Painted Lady (10/14)
Title: Painted Lady (10/14)
Author: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 1,207
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
____________________________________________________________
SCAR:
Business has slowed down considerably. Nobody's seen or heard from any of the Galactica crew in a couple of weeks now. If Bill's trying his hand at some mysterious black ops shit, he's failing miserably when an entire corridor of whores knows his ship has suddenly gone missing. If the Cylons really wanted to keep their fingers on the pulse of this Fleet, they'd have a skinjob hooker trolling Causeway B with the rest of us. I'll admit not having Galactica around is screwing with my head a little. I'm sure if something bad had happened, we'd all have heard about it. For now, the relative silence is both a relief and a curse.
We're still getting Pegasus crew members down on the causeway, and they've thankfully stopped being a rowdy bunch of disrespectful shitheads. I have a feeling it has something to do with the change in leadership and the fact that Adama busted up the child prostitution ring. They know he's got an eye on what's going on down here. At least, he used to, before this unexplained disappearance.
It's been thirty-four days since we last spoke. Not that I'm counting. That would be lame. I can't help but notice how his absence seems to be directly correlated with the President's now-perfect health. Of course she's here with the rest of the Fleet and he's not, so she's probably in the same boat I am. At least I hope she is. Although … there were at least twelve days before his crew went mysteriously missing and they could have hooked up in that time.
I bet he frakked her senseless.
Our last conversation still haunts me more than it should, but, all my stupid emotional shit aside, he saved my life and a bunch of others by kicking out the scum that was lording over this place. There are so many ways I want to thank him for it if I ever see him again, but only a few of the ways are actually possible.
It's like fate stepping in when I find a black market vendor selling exactly what I need.
I've been able to save a bit of money since Phelan's demise. I've stashed it away in a ratty old bit of nylon tucked neatly underneath my bed that serves as a sort of savings account. I managed to haggle the vendor down to fifty cubits for two fairly decent brushes and six half-used tubes of oil paint. The colors are darker than what I'm used to working with, but I should be able to do something with them. I've only been able to get my hands on a quarter tube of white or this wouldn't even be a concern. I'm resigned to the fact that I'm painting on the fly and it's really not going to be the best thing I've ever done.
The dim interior lighting on our deck is completely worthless to me, so I put on the cleanest, classiest outfit I can muster, and hope nobody wonders why a woman, who looks suspiciously like the President, is painting a landscape under the biodome. The artificial sunlight is too bright for my eyes after so much time down below, so I pick a cozy spot on a bench under some shade trees. They look so real, but aren't. Cylon foliage. That's frakking depressing.
I didn't have any money left to buy canvas, so I've brought Steven's painting with me. I refuse to cover his work with mine. There's something wrong with that, especially now. So I turn the board over, and use the pristine reverse side instead.
I prime a thin layer in a light blue made by mixing deep indigo with the last bit of white paint I have, and close my eyes. I rarely let myself think of my past, but today I'm going to indulge myself.
My father was an artist, but not in the traditional sense. Maybe 'craftsman' would be a more accurate description. The best part about watching him construct his beautiful, cedar fiber fishing nets was the smell. He would tie the mesh together with nimble fingers, attaching stones as weights and cedar wood pieces as floats. It would take him hours, and I would marvel at his perseverance. I didn't realize, at such a young age, that this act of creation was sustaining our family of six.
He taught me so much just from the simple construction of a net.
We would take these exquisitely woven creations to the river across the grassy marsh from our cabin in the early hours of the morning. Aquarion, appropriately enough, never lacked for waterways full of fish waiting to be harvested. The riverbank was rocky and rugged, and I'd hold his hand on the way down to the water's edge until I was old enough to do it on my own, and sometimes even then.
My father would travel the width of the river in his canoe, casting the net gently upon the water until he reached the other side. It was the first scene I ever drew, using charcoal on old butcher paper, the only thing we had at the time. On my thirteenth birthday, he gave me a simple set of watercolors-various pigments made from fruits and vegetables. I'd mix them with water, their colors mostly drab and earthy, but I didn't care. I used them until he gave me my first oil paints and cheap cotton fabric to use as canvas. He constructed cedar stretchers and would leave them for me without saying a word. This was his way of telling me he loved me.
I wish we had said it to each other the last time I saw him. I don't regret much, but I do regret that.
I begin to paint the river from memory, then the grassy marsh surrounding it, then my father's canoe floating on the water. I want to paint my father's face, but the tools I have are not meant for detail. Instead, I paint him with his back turned, broad shoulders hunched over as he waits with infinite patience for the sun to set on the horizon. As I look at the figure I've sketched, I realize he reminds me of Bill. It's a shocking revelation, but not entirely unexpected. My college roommate used to say that we eventually fall in love with men who remind us of our fathers. At the time, I was too embarrassed to admit that I hoped she was right. Everyone on campus was so preoccupied with being rebellious and artsy. It seemed pedestrian to wish for something so mundane.
When I made my first million, I took my father out to celebrate. Over an obscenely pretentious dinner of designer sushi, he warned me that the trappings of success were fleeting, and I should find my satisfaction in the simple things. I stupidly thought he said this because he'd never had any success to speak of, unless you counted that banner year he had on the docks when I was twelve years old.
I thought I was so frakking clever because I had money. It took an apocalypse to show me who the rich one was in the family.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Continued in Chapter 11...
Author: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 1,207
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
____________________________________________________________
SCAR:
Business has slowed down considerably. Nobody's seen or heard from any of the Galactica crew in a couple of weeks now. If Bill's trying his hand at some mysterious black ops shit, he's failing miserably when an entire corridor of whores knows his ship has suddenly gone missing. If the Cylons really wanted to keep their fingers on the pulse of this Fleet, they'd have a skinjob hooker trolling Causeway B with the rest of us. I'll admit not having Galactica around is screwing with my head a little. I'm sure if something bad had happened, we'd all have heard about it. For now, the relative silence is both a relief and a curse.
We're still getting Pegasus crew members down on the causeway, and they've thankfully stopped being a rowdy bunch of disrespectful shitheads. I have a feeling it has something to do with the change in leadership and the fact that Adama busted up the child prostitution ring. They know he's got an eye on what's going on down here. At least, he used to, before this unexplained disappearance.
It's been thirty-four days since we last spoke. Not that I'm counting. That would be lame. I can't help but notice how his absence seems to be directly correlated with the President's now-perfect health. Of course she's here with the rest of the Fleet and he's not, so she's probably in the same boat I am. At least I hope she is. Although … there were at least twelve days before his crew went mysteriously missing and they could have hooked up in that time.
I bet he frakked her senseless.
Our last conversation still haunts me more than it should, but, all my stupid emotional shit aside, he saved my life and a bunch of others by kicking out the scum that was lording over this place. There are so many ways I want to thank him for it if I ever see him again, but only a few of the ways are actually possible.
It's like fate stepping in when I find a black market vendor selling exactly what I need.
I've been able to save a bit of money since Phelan's demise. I've stashed it away in a ratty old bit of nylon tucked neatly underneath my bed that serves as a sort of savings account. I managed to haggle the vendor down to fifty cubits for two fairly decent brushes and six half-used tubes of oil