"Render the Walls" - Adama/Roslin fic
Title: Render the Walls
Pairing: Adama/Roslin
Rating: T
Word Count: 1, 457
Disclaimer: Not my characters or television show.
A/N: This was written for my dear friend sln1 for her birthday; she was kind enough to let me share it here for others to read. Thanks to redrockcan for her beta and advice.
“I know that you prefer water colours and sculpting, but I remembered you mentioning that you used to sketch,” he said breathlessly, his eyes alight with the hope that his offering would please her. Slowly, Laura unwrapped the discarded newspapers and uncovered her gift; a set of graphite sketching pencils and a tattered sketchbook.
“I, I don’t know what to say. Thank you, so very much, these are wonderful.” Setting her gifts aside, she pulled the young man she’d known and mentored for five years towards her in an embrace.
“Happy birthday,” Billy said softly as he hugged her tightly in return.
A thought suddenly occurred to her. “Billy, what did you trade for these?” She pulled back slightly from their embrace to look at him.
Colour flushed his features. “Nothing important, don’t worry,” he assured her. She looked at him disbelievingly. “A shirt, that’s all,” he blurted. “I never even like it, the material was scratchy,” he said, hoping to ease her worry.
“I’ll trade a pair of shoes for another shirt,” she promised, “It’s not like I need more than one pair anyway,” she reasoned.
“Laura, it’s fine, really. I have two other shirts, and a sweater. Guys are easy, we don’t mind wearing the same thing day in and day out,” he said with a boyish smile.
A beat passed before Laura covered her mouth with her hand, attempting to stifle the giggle that bubbled up in her throat. Billy smiled, wide and happy, and she gave up on trying not to laugh.
“Just keep them somewhere dry,” he said, “the notebook was damp when I came across it, that’s why some of the pages are missing,” he gestured towards the book apologetically, “I wasn’t able to salvage them.”
“They’re perfect,” she said resolutely. “And I promise to keep them somewhere safe,” she said softly.
She stored them in the bottom of her suitcase, the one that she had brought with her when she first boarded Galactica. She promised herself that she’d create something for him, to thank him for his thoughtfulness. Perhaps a sketch of his family; she knew that he had a photo of his sisters with him in his bag, that he frequently brought it out, and prayed for their souls.
She did the same.
Instead, his thoughtful gift sat at the bottom of her suitcase for months, beneath her photo album, beneath her meager wardrobe.
She buried them, and so they remained in their tomb, content on eternal rest.
She buried them, like she had been forced to bury her pseudo-son, only weeks after he presented them to her.
***
The air was cool, but Bill’s touch warmed her against the cold.
It had been her idea, to lie out under the stars, and he had been all too happy to comply with her wish. She’d shyly tugged his upper arm, encouraging him to lie closer to her. Grinning, he’d scooted his bulk closer to her, and wrapped his arm around her middle.
“This cabin of yours,” he asked after a period of comfortable silence. “What does it look like?” The earnest excitement in his voice made her heart flutter.
A prolonged pause passed between them.
“I lived in a townhouse on Caprica for seven years, and for seven years I agonized over every square inch of that place,” she said slowly, “I spent thousands of cubits decorating, then redecorating, changing the carpets, the art, thankfully my salary could accommodate my tastes,” she said, a note of bitterness and irony evident in her tone.
Bill could see it, the classy, well-decorated home of hers. He wondered if she preferred oil paintings or photography, if she liked clean, linear furniture or antique pieces; there was so much about her that he didn’t know, so much that he was desperate to know.
“And as soon as the nuke touched the ground in Caprica City, my home, the place that I spent so much of my time and effort creating, the place that I shared with the people that I loved, was rubble.” Her voice tapered off, he could feel her trembling slightly next to him.
In all the time that he had known her, he had never once seen her mourn the life that she had lost, she had always been far too busy trying to move forward with a mourning, shell-shocked civilization weighing on her shoulders. An errant tear slipped down her elegant cheek and he kissed it away.
“Dust,” she sighed. “It’s all just radioactive dust now, and I realize, that for all my cubits, for all my cultured taste, I had a flimsy shell for a home.” She snuggled deeper into his embrace. “What does my cabin look like? Sturdy, build from the humble offerings of this planet, simple, and easy to rebuild. I’ve accepted that wherever I make my home, it won’t be permanent.”
“Not necessarily,” Bill spoke softly, his words tickled the skin of her forehead and she shivered in response. “Humans make the mistake of building their homes in places, when they should be building them in people.”
His lips descended on hers, he kissed her softly, reverently. A fleeting thought crossed her mind: that she should be able to create her home within him. His body was all the shelter that she needed; his heart was her hearth, his love, her beacon.
“I know where I am going to settle,” he said as they parted. “Where I’m going to build my home, when the time is right.”
