Painted Lady (9/14)
Title: Painted Lady (9/14)
Author: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 2,709
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.
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
____________________________________________________________
BLACK MARKET:
Roslin's still alive. Guess all that praying Adama asked for actually worked. They say it was some miracle cure, though nobody's getting too specific about the 'miracle.' The newsfeeds are downplaying her initial prognosis, like the doctors got it wrong, but I saw the truth etched in Bill's face. That woman was definitely on her way out. At the end of the day, it doesn't really matter, because dead or alive, things have only gotten worse for those of us in Causeway B.
There's a war going on, a struggle for control of the black market between the unscrupulous men who now run the operation and the iron fist of the military. Everyone who works the corridor is frightened. If they wrestle control away from Phelan, he might just kill us all-a pimp's twisted version of a scorched-earth policy. Shevon's convinced that Adama's son is going to save us, but I'm not so sure.
To be honest, I'm furious that Bill's not here dealing with the problem himself. I can't help it, but I'm taking it personally. It seems incredibly reckless of him to put our collective fate into the hands of a boy. Maybe he's too busy now that the President's miraculously healthy. I've heard a lot of things about how she survived, all a bunch of conjecture based on bad rumors and innuendo. It's not like the rabble down here gets told shit. My favorite theory so far is that she's actually a Cylon. Our Dying Leader can't actually die. Then mostly I think about what Bill would do if he found out he was in love with a skinjob.
I wonder if he'd still want her then?
At least I'm actually human. But that doesn't seem to matter right now because I haven't seen the selfish frak in weeks. He's conveniently gone missing now that my world's coming apart for the second time in less than a year and his dream girl is up and about.
I'm holed up in our room with Jemma. Both of us are too scared to go outside until this thing shakes itself out. Every once in a while we hear gunshots and I wonder if Annie or Nicco will come home tonight.
A series of knocks on the hatch jolts me to alertness. Jemma and I look at one another, holding our breath as we silently count the number of taps and their rhythm on the thick metal. It's Nicco. I step past Jemma and open the door for him.
He enters in his civilian clothes. He's wisely ditched the Colonial uniform until this madness is over. Phelan would kill him for sure if he was caught trolling the hallways dressed like Admiral AWOL.
"What's it like out there?" I ask once the hatch is securely shut.
"Ugly," he says and drops to the floor. "I got us some bread." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out two stale rolls. "You okay to share with her? I'll save half of mine for Annie."
"Sure." I take the offered food and split it evenly, giving half to Jemma, who practically inhales the hard knot of bread. Food's been scarce the past few days and I'm grateful for anything that might stop the incessant gnawing in my gut.
"You seen your boyfriend?" Nicco asks between chews, and I try to control my anger. I know he's not saying it to rib me. He's genuinely afraid too and wonders when the Admiral's going to show up and put an end to everyone's suffering.
"I told you I'd let you know if he came by."
"I know, I just-"
"-It's okay, Nicco. We all wonder where he is."
Nicco continues to gnaw on his food. "I thought maybe he'd come to collect you, at least," he says a second later.
I don't say anything because the truth of the matter is, I think he might have before Roslin's miraculous recovery. Adama's turning out to be a pretty shitty Prince Charming, just like Nicco predicted.
I hide my meager ration of bread in a folded t-shirt. I'm beyond hungry, but I don't think this siege is even close to being over.
"He give you any indication of when he might be back?" Jemma asks hopefully.
"It doesn't work like that." I'm irritated that they consider me the Admiral's secretary, like I'm supposed to keep tabs on him. I'm as in the dark as everybody else, as much as I shouldn't be.
"Sorry," Jemma says.
I lean wearily against the bunk. "No, it's okay, honey. I'm pissed at him too." I've barely finished my sentence when a rattle of gunshots in the corridor has us jerking around like marionettes.
"It's Phelan." Jemma's eyes are as wide as saucers. "He's coming for us."
"No, it's not," Nicco snaps, but I can tell from the look on his face that he thinks it is too. All of us almost jump out of our skins when there's a loud banging on the hatch. Nicco glances uncertainly at the rest of us before he moves to the door, his hand resting lightly on the wheel. He doesn't open it. He's waiting for permission from the rest of us. If this is it, he wants to make sure we're all ready for what's about to happen. I turn to Jemma.
