the picture lying on his desk.
He could see why Kara had been unsettled by it. The Laura Roslin in that picture looked so very alive, it seemed a desecration to think she was carrying her own death within her.
But she knew. Even then, she knew. Hell, she knew before we ever started this journey.
He revisited all the moments of his acquaintance with Roslin that he could summon before his mind's eye, reviewing them in the light of his new knowledge. He had known her to be determined, courageous and able to show considerable grace under pressure, but he had never before known how absolute the pressures on her were.
This woman had taken on the burdens of the Presidency and the duty to somehow ensure the survival of the human race. She had done so with no advance warning or preparation, amidst the most horrifying of circumstances. She had carried her responsibilities in the face of massive obstacles, himself included...
...and all the while she'd been staring her own mortality in the face, every single day.
At a time when any sane, sensible human being would want to live for the moment, she was living for humanity. Her last few precious months were doomed to be swallowed up by the Presidency—and the Pythian Prophecies.
No wonder she turned to religion. He felt his throat tighten at the memory of her, eyes burning in her pale face, telling him of her obligation to find Earth for their people.
And who was he to deny her that? Who was he to say that her honest faith was a worse thing to live for than his outright lie?
So, Commander, what happens when her honest faith and your best military judgment are once again at odds? If she makes another vision-induced request of you that you know will compromise fleet security, will you, can you do anything differently from the last time?
Well, I might be able to avoid arresting her, of course. Beyond that...
No. No, damn it, there must be something I can do. Something.
His eyes dropped once again to the picture. He remembered asking her to dance that Colonial Day; in fact he treasured that moment as one of the few times he'd surprised her into speechlessness. Her answering smile, before she'd accepted his proffered arm, had been a little awkward, a little embarrassed ... and more than a little flattered.
She had spent most of their dance looking at the people around them. He hadn't been sure whether she was gauging people's reactions to the sight of them together, or simply trying to hide behind the soft curtain of her auburn hair. But every so often, he'd found her grey eyes looking at him, and he'd wondered what she was thinking.
There's really only one way to find out, isn't there? He tapped one finger absently on his desk.
Perhaps it's time to take the initiative again.
Still looking at Roslin's image, he thoughtfully reached over to key the comm.