As she lay her head down over his sturdy chest, her fleeting thought returned, sinking deeply into the recesses of her aching heart.
***
It’s been years since she’s felt this free.
The part that she buried so long ago is now resurrected, along with the humble gifts given to her by her deceased son.
Each stroke of the graphite against the worn paper is like a lash into her own skin.
The strong, bold lines cut into the grief that clogged her pores; the subtle blending and highlights scorch the anger and resentment from her veins. Rivers run beneath her eyes, each tear she cries is a lament for those she has lost; her sisters, her mother and father, the billions that had been left to burn on the colonies, the Cylons that had been shot down in cold blood, the victims of New Caprica, Billy, she mourns them all.
The dark stain of the graphite pencil against her pale hand feels so right. The graphite stain on her hands is more comfortable, more familiar than the blood that’s made its home there for so very long. Tonight, the deep charcoal overpowers the red. Tonight, the President of the Twelve Colonies does not exist. Tonight, Laura would start laying down the foundations of her home.
She’s so intent on completing her masterpiece that she does not notice the screech and clang of the hatch.
“Hi,” the deep rumble caresses her ear as Bill sits next to her on the floor. She looks up at him, eyes sparkling and full of the love that she has for him.
“You came,” she says softly. She knew that he would, but part of her will never get over how forgiving this man is, this man that she loves.
“You asked me to,” he says simply.
He looks so pleased with her, and she can’t help but lean over and kiss him soundly, her dirtied hands fluttering in the air comically. His return kiss is slow and thoughtful, and she tingles in anticipation as his hands caress her hips under her shirt. His fingertips continue to tickle her lightly when their lips part.
“You’re drawing?” he asks. He remembers her mentioning once that she loved art, her minor in college was Art History, but he’s never seen her in the act of creation.
She nods vigorously. “It was about time,” she says simply.
“May I?”
She hands him the sketch, and watches as a grin breaks out across his face.
“It’s - “
“My home,” she says simply. “I’ve decided where I’m going to settle, where I’m going to build it. It’s time, our time now.” Her words echo his own from many months ago.
His thumb cleans a smear of the graphite against her chin, and she giggles madly, her head drops onto his shoulder.
“I’m ready,” she says softly.
She looks deep into his eyes and sees nothing but love and respect, it still humbles her that it’s all for her. He carefully sets aside her masterpiece, perhaps the last piece of art that she will ever need to create, and smiles softly at her.
Wordlessly, he scoops her up into his arms, and carries her home.
Pairing: Adama/Roslin
Rating: T
Word Count: 1, 457
Disclaimer: Not my characters or television show.
A/N: This was written for my dear friend sln1 for her birthday; she was kind enough to let me share it here for others to read. Thanks to redrockcan for her beta and advice.
“I know that you prefer water colours and sculpting, but I remembered you mentioning that you used to sketch,” he said breathlessly, his eyes alight with the hope that his offering would please her. Slowly, Laura unwrapped the discarded newspapers and uncovered her gift; a set of graphite sketching pencils and a tattered sketchbook.
“I, I don’t know what to say. Thank you, so very much, these are wonderful.” Setting her gifts aside, she pulled the young man she’d known and mentored for five years towards her in an embrace.
“Happy birthday,” Billy said softly as he hugged her tightly in return.
A thought suddenly occurred to her. “Billy, what did you trade for these?” She pulled back slightly from their embrace to look at him.
Colour flushed his features. “Nothing important, don’t worry,” he assured her. She looked at him disbelievingly. “A shirt, that’s all,” he blurted. “I never even like it, the material was scratchy,” he said, hoping to ease her worry.
“I’ll trade a pair of shoes for another shirt,” she promised, “It’s not like I need more than one pair anyway,” she reasoned.
“Laura, it’s fine, really. I have two other shirts, and a sweater. Guys are easy, we don’t mind wearing the same thing day in and day out,” he said with a boyish smile.
A beat passed before Laura covered her mouth with her hand, attempting to stifle the giggle that bubbled up in her throat. Billy smiled, wide and happy, and she gave up on trying not to laugh.
“Just keep them somewhere dry,” he said, “the notebook was damp when I came across it, that’s why some of the pages are missing,” he gestured towards the book apologetically, “I wasn’t able to salvage them.”
“They’re perfect,” she said resolutely. “And I promise to keep them somewhere safe,” she said softly.
She stored them in the bottom of her suitcase, the one that she had brought with her when she first boarded Galactica. She promised herself that she’d create something for him, to thank him for his thoughtfulness. Perhaps a sketch of his family; she knew that he had a photo of his sisters with him in his bag, that he frequently brought it out, and prayed for their souls.
She did the same.
Instead, his thoughtful gift sat at the bottom of her suitcase for months, beneath her photo album, beneath her meager wardrobe.
She buried them, and so they remained in their tomb, content on eternal rest.