"Nicco's gonna open the door now, honey." She winces slightly at the finality in my tone, but eventually nods in agreement. I take her hand in mine and motion for Nicco to open the hatch. His fingers are shaking where they rest against the metal wheel, but he finally manages to spin it as far to the left as it will go. I watch him take a deep breath as he pulls the door open.
"Nicco?" Bill's deep voice fills the room, warm, comforting and so very, very welcome. "Where is she?"
Nicco steps aside so Adama can see where I'm huddled in the corner with Jemma.
"It's over," he says simply.
I'm so relieved, I feel like crying. He's such a welcome sight, dressed not in shining armor, but a worn set of duty blues; he looks better to me than any hero in those stupid storybooks. I realize I've never seen him dressed like this in real life. It's like he's a different person and I feel completely awestruck. I want to rush into his arms, but he seems untouchable in his uniform. Instead, I slide down the wall in an exhausted heap. "You won?" I ask quietly.
He barely nods before he looks over to Nicco. "There's emergency ration packets available down the corridor. My Marines just secured the area."
"How much does it cost?" Nicco asks uncertainly. Nobody's been able to work since this turf war began. I don't think we have a cubit between us.
Bill's brow creases at the question. "It's free," he responds, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"Free?" Nicco repeats the word and looks back at me in shock. Except for one t-shirt I received when I was dropped into this stinking hellhole, nothing's been free. We've all been paying for our survival in blood since the end of the world.
Nicco holds out his hand to Jemma. "C'mon, baby." He looks to where I'm sitting against the wall then over at Adama, concern marring his beautiful features. "You want us to bring you something back, Brooke?"
"That'd be great."
As the two of them shuffle out, Adama reaches impatiently for the green rag, tying it securely to the wheel before he shuts the door decisively behind them. He turns to face me with his back pressed against the hatch and simply stares.
"Something tells me you're not here for a frak," I mutter.
"When have I ever been?" he answers lightly.
I wave dismissively at his answer. "Touché, Admiral."
"Bill." His reminder is gentle.
"Bill," I repeat without any inflection. I'm too tired to argue with him today. Too tired, too angry, too confused, and too damned hungry. I think he senses my complacency because he comes to stand before me, peering down owlishly through his spectacles.
"You okay, Brooke?"
I have to look away from him then and hold back tears that are threatening to spill. "I'm fine," I manage.
"You don't look fine."
"Looks can be deceiving." I hope he can hear how pissed off I am. "For example, the President looked like she was about to die a couple of weeks ago and then suddenly-"
"-About that."
"Yeah, what about that?"
He pinches the bridge of his nose and removes his glasses to rub at his eyes for a second. "Her recovery was unexpected," he says as he replaces them.
I chuckle, feeling pretty intolerant of his formality. "I'll bet."
"What do you want from me here, Brooke?" he asks in exasperation, his palms splayed in supplication. If he's looking for absolution, he came to the wrong damned place.
He doesn't really want to know what I want from him. It would disrupt this world he's carefully constructed, the separation between his reality and his fantasy, never the two to meet. But I do want some answers from him-about why Roslin's back in the saddle and about why he's been gone so long while a chunk of his Fleet was going hungry and dying.
"An explanation maybe. Something. Anything," I say, forcing myself to speak through my body's exhaustion.
He surprises me when he slides down the wall to sit beside me. "She was dying," he says simply.
"Is she a Cylon?"
He actually grunts in amusement. "No. She's very human."
"Just not the Dying Leader we all thought she was." It's a statement, not a question.
"I'm not sure," he admits in a whisper that's tinged with wonder.
"But she's alive."
"We," he hesitates then, searching carefully for his words. "We did something. Played God, I think." He looks both confused and awestruck as he's telling me this. "I don't know if it was the right thing to do, but I think, maybe, it was the human thing."
I don't know why I bother; his explanation is more confusing than not knowing what happened.
"I hope she'll understand … eventually," he adds, folding his arms across his chest and leaning more heavily against the wall. So they haven't been frakking, just fighting. Good.
"You in the doghouse again, Bill?"
