"Portrait of a Lady" - Adama/Roslin Drabble
Title: Portrait of a Lady
Pairing: Adama/Roslin
Rating: T
Word Count: 200 words
Disclaimer: Not my characters or television show.
A/N: Late entry for the "photograph" challenge at ar_drabbles. Thanks to redrockcan for her encouragement.
He carries it with him everywhere, in the pocket in his worn fatigues, right above his heart.
It’s aged poorly; the edges are threadbare, the colours, once vibrant, have faded to ashy greys. The woman in the photograph still smiles at him, the joy that he had captured in that moment has not yet abandoned him.
When Carolanne died, he took out their wedding photograph once a year, out of respect for the woman that birthed his children.
He looks at Laura’s face every day, out of fear. Fear that his aging mind will forget exactly how her lips curved into a rare smile. Fear that he would only remember her body when it was malnourished and all bones and dry skin.
He’s already lost her smell. The jade kerchief that he slept with had taken on the smell of dirt and his own sweat.
He’s already lost her taste. Even before her death, it had been weeks since he had been able to make love to her properly.
He traces the photograph in his hands reverently. The sun beams down, caressing her sweetly.
This is all that he had left.
It was the only photograph he had ever taken of her.
Pairing: Adama/Roslin
Rating: T
Word Count: 200 words
Disclaimer: Not my characters or television show.
A/N: Late entry for the "photograph" challenge at ar_drabbles. Thanks to redrockcan for her encouragement.
He carries it with him everywhere, in the pocket in his worn fatigues, right above his heart.
It’s aged poorly; the edges are threadbare, the colours, once vibrant, have faded to ashy greys. The woman in the photograph still smiles at him, the joy that he had captured in that moment has not yet abandoned him.
When Carolanne died, he took out their wedding photograph once a year, out of respect for the woman that birthed his children.
He looks at Laura’s face every day, out of fear. Fear that his aging mind will forget exactly how her lips curved into a rare smile. Fear that he would only remember her body when it was malnourished and all bones and dry skin.
He’s already lost her smell. The jade kerchief that he slept with had taken on the smell of dirt and his own sweat.
He’s already lost her taste. Even before her death, it had been weeks since he had been able to make love to her properly.
He traces the photograph in his hands reverently. The sun beams down, caressing her sweetly.
This is all that he had left.
It was the only photograph he had ever taken of her.