Remembered, by lorrainemarker
Title: Remembered
remix author: lorrainemarker
Summary: At the end Bill Adama had one last duty
Pairing: B.Adama/Roslin
Rating: FRM
Warnings: Canon compliant character death & strong sexual content
beta-reader: thanks to scifishipper
Original Fic: Remix of What You Remember, by frakcancer
DISCLAIMER: All characters, rights, and revenue remain with the wonderfully creative team that created this show.
The metal felt warm under his palm, steel rubbing against sweaty skin as Bill dug. The sun burned along his back, shoulders, and neck. He would end the day with blisters and sunburn. It didn’t matter. He had done everything else for Laura that he could, except this. Tears or sweat blurred his vision. His forearm wiped grime from his face, then he bent again shoveling another load of dirt from her place of rest.
Early during the planetary surveys, Bill had picked a glorious place for them, green and beautiful with far horizons. After the survivors scattered, he filled the raptor with tools to build a home, said good bye to his children: Lee son of his bone and blood, Kara daughter of his heart and soul, knowing they’d have each other, then he carried his beloved Laura into the raptor for their last trip. Bill never expected her to live long, not even long enough to finish their cabin, but he had hoped for just a little more time before all he had were his memories.
His memories didn’t start with love. Their relationship started with miscues and missteps, occasionally irritated respect, and grudging admiration. Not quite adversaries, they had worked together in strained partnership to keep the survivors alive and safe. Kobol had changed everything. Whoever said that there’s no second chance to make a first impression was wrong. Sometimes, very rarely, but sometimes you get a second chance. Their second chance came on a mythical world in the rain. She’d pushed wet hair from her face and suddenly he didn’t see President Roslin, he didn’t see a not quite adversary-not quite partner, a politician, a dying leader, or any of the other nonsense that had grown around her. He simply saw Laura.
They came off Kobol as friends who would quickly become lovers. Even after they became lovers, what they had wasn’t what Bill would call love. He’d loved Carolanne. He knew what love felt like - blistering anger and frenzied makeup sex. Love felt nothing like the pragmatism that led Laura to hang her clothes in his closet before they made love, each occasion carefully calendared somewhere between meetings over fuel utilization, press conferences, Quorum sessions, and chemotherapy. Back then, when Laura was his lover, but not yet his beloved, they were carefully discreet. Back then, only Cottle discovered they were intimate; who told him to be careful, clearly and bluntly letting him know exactly how ill Laura was and how easy it would be to hurt her by accident.
It wasn’t love, until suddenly it was.
They made love gently, carefully, not without passion. They always ended slick with sweat and come, but he never touched her with enough pressure to bruise. He cradled her after. Skin to skin, letting her know she wasn’t alone with tender caresses until she had to leave.
“What do you want?” he asked her once.
“For one soul to remember the woman. Not the president, not the prophesized leader, just to remember Laura.”
She was dying, he realized suddenly, not with his head, but in his heart. She would die and he would be alone again. His heart stuttered in his chest at the sudden all encompassing knowledge that he loved her. “Always,” he promised.
“Forever and always,” he promised again as he dug, each spade of earth uncovering a bit of his heart.
After that, he stayed with her, told her of his love, showed her his love with things he couldn’t or wouldn’t do with Carolanne. Sweet and fierce, cold logic married to warm compassion, Laura loved him, too, even if she said it less often, showed it more cautiously. Like all lovers, they moved in cycles, together, apart, changing with time and circumstances. If their first times were gentle then their middle was fiercely passionate. Unexpected recovery hadn’t changed her, it just freed her. No longer constrained by pain, illness, and exhaustion, she’d suddenly flared out of the confines of cancer into fiery womanhood.
“I know what I want. I like powerful men. I want you. I like the taste of a man. I want to taste you,” she said. Her mouth engulfed him knowing exactly what she wanted, exactly what he wanted. Laura wouldn’t let him pull away she held him to her. For the first time, she bruised him with her strength small fingertip marks along his hips.
A gust of wind cooled him. It blew part of the sheet he’d wrapped her in, uncovering her face, tangling strands of hair impertinently. He had always loved her hair. Even after she resumed chemotherapy, his hands kept stealing up to stroke through the soft strands, until his gentlest caress pulled hair loose. Months ago, just weeks into chemotherapy she’d given up, shaved her head, and replaced her hair with a wig. Even knowing that it wasn’t her hair, he gently untangled the strands of her wig, combing them into place with his fingers. She always liked to look her best.
He covered her face again with the sheet. Resting, just a little while, he sat next to her body, remembering how they’d laughed and teased, as well as loved.
“Where did this one come from,” he asked tracing a scar on her right knee.
“I fell from a tree when I was seven.”
“Oh, mean tree.” He kissed it.
“I’m the one who fell,” she laughed.
“Yes, but I’m sure it was the tree’s fault.”
They laughed together joyfully.
At the end, she refused to let the cancer control her life. She choose one last victory, stopping chemotherapy to live her ending days with all that was left of her fire. He remembered her resolute face as she joined him in their final battle. She’d never been more beautiful than in that moment.
The sun moved relentlessly as he dug, sweat dripping under his tanks. Blistered and sunburned, he finished anyway. He cradled Laura one last time. Slowly, every muscle echoing the protest of his heart, he laid his beloved in her grave. Aching, he covered her, ending his final task with the sun’s setting.
Bill stood staring at her resting place. His beloved had gone on before him, leaving him behind. Tired, he knew he would follow her soon. Age and war stretched him to his last resource and beyond. Duty carried him nearly to the end, and when duty could carry him no further, he held onto the last true thing - he loved her.
"You still want to remember me?" she’d asked him once.
"I don't think I could forget you."