He holds his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "Maybe just a little."
I snort in amusement and his whole face lights up at the sound. I know it's something she does. Gods know he's told me often enough, but for once, I don't think he's responding to that. And then, he flashes me the most beautiful smile. It's unguarded and genuine, and I feel my heart breaking apart inside of me. I look away and fold my arms around my legs. I need to close up, however possible. I knew it was a bad idea to let him in.
It's been too long. No matter how happy I am to see him, I'm still angry at him for being gone when I needed him the most. I've been there for him every time he needed me. "You left us here to die, you bastard." And then I say what's really bothering me. "You left me here to die."
His breath is heavy. I try to ignore it, and the feel of his body next to mine, and the briefest hint of his cologne. I hate that he can seduce me without lifting a finger.
"You don't want to hear my excuse," he finally says.
"Do you even have one?"
He's infuriatingly silent.
"Well, thanks for sending in the cavalry," I mutter dismissively as I stand. It's more of a struggle than it should be. My legs are as tired as the rest of me. "It was nice of your son to save us all."
He grunts obnoxiously as he rises, and I'm not sure if it's because of the effort to lift himself off the floor or in response to my admittedly shitty remark. I can't help it. I want to get a rise out of him. I need to know that he gives a crap about what happens to me, even if he can't come down here whenever I want him to.
He dusts off the back of his pants without looking at me and makes his way to the hatch. He's so insufferably stoic; I want to throw something at him, but I don't own anything breakable. His hand is on the wheel before he finally spares me a glance. "I'm glad you're okay."
I can feel my bottom lip trembling, and I hope he doesn't notice. "Are you?"
"How can you even ask me that?" he rasps, genuine hurt in his voice.
"Because you're always so remote. Half the time I don't know what's going on in your head." I move closer to him and place my hand on his arm. "I need something back from you sometimes. I'm always here for you, Bill. Always. I'm at your beck and call."
"That's because it's your frakking job, and it’s what I pay you for," he snaps angrily.
I can't help it; I slap him. Hard.
His eyes widen in shock before they narrow in rage. "Don't," he warns me in a low, deliberate growl. His fingers circle my wrist, squeezing so hard it could bruise. I want to hit him again. I wonder what he'd do-whether he'd hit me back or push me away. Maybe I need one of these things to happen to snap me out of this frakking spell. If I could hate him more, I'd want him less. It would be so much easier.
"Frak you, you self-righteous pig." I yank at my wrist and he frees it suddenly, like he didn't realize what he was doing. "Don't you ever talk to me like that again. I don't deserve it."
"And I don't deserve this."
I could argue with him all day that he's long overdue for being put in his place. "What did you really expect from me, Bill?"
"Some frakking gratitude would be nice. I just saved your ass from that scumbag, Phelan."
"I see." I nod testily. How chivalrous of him-all he wanted was to come down here like some big frakkin' hero and save me. I guess I owe him something now. Too bad he doesn't go for frakking; it's a great way to express gratitude. "So you're saying that you wouldn't have sent your forces down here if it wasn't for me. You would have continued to ignore the abuses going on all around you."
He glares at me, but there's nothing behind it. He's not angry, merely irritated. He's still got his hand on the hatch. There's something keeping him here.
"Stop playing the noble hero." My voice is scathing. "I had nothing to do with your decision."
"You did," he insists stubbornly.
"So you were okay with the children being bought and sold belowdecks? Kids servicing sick men and women?"
However I'm trying to tear him down, it's not working. "Don't be ridiculous, of course I couldn't have stood by while that shit was going on."
"Then stop pretending like I had anything to do with your reasons for busting this up."
I wonder if he would have cried for me if I had died, like he cried for Roslin when she was so close to her death.
"Brooke." He puts his hand on my cheek and forces me to meet his eyes. "I'm sworn to protect this Fleet and I accept that responsibility, but I don't know any of those kids. I know you. That made it personal. In the end, that's all that mattered."
The concerned expression on his face makes me ache inside. His eyes search mine.
"You know me," I repeat softly.
"Yes," he says in a hushed whisper.
If he knew me as well as he thinks he does, he'd take me out of this place and give me a new life.
If he knew me, he'd kiss me right now.