She buried them, like she had been forced to bury her pseudo-son, only weeks after he presented them to her.
***
The air was cool, but Bill’s touch warmed her against the cold.
It had been her idea, to lie out under the stars, and he had been all too happy to comply with her wish. She’d shyly tugged his upper arm, encouraging him to lie closer to her. Grinning, he’d scooted his bulk closer to her, and wrapped his arm around her middle.
“This cabin of yours,” he asked after a period of comfortable silence. “What does it look like?” The earnest excitement in his voice made her heart flutter.
A prolonged pause passed between them.
“I lived in a townhouse on Caprica for seven years, and for seven years I agonized over every square inch of that place,” she said slowly, “I spent thousands of cubits decorating, then redecorating, changing the carpets, the art, thankfully my salary could accommodate my tastes,” she said, a note of bitterness and irony evident in her tone.
Bill could see it, the classy, well-decorated home of hers. He wondered if she preferred oil paintings or photography, if she liked clean, linear furniture or antique pieces; there was so much about her that he didn’t know, so much that he was desperate to know.
“And as soon as the nuke touched the ground in Caprica City, my home, the place that I spent so much of my time and effort creating, the place that I shared with the people that I loved, was rubble.” Her voice tapered off, he could feel her trembling slightly next to him.
In all the time that he had known her, he had never once seen her mourn the life that she had lost, she had always been far too busy trying to move forward with a mourning, shell-shocked civilization weighing on her shoulders. An errant tear slipped down her elegant cheek and he kissed it away.
“Dust,” she sighed. “It’s all just radioactive dust now, and I realize, that for all my cubits, for all my cultured taste, I had a flimsy shell for a home.” She snuggled deeper into his embrace. “What does my cabin look like? Sturdy, build from the humble offerings of this planet, simple, and easy to rebuild. I’ve accepted that wherever I make my home, it won’t be permanent.”
“Not necessarily,” Bill spoke softly, his words tickled the skin of her forehead and she shivered in response. “Humans make the mistake of building their homes in places, when they should be building them in people.”
His lips descended on hers, he kissed her softly, reverently. A fleeting thought crossed her mind: that she should be able to create her home within him. His body was all the shelter that she needed; his heart was her hearth, his love, her beacon.
“I know where I am going to settle,” he said as they parted. “Where I’m going to build my home, when the time is right.”
As she lay her head down over his sturdy chest, her fleeting thought returned, sinking deeply into the recesses of her aching heart.
***
It’s been years since she’s felt this free.
The part that she buried so long ago is now resurrected, along with the humble gifts given to her by her deceased son.
Each stroke of the graphite against the worn paper is like a lash into her own skin.
The strong, bold lines cut into the grief that clogged her pores; the subtle blending and highlights scorch the anger and resentment from her veins. Rivers run beneath her eyes, each tear she cries is a lament for those she has lost; her sisters, her mother and father, the billions that had been left to burn on the colonies, the Cylons that had been shot down in cold blood, the victims of New Caprica, Billy, she mourns them all.
The dark stain of the graphite pencil against her pale hand feels so right. The graphite stain on her hands is more comfortable, more familiar than the blood that’s made its home there for so very long. Tonight, the deep charcoal overpowers the red. Tonight, the President of the Twelve Colonies does not exist. Tonight, Laura would start laying down the foundations of her home.
She’s so intent on completing her masterpiece that she does not notice the screech and clang of the hatch.
“Hi,” the deep rumble caresses her ear as Bill sits next to her on the floor. She looks up at him, eyes sparkling and full of the love that she has for him.
“You came,” she says softly. She knew that he would, but part of her will never get over how forgiving this man is, this man that she loves.
“You asked me to,” he says simply.
He looks so pleased with her, and she can’t help but lean over and kiss him soundly, her dirtied hands fluttering in the air comically. His return kiss is slow and thoughtful, and she tingles in anticipation as his hands caress her hips under her shirt. His fingertips continue to tickle her lightly when their lips part.
“You’re drawing?” he asks. He remembers her mentioning once that she loved art, her minor in college was Art History, but he’s never seen her in the act of creation.
She nods vigorously. “It was about time,” she says simply.
“May I?”
She hands him the sketch, and watches as a grin breaks out across his face.
“It’s - “
“My home,” she says simply. “I’ve decided where I’m going to settle, where I’m going to build it. It’s time, our time now.” Her words echo his own from many months ago.
His thumb cleans a smear of the graphite against her chin, and she giggles madly, her head drops onto his shoulder.
“I’m ready,” she says softly.
She looks deep into his eyes and sees nothing but love and respect, it still humbles her that it’s all for her. He carefully sets aside her masterpiece, perhaps the last piece of art that she will ever need to create, and smiles softly at her.
Wordlessly, he scoops her up into his arms, and carries her home.