Truth itself becomes suspicious, by frakcancer
Title: Truth itself becomes suspicious (Empty Words and Empty Phrases remix)
remix author: frakcancer
Summary: Laura Roslin isn't beautiful. She's a creation of the media.
Characters: Playa Palacios, Laura Roslin, William Adama
Pairings: A/R implied
Rating: T
Warnings: None.
beta-reader: lacklusterfic
Title, Author and URL of original story: In Empty Words and Empty Phrases by Trialia, http://www.joyunending.net/viewstory.php?sid=108
Author Notes: Title by Thomas Jefferson: "Nothing can now be believed which is seen in a newspaper. Truth itself becomes suspicious by being put into that polluted vehicle. The real extent of this state of misinformation is known only to those who are in situations to confront facts within their knowledge with the lies of the day."
You never believe a word you write. You're smarter than that. Your facile words are your ticket to three squares, to a comfy bunk, to travel throughout the fleet. They give you access to the choicest gossip, the cutest pilots, and, thanks to an ill-advised trip to the bathroom, a course of antibiotics and a vice-president's secret.
You give what your readers what they want; you don't want to lose all your perqs. You tell them the lies they want to hear -- that the handsome Adama men hold humanity safely in their hands. That Viper pilots are brave and valiant. That Tom Zarek is an exciting, dangerous man. That Gaius Baltar is a frakking genius.
You know the truth. Bill Adama is ugly and his son is an emotional wreck. Viper pilots are inexperienced stim junkies who barely make it home after a mission and live for only three things: sex, booze, and adrenaline. Tom Zarek is so boring he probably sits in his room at night knitting socks. And Baltar may be a genius at something, but it's certainly not at frakking.
The biggest lies you tell, the ones your readers would never forgive you for exposing, are about the universe's most beloved teacher. The week you dared call her "Laura the Borer" your guest appearance on Colonial Gang was cancelled, and you have yet to be called back. (Even though it's true. Even though Adama had to wake the audience with his slow clap bit at the end of her speech. Even though you've heard that people are transcribing her radio addresses to use when the sedatives run out.) The post-Kobol tribute to "Laura the Explorer," on the other hand, sold out within a day of printing.
When you called her "a beautiful older woman" it only took half a day to sell all the copies. The letters you got back were evenly divided between praise of Roslin's looks and anger that you'd called attention to her age. You learned to focus on her pretty eyes and her rich red hair. (You never, ever mention how the shades of red seem to change from month to month or that any normal woman her age would be going grey. The president is a natural redhead -- at least to her public.) You don't mention her fabulous legs -- even though they are her best feature and even though she does show them off. Your editor thinks they're 'unpresidential.' You get your revenge by telling your photographer to include at least 7 inches below Roslin's hemline in every picture. You also tell him to soft light her face.
You never write about her heavy features or her bad skin. If you ever hint at the wrinkles around her eyes it's only as proof of her wisdom and life experience. If you ever bring up her hands, it's to reassure the fleet how safe we all are in their grasp, not to suggest a little hand cream and more frequent use of a nail clipper might be in order. Now that she's down to three outfits, it's no longer relevant to remind your readers that she was voted "worst dressed woman in politics" three years running.
You can attack her on issues -- the black market, abortion, negotiating with terrorists. You can even accuse her of being a politician, as long as you make it sound like you admire her wiles. You can remind the public how far she's come since the days she served as teacher. You will never be allowed to write about how far she's come from the nights she served as Adar's mistress.
But you can never attack her looks. Even when she was a cancer patient fleeing martial law, even when she was the dying leader, her description had to read like a combination of Artemis and Athena.
A different woman who looked the same might make it work. You certainly would be able to. But Roslin holds herself like the gawky wallflower at the high school prom. She walks with none of the feline grace those legs demand. She hides her eyes behind chunky glasses.
The press has always been the keeper of secrets, and you keep the secret of Roslin's looks the way you kept the secret of Adar's indiscretions and Murchinson's drinking. The only difference is that now you're keeping the military's secrets, too.
You know the admiral has a thing for the president. You see how he looks at her, the way he smiles at her. He leads her down corridors with a hand on her back and she glows. You've bumped into her, a time or two, just after a closed-door meeting with Adama. Her color is high, she looks flushed. She looks good. When Adama's in the room she stands a little taller, smiles a little brighter. When he's around Roslin looks pretty. If you were honest, she sometimes looks almost beautiful.
If you dared write any of this up, you'd pay for it. Adama would have you reassigned to a tyllium ship. Roslin would airlock you before the ink was even dry.
But your readers would eat it up. The beautiful survivor and the handsome prince in a white Raptor. Your byline would be on all the front pages. You'd probably be asked to host Colonial Gang.
Maybe, just maybe, that's enough.