He does neither.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Continued in Chapter 10...
Author: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 2,709
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.
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
____________________________________________________________
BLACK MARKET:
Roslin's still alive. Guess all that praying Adama asked for actually worked. They say it was some miracle cure, though nobody's getting too specific about the 'miracle.' The newsfeeds are downplaying her initial prognosis, like the doctors got it wrong, but I saw the truth etched in Bill's face. That woman was definitely on her way out. At the end of the day, it doesn't really matter, because dead or alive, things have only gotten worse for those of us in Causeway B.
There's a war going on, a struggle for control of the black market between the unscrupulous men who now run the operation and the iron fist of the military. Everyone who works the corridor is frightened. If they wrestle control away from Phelan, he might just kill us all-a pimp's twisted version of a scorched-earth policy. Shevon's convinced that Adama's son is going to save us, but I'm not so sure.
To be honest, I'm furious that Bill's not here dealing with the problem himself. I can't help it, but I'm taking it personally. It seems incredibly reckless of him to put our collective fate into the hands of a boy. Maybe he's too busy now that the President's miraculously healthy. I've heard a lot of things about how she survived, all a bunch of conjecture based on bad rumors and innuendo. It's not like the rabble down here gets told shit. My favorite theory so far is that she's actually a Cylon. Our Dying Leader can't actually die. Then mostly I think about what Bill would do if he found out he was in love with a skinjob.
I wonder if he'd still want her then?
At least I'm actually human. But that doesn't seem to matter right now because I haven't seen the selfish frak in weeks. He's conveniently gone missing now that my world's coming apart for the second time in less than a year and his dream girl is up and about.
I'm holed up in our room with Jemma. Both of us are too scared to go outside until this thing shakes itself out. Every once in a while we hear gunshots and I wonder if Annie or Nicco will come home tonight.
A series of knocks on the hatch jolts me to alertness. Jemma and I look at one another, holding our breath as we silently count the number of taps and their rhythm on the thick metal. It's Nicco. I step past Jemma and open the door for him.
He enters in his civilian clothes. He's wisely ditched the Colonial uniform until this madness is over. Phelan would kill him for sure if he was caught trolling the hallways dressed like Admiral AWOL.
"What's it like out there?" I ask once the hatch is securely shut.
"Ugly," he says and drops to the floor. "I got us some bread." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out two stale rolls. "You okay to share with her? I'll save half of mine for Annie."
"Sure." I take the offered food and split it evenly, giving half to Jemma, who practically inhales the hard knot of bread. Food's been scarce the past few days and I'm grateful for anything that might stop the incessant gnawing in my gut.
"You seen your boyfriend?" Nicco asks between chews, and I try to control my anger. I know he's not saying it to rib me. He's genuinely afraid too and wonders when the Admiral's going to show up and put an end to everyone's suffering.
"I told you I'd let you know if he came by."
"I know, I just-"
"-It's okay, Nicco. We all wonder where he is."
Nicco continues to gnaw on his food. "I thought maybe he'd come to collect you, at least," he says a second later.
I don't say anything because the truth of the matter is, I think he might have before Roslin's miraculous recovery. Adama's turning out to be a pretty shitty Prince Charming, just like Nicco predicted.
I hide my meager ration of bread in a folded t-shirt. I'm beyond hungry, but I don't think this siege is even close to being over.
"He give you any indication of when he might be back?" Jemma asks hopefully.
"It doesn't work like that." I'm irritated that they consider me the Admiral's secretary, like I'm supposed to keep tabs on him. I'm as in the dark as everybody else, as much as I shouldn't be.
"Sorry," Jemma says.
I lean wearily against the bunk. "No, it's okay, honey. I'm pissed at him too." I've barely finished my sentence when a rattle of gunshots in the corridor has us jerking around like marionettes.
"It's Phelan." Jemma's eyes are as wide as saucers. "He's coming for us."
"No, it's not," Nicco snaps, but I can tell from the look on his face that he thinks it is too. All of us almost jump out of our skins when there's a loud banging on the hatch. Nicco glances uncertainly at the rest of us before he moves to the door, his hand resting lightly on the wheel. He doesn't open it. He's waiting for permission from the rest of us. If this is it, he wants to make sure we're all ready for what's about to happen. I turn to Jemma.
