Painted Lady (7/14)

Jan 17, 2010 19:05

Early tonight, cause we're old and want to go to bed

Title: Painted Lady (7/14)
Author: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 5,130
Rating: MA
Pairing: Roslin/Adama
Spoilers: S2, Final Cut through LDYB II
Summary: We survived the end of worlds and we still can't tell people how we really feel.
Notes: Thanks to our amazing betas somadanne and larsfarm77, both for their invaluable skills and their patience. Thanks to melligator for the pretty icon set and again to katamaran78 for the gorgeous frakkin’ banner.

Halfway through!

We will be posting chapters once per day (around 10 p.m. EST) until the fic is posted in its entirety.

Link to : Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7
Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Epilogue





____________________________________________________________

RESURRECTION SHIP PART 2:

A few days pass before he shows up again with a mysterious item tucked under his arm, wrapped in an old terry cloth towel. He places it against the wall and turns to me, a self-satisfied smile plastered on his face. "You'll be happy to know I finally did it," he says as he ties the rag to the hatch and shuts the door. When he turns back, his eyes are bright. "I told her."

"You did?" I'm shocked by the revelation and more than a little saddened.

He nods slightly and looks down at his feet. If somebody had told me a man could look proud, bashful and heartbroken all at the same time, I'd have told them they were nuts before today.

"How did you tell her?" I try to make it sound casual, even though I'm dying inside. I pushed him into doing this in my attempt to be altruistic, but that doesn't mean I can't wish it were me he'd said it to instead.

"I kissed her." He looks insufferably pleased with himself, but also strangely melancholy.

"Well, congratulations, Commander."

"Admiral," he corrects.

"Admiral, huh?"

"She promoted me." His voice breaks just a tiny bit.

"Wow. That must have been some kiss."

He begins to laugh at my joke, but there's a watery quality to it, and then it's like a dam breaks and the tears start coming. He looks mortified by his emotional display, but the tears continue to fall, unabated. Oh frak. "Bill, sit down." I guide him to the bunk and he hunches over in abject misery.

"She was so sick, Brooke," he chokes out between racking sobs. "She could barely stand." He presses his hand to the front of his shirt like his heart is about to burst out of his chest, and maybe it is. "She was leaning so heavily on my arm, and she barely weighed anything."

"Bill." I pull him into an embrace and hold him tight, like he did for me once. "It's wonderful that she knows."

"Yes," he says raggedly.

"Did she seem happy?"

"She smiled at me," he manages to choke out.

I pull away from him and look into his tortured eyes. "Everyone wants to know they're loved, Bill."

He nods, but he's barely able to focus on what I'm saying. I run my fingers through his hair, trying to ground him. It takes a few minutes for the tears to finally stop, and when they do, they're replaced with a strange complacency that's almost more disturbing.

He's so fragile, I don't know what to do with him. "You want to get into the rack?"

"Okay." His voice is monotone. I think the answer would have been the same if the question had come from Nicco, and I try to control my rising concern.

My fingers move to unbutton his dress shirt. He watches my actions curiously, like I'm doing this to somebody else instead of him. When his top is hanging neatly off the closet door, I notice he's wearing linen slacks today. They're going to fare worse than the shirt if they don't come off before he gets into the bunk.

I glance at his trousers. "Can I take these off too?"

"I guess so," he replies, and watches me with that same, detached stare as I unbuckle, unbutton and unzip him.

"Lift up a little," I encourage, as I slide the material down his hips. He does as he's told, and his strange disconnect is starting to worry me.

When I turn back, he still hasn't made a move to crawl into the bunk; he's just sitting there, staring into space. I nudge his bare thigh with my own, bringing him out of his depressed stupor for a brief moment. "Why don't you get in there, Bill, and I'll join you in a second."

He nods absently and crawls into the rack facing the bulkhead with his back to me. I shake my head at his worrisome behavior and shed my skirt, blouse and jacket. Last time I did this with him, I wound up wrinkling my entire outfit. I won't be that stupid again. I follow him into the bunk in my bra and panties, pressing myself firmly against his back. My right hand glides across his waist before I slide it up to rest against his chest. He breathes deeply when my fingers settle, and I can feel him physically relax into my loose embrace. If this is what he needs from me, I can give it to him.

"You never talk about her, except to coach me about some quirky mannerism she's got," I say quietly.

"Didn't seem right."

"Would you like to?"

I feel him shrug.

"Bill." I tighten my arm around him and give him a quick kiss behind his ear. "Tell me about her. I know what the Fleet is losing, but I want to understand what you're losing here. Maybe when this is all over, we can mourn her together, okay?"

He takes a shuddering breath. "She's an incredible woman," he rasps. "Strong, independent … perfect."

"Nobody's perfect, Bill."

"She is."

He sounds irked, and part of me wants to argue the point, but I realize now is not the time to shatter his fragile assessment of Madame President. One shouldn't speak ill of the almost-dead.

"Okay. Tell me why she's so perfect."