Love carried him through to the end.
remix author: lorrainemarker
Summary: At the end Bill Adama had one last duty
Pairing: B.Adama/Roslin
Rating: FRM
Warnings: Canon compliant character death & strong sexual content
beta-reader: thanks to scifishipper
Original Fic: Remix of What You Remember, by frakcancer
DISCLAIMER: All characters, rights, and revenue remain with the wonderfully creative team that created this show.
The metal felt warm under his palm, steel rubbing against sweaty skin as Bill dug. The sun burned along his back, shoulders, and neck. He would end the day with blisters and sunburn. It didn’t matter. He had done everything else for Laura that he could, except this. Tears or sweat blurred his vision. His forearm wiped grime from his face, then he bent again shoveling another load of dirt from her place of rest.
Early during the planetary surveys, Bill had picked a glorious place for them, green and beautiful with far horizons. After the survivors scattered, he filled the raptor with tools to build a home, said good bye to his children: Lee son of his bone and blood, Kara daughter of his heart and soul, knowing they’d have each other, then he carried his beloved Laura into the raptor for their last trip. Bill never expected her to live long, not even long enough to finish their cabin, but he had hoped for just a little more time before all he had were his memories.
His memories didn’t start with love. Their relationship started with miscues and missteps, occasionally irritated respect, and grudging admiration. Not quite adversaries, they had worked together in strained partnership to keep the survivors alive and safe. Kobol had changed everything. Whoever said that there’s no second chance to make a first impression was wrong. Sometimes, very rarely, but sometimes you get a second chance. Their second chance came on a mythical world in the rain. She’d pushed wet hair from her face and suddenly he didn’t see President Roslin, he didn’t see a not quite adversary-not quite partner, a politician, a dying leader, or any of the other nonsense that had grown around her. He simply saw Laura.
They came off Kobol as friends who would quickly become lovers. Even after they became lovers, what they had wasn’t what Bill would call love. He’d loved Carolanne. He knew what love felt like - blistering anger and frenzied makeup sex. Love felt nothing like the pragmatism that led Laura to hang her clothes in his closet before they made love, each occasion carefully calendared somewhere between meetings over fuel utilization, press conferences, Quorum sessions, and chemotherapy. Back then, when Laura was his lover, but not yet his beloved, they were carefully discreet. Back then, only Cottle discovered they were intimate; who told him to be careful, clearly and bluntly letting him know exactly how ill Laura was and how easy it would be to hurt her by accident.
It wasn’t love, until suddenly it was.
They made love gently, carefully, not without passion. They always ended slick with sweat and come, but he never touched her with enough pressure to bruise. He cradled her after. Skin to skin, letting her know she wasn’t alone with tender caresses until she had to leave.
“What do you want?” he asked her once.
“For one soul to remember the woman. Not the president, not the prophesized leader, just to remember Laura.”
She was dying, he realized suddenly, not with his head, but in his heart. She would die and he would be alone again. His heart stuttered in his chest at the sudden all encompassing knowledge that he loved her. “Always,” he promised.
“Forever and always,” he promised again as he dug, each spade of earth uncovering a bit of his heart.
After that, he stayed with her, told her of his love, showed her his love with things he couldn’t or wouldn’t do with Carolanne. Sweet and fierce, cold logic married to warm compassion, Laura loved him, too, even if she said it less often, showed it more cautiously. Like all lovers, they moved in cycles, together, apart, changing with time and circumstances. If their first times were gentle then their middle was fiercely passionate. Unexpected recovery hadn’t changed her, it just freed her. No longer constrained by pain, illness, and exhaustion, she’d suddenly flared out of the confines of cancer into fiery womanhood.
“I know what I want. I like powerful men. I want you. I like the taste of a man. I want to taste you,” she said. Her mouth engulfed him knowing exactly what she wanted, exactly what he wanted. Laura wouldn’t let him pull away she held him to her. For the first time, she bruised him with her strength small fingertip marks along his hips.
A gust of wind cooled him. It blew part of the sheet he’d wrapped her in, uncovering her face, tangling strands of hair impertinently. He had always loved her hair. Even after she resumed chemotherapy, his hands kept stealing up to stroke through the soft strands, until his gentlest caress pulled hair loose. Months ago, just weeks into chemotherapy she’d given up, shaved her head, and replaced her hair with a wig. Even knowing that it wasn’t her hair, he gently untangled the strands of her wig, combing them into place with his fingers. She always liked to look her best.
He covered her face again with the sheet. Resting, just a little while, he sat next to her body, remembering how they’d laughed and teased, as well as loved.
“Where did this one come from,” he asked tracing a scar on her right knee.
“I fell from a tree when I was seven.”
“Oh, mean tree.” He kissed it.
“I’m the one who fell,” she laughed.
“Yes, but I’m sure it was the tree’s fault.”
They laughed together joyfully.
At the end, she refused to let the cancer control her life. She choose one last victory, stopping chemotherapy to live her ending days with all that was left of her fire. He remembered her resolute face as she joined him in their final battle. She’d never been more beautiful than in that moment.
The sun moved relentlessly as he dug, sweat dripping under his tanks. Blistered and sunburned, he finished anyway. He cradled Laura one last time. Slowly, every muscle echoing the protest of his heart, he laid his beloved in her grave. Aching, he covered her, ending his final task with the sun’s setting.
Bill stood staring at her resting place. His beloved had gone on before him, leaving him behind. Tired, he knew he would follow her soon. Age and war stretched him to his last resource and beyond. Duty carried him nearly to the end, and when duty could carry him no further, he held onto the last true thing - he loved her.
"You still want to remember me?" she’d asked him once.
"I don't think I could forget you."
Love carried him through to the end.