"Nicco's gonna open the door now, honey." She winces slightly at the finality in my tone, but eventually nods in agreement. I take her hand in mine and motion for Nicco to open the hatch. His fingers are shaking where they rest against the metal wheel, but he finally manages to spin it as far to the left as it will go. I watch him take a deep breath as he pulls the door open.
"Nicco?" Bill's deep voice fills the room, warm, comforting and so very, very welcome. "Where is she?"
Nicco steps aside so Adama can see where I'm huddled in the corner with Jemma.
"It's over," he says simply.
I'm so relieved, I feel like crying. He's such a welcome sight, dressed not in shining armor, but a worn set of duty blues; he looks better to me than any hero in those stupid storybooks. I realize I've never seen him dressed like this in real life. It's like he's a different person and I feel completely awestruck. I want to rush into his arms, but he seems untouchable in his uniform. Instead, I slide down the wall in an exhausted heap. "You won?" I ask quietly.
He barely nods before he looks over to Nicco. "There's emergency ration packets available down the corridor. My Marines just secured the area."
"How much does it cost?" Nicco asks uncertainly. Nobody's been able to work since this turf war began. I don't think we have a cubit between us.
Bill's brow creases at the question. "It's free," he responds, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"Free?" Nicco repeats the word and looks back at me in shock. Except for one t-shirt I received when I was dropped into this stinking hellhole, nothing's been free. We've all been paying for our survival in blood since the end of the world.
Nicco holds out his hand to Jemma. "C'mon, baby." He looks to where I'm sitting against the wall then over at Adama, concern marring his beautiful features. "You want us to bring you something back, Brooke?"
"That'd be great."
As the two of them shuffle out, Adama reaches impatiently for the green rag, tying it securely to the wheel before he shuts the door decisively behind them. He turns to face me with his back pressed against the hatch and simply stares.
"Something tells me you're not here for a frak," I mutter.
"When have I ever been?" he answers lightly.
I wave dismissively at his answer. "Touché, Admiral."
"Bill." His reminder is gentle.
"Bill," I repeat without any inflection. I'm too tired to argue with him today. Too tired, too angry, too confused, and too damned hungry. I think he senses my complacency because he comes to stand before me, peering down owlishly through his spectacles.
"You okay, Brooke?"
I have to look away from him then and hold back tears that are threatening to spill. "I'm fine," I manage.
"You don't look fine."
"Looks can be deceiving." I hope he can hear how pissed off I am. "For example, the President looked like she was about to die a couple of weeks ago and then suddenly-"
"-About that."
"Yeah, what about that?"
He pinches the bridge of his nose and removes his glasses to rub at his eyes for a second. "Her recovery was unexpected," he says as he replaces them.
I chuckle, feeling pretty intolerant of his formality. "I'll bet."
"What do you want from me here, Brooke?" he asks in exasperation, his palms splayed in supplication. If he's looking for absolution, he came to the wrong damned place.
He doesn't really want to know what I want from him. It would disrupt this world he's carefully constructed, the separation between his reality and his fantasy, never the two to meet. But I do want some answers from him-about why Roslin's back in the saddle and about why he's been gone so long while a chunk of his Fleet was going hungry and dying.
"An explanation maybe. Something. Anything," I say, forcing myself to speak through my body's exhaustion.
He surprises me when he slides down the wall to sit beside me. "She was dying," he says simply.
"Is she a Cylon?"
He actually grunts in amusement. "No. She's very human."
"Just not the Dying Leader we all thought she was." It's a statement, not a question.
"I'm not sure," he admits in a whisper that's tinged with wonder.
"But she's alive."
"We," he hesitates then, searching carefully for his words. "We did something. Played God, I think." He looks both confused and awestruck as he's telling me this. "I don't know if it was the right thing to do, but I think, maybe, it was the human thing."
I don't know why I bother; his explanation is more confusing than not knowing what happened.
"I hope she'll understand … eventually," he adds, folding his arms across his chest and leaning more heavily against the wall. So they haven't been frakking, just fighting. Good.
"You in the doghouse again, Bill?"
He holds his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "Maybe just a little."