"She's the most amazing person I’ve ever met." I try not to react, but it's like he's shoved a knife right into my heart. He doesn't seem to notice and continues to speak, unconsciously twisting the blade further. "She's the one who convinced me Galactica should stand down after the attacks. If it weren't for her, we'd all be dead."

I didn't know that, and I have to admit, I'm intrigued. "How did she convince you?" I can't imagine convincing this stubborn man of anything. He begins to shake in my arms and it takes me a second to realize it's with laughter and not tears.

"She told me we needed to start having babies."

"The two of you?"

"No," he chuckles. "But knowing what I do now, if she'd asked me back then, I would have taken her right there on the wardroom table."

Yeah, right. Big frakking words, but he's fooling himself. I had to push him into even telling her how he felt. "So, she told you the Fleet needed to start having babies?"

"Yeah." I can actually hear him smiling. "Told me the only way to defeat the Cylons was to go out there and start all over again. Be fruitful and multiply. All that crazy shit in the religious books that I never paid any attention to before."

"Wise woman."

"She is."

I can't take it anymore. "If she's so perfect, why did you toss her into the brig?"

"Because I'm not perfect," he snaps irritably.

Okay, he's got me there. And if that's what he needs to believe to get through this thing, then so be it. "So, what does she see in you anyway?"

"She sees the man I could be, not the man I currently am."

No wonder the two of them never frakked; they're both helplessly trapped in their own heads. I kiss him lightly on the shoulder. "I think the man you currently are is pretty damned special, Bill."

"It's because of her, you know," he informs me stubbornly. "You got the improved model."

"Isn't that enough for her?" It is for me.

"Doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Because she'll never be able to do anything about it now, will she? She's dying, Brooke, and there's nothing noble or pretty about it." He takes a deep breath. "Whatever she was will be gone in a matter of days now."

"No, it won't." I tug on his arm. "Bill, look at me." He finally complies and peers at me over his shoulder. "When she's gone, we'll still be here, surviving, because she infused the best part of herself into you. And you'll be here in her stead, protecting us, because you know that's what she would want. You need to honor her by carrying on in her absence."

He pulls away and stares back at the bulkhead. "I'm not sure that I can."

I've faced an unknown future too, having lost my anchor. It's not a good feeling. "We've all lost somebody in this fight. And we're all carrying on the best we can."

I tighten my arm around him. I've intentionally left Bill out of a large part of my life until now. I've been afraid of letting him get too close and kept it strictly business when it came to what he knew about me. But right now, the yearning to let him in is overwhelming. It may help him, as much as it may help me.

"Weeks after the attacks … long after I got dropped on Cloud 9, I waited to hear about my family. I held onto this hope that somehow they'd survived. It was so frakkin' absurd to believe in that, but I did. I wanted my father to come rescue me from this hell." I'm glad Bill’s not looking at me, and I hope he can't hear my voice wavering. "When we were told there was a list of survivors, I waited another two days before going to look at it. I wasn't sure if I could move on if …"

I push my forehead between his shoulder blades to steady myself.

"My father wasn't on the list," I manage, squeezing my eyes shut. Tears slip down my face and I take a deep breath. "None of them were. Nobody was coming to save me. And it hurt. It hurt so frakking much, just like it hurt everyone else. Just like it's gonna hurt when she dies, Bill."

He places one of his large hands over mine where it's resting against his broad chest; his body shudders and I wonder if he's crying too.

"I keep going because that's what he taught me. To keep going. And I'm able to make it through day after shitty day because it's what he would have done. One day I'll be able to live the life he wanted me to live. The one I almost had before all of this."

Bill's quiet in my arms and I welcome the silence. I use the time to tamp down on my own riotous emotions and focus on the problem at hand. If I'm going to be perfectly honest, I have to admit that Laura Roslin's impending death terrifies me. Her absence will leave an emotional hole in the heart of this Fleet that he won't be able to fill. Bill is many things, but he's not a spiritual man, and he can be a soft touch at times. Roslin's always seemed tough as nails to me. An iron fist wrapped in another iron fist. Strong, resolute, selfless and completely dependable. I fear for the Fleet in her absence, and I'm not certain that Bill is ready to take up the reins when she's gone.

"Brooke?" Adama breathes into the quiet.

"Yeah, honey?"

"This is nice. Can we just lie here like this for the rest of the hour? I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Of course." I snuggle closer to him.

Yep, this Fleet is utterly frakked.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Twenty-five minutes later, I reach for his arm and peer at his watch. "Five more minutes." He lets out a sigh as I release him and rise from the rack to put my clothes back on. He rolls onto his back, lacing his fingers behind his head as he watches me dress.

"I wish I had one of those screens," I mutter as I step into my skirt.

He looks confused. "Screens?"

"Yeah, one of those things they show in all the old movies that the women used to get dressed behind." I pull the garment up to my waist and zip it closed.

His look is appreciative, but impersonal. I wonder if he's seeing me or her right now. "Never pictured you as the modest type," he says when I slip on my blouse, effectively ending the unavoidable peep show.