I snort in amusement and his whole face lights up at the sound. I know it's something she does. Gods know he's told me often enough, but for once, I don't think he's responding to that. And then, he flashes me the most beautiful smile. It's unguarded and genuine, and I feel my heart breaking apart inside of me. I look away and fold my arms around my legs. I need to close up, however possible. I knew it was a bad idea to let him in.
It's been too long. No matter how happy I am to see him, I'm still angry at him for being gone when I needed him the most. I've been there for him every time he needed me. "You left us here to die, you bastard." And then I say what's really bothering me. "You left me here to die."
His breath is heavy. I try to ignore it, and the feel of his body next to mine, and the briefest hint of his cologne. I hate that he can seduce me without lifting a finger.
"You don't want to hear my excuse," he finally says.
"Do you even have one?"
He's infuriatingly silent.
"Well, thanks for sending in the cavalry," I mutter dismissively as I stand. It's more of a struggle than it should be. My legs are as tired as the rest of me. "It was nice of your son to save us all."
He grunts obnoxiously as he rises, and I'm not sure if it's because of the effort to lift himself off the floor or in response to my admittedly shitty remark. I can't help it. I want to get a rise out of him. I need to know that he gives a crap about what happens to me, even if he can't come down here whenever I want him to.
He dusts off the back of his pants without looking at me and makes his way to the hatch. He's so insufferably stoic; I want to throw something at him, but I don't own anything breakable. His hand is on the wheel before he finally spares me a glance. "I'm glad you're okay."
I can feel my bottom lip trembling, and I hope he doesn't notice. "Are you?"
"How can you even ask me that?" he rasps, genuine hurt in his voice.
"Because you're always so remote. Half the time I don't know what's going on in your head." I move closer to him and place my hand on his arm. "I need something back from you sometimes. I'm always here for you, Bill. Always. I'm at your beck and call."
"That's because it's your frakking job, and it’s what I pay you for," he snaps angrily.
I can't help it; I slap him. Hard.
His eyes widen in shock before they narrow in rage. "Don't," he warns me in a low, deliberate growl. His fingers circle my wrist, squeezing so hard it could bruise. I want to hit him again. I wonder what he'd do-whether he'd hit me back or push me away. Maybe I need one of these things to happen to snap me out of this frakking spell. If I could hate him more, I'd want him less. It would be so much easier.
"Frak you, you self-righteous pig." I yank at my wrist and he frees it suddenly, like he didn't realize what he was doing. "Don't you ever talk to me like that again. I don't deserve it."
"And I don't deserve this."
I could argue with him all day that he's long overdue for being put in his place. "What did you really expect from me, Bill?"
"Some frakking gratitude would be nice. I just saved your ass from that scumbag, Phelan."
"I see." I nod testily. How chivalrous of him-all he wanted was to come down here like some big frakkin' hero and save me. I guess I owe him something now. Too bad he doesn't go for frakking; it's a great way to express gratitude. "So you're saying that you wouldn't have sent your forces down here if it wasn't for me. You would have continued to ignore the abuses going on all around you."
He glares at me, but there's nothing behind it. He's not angry, merely irritated. He's still got his hand on the hatch. There's something keeping him here.
"Stop playing the noble hero." My voice is scathing. "I had nothing to do with your decision."
"You did," he insists stubbornly.
"So you were okay with the children being bought and sold belowdecks? Kids servicing sick men and women?"
However I'm trying to tear him down, it's not working. "Don't be ridiculous, of course I couldn't have stood by while that shit was going on."
"Then stop pretending like I had anything to do with your reasons for busting this up."
I wonder if he would have cried for me if I had died, like he cried for Roslin when she was so close to her death.
"Brooke." He puts his hand on my cheek and forces me to meet his eyes. "I'm sworn to protect this Fleet and I accept that responsibility, but I don't know any of those kids. I know you. That made it personal. In the end, that's all that mattered."
The concerned expression on his face makes me ache inside. His eyes search mine.
"You know me," I repeat softly.
"Yes," he says in a hushed whisper.
If he knew me as well as he thinks he does, he'd take me out of this place and give me a new life.
If he knew me, he'd kiss me right now.
He does neither.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Continued in Chapter 10...