"You'd be surprised," I counter as I close the tiny hidden fasteners inside the shirt. He looks haunted by my last comment. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he nods. "What you just said reminds me of a conversation I had with her a couple of days ago."

"Huh." I hand him his slacks as he slides out of the bunk. For a guy who won't frak me, he's remarkably comfortable dressed only in a pair of boxer briefs. "You're not so modest, are you, Bill?"

"I might have been once," he admits as he stuffs his legs into the trousers and pulls the material over his hips. "Being in the service knocks that out of you real fast." He casually adjusts his cock into a comfortable position before he zips his fly. It's one of the sexiest things I've ever witnessed, because there was nothing calculated or deliberately provocative about the gesture. It's just something he does when he gets dressed. When Bill Adama puts on his pants, he adjusts his cock. It's something intimate I know about him. It's also something she'll never know, I think uncharitably.

"So," I say, remembering the item he left against the wall earlier. I'm curious about what he thought was valuable enough to bring to me in exchange for our session. I did have to deal with his crying jag, so it better be good. "I hope there's something nice inside that shitty old towel, because we've got plenty of those down here."

He looks over, like he'd forgotten about it entirely, and moves to retrieve it. Whatever it is, it's got him smiling, and that's nice to see. He unwraps a rectangular board from inside the towel. "It's an original Marc," he boasts as he hands it to me for inspection before continuing to dress.

I try to ignore the lump that's suddenly lodged in my throat as I take the small painting in my shaking hands. It's one of Steven Marc's early works. Very rare and beautiful, it features a brightly colored palette he only dabbled in for a few short years before he hit it big. I would have recognized his style even if I hadn't lived with the man for two years during a particularly self-destructive period of my life.

"I think it's from early in his career," Adama says, as he leans over my shoulder to look at the painting with me. "My ex-wife had a thing for his stuff. We picked that up during a rare vacation at a beach resort on Picon. I thought about selling it a few times when money was tight, but she wouldn't let me. I'm not really a fan of his," he admits sheepishly. "I just fought for it in the divorce settlement because I knew it would piss her off."

My fingers trace the delicate swirls of color as I imagine Steven's small hand holding his brush at an odd angle as he applied paint to canvas. I wonder what Steven would have done if he had lived. Somehow I don't think he'd be selling tricks on a luxury liner for two meals a day and a shitty mattress.

I wish I had known him when he painted this. There's a brightness and innocence here that was sadly absent from his later work. He was just a starving, young artist when he created this simple piece. So poor, he was working on fiberboard and not real canvas. I realize then that the best part of Steven did survive the holocaust.

"It's beautiful," I tell Bill.

Adama's chest swells with pride. "What do you think you could get for it?"

"Nothing."

I watch his face fall. "I don't understand."

I can't bear to hand the painting back to him, so I place it reverently on my bed. "You can't eat it, wear it, or live in it," I explain. "The towel it was wrapped in would bring more cash on the black market than this ever will."

I can see that my explanation is not computing because he begins to argue with me. "That was worth almost twenty thousand when I was going through my divorce, and that was over ten years ago. It's got to be worth twice that much now."

It's amazing how quickly tempers can rise and values can plummet. Bill's wearing the same expression I was when I realized I couldn't work in my chosen profession anymore. It's an amazing thing to come face-to-face with your own obsolescence.

Bill shakes his head at me. He looks disappointed and angry and I wonder if he thinks I'm lying to him. "I'll take it back then," he threatens as he reaches for the painting. "Bring you something of value. Will a box of toothpicks buy me a frak?"

"Leave it," I hiss, and smack his hands away from the panel. He can be such a self-righteous prick when he doesn't get his way. "Just because it has no value on the black market doesn't mean it doesn't have value to me."

His eyes narrow suspiciously, like I'm trying to cheat him. "So you want it even though it's worthless?"

"Stop being such an asshole," I snap at him. "Because it's worthless, I can hang it over my bed and not worry about anybody stealing it." It's something beautiful I can have all for myself, a bright spot in this miserable world I now inhabit. And it's something from him. Something personal. Even when he's not here, it'll be like a piece of him is. It's pathetic, I know, but I don't really care.

I turn to stare at him as I rest my hands on my hips in my 'negotiation' mode. "That painting buys you three sessions, okay?"

He finally relents. "Okay." This is the point where he should leave, but he lingers, staring at the mattress, its sheets barely mussed. "Brooke, could you … ?" He breaks off, embarrassed.

"What?"

He doesn't look at me, just looks down at the deck like there's something of interest at his feet. "Could you change the sheets when I leave so they don't know?"

His request nearly breaks my heart, and I realize I love him just a little bit more in this moment. "Sure."

He looks so relieved. It's this crazy mixture of confidence and vulnerability that gets me every time. Bill Adama's going to be the death of me, I'm sure of it.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Continued in Chapter 8...

authors: tjonesy/icedteainthebag, fic: painted lady (series)

Previous post Next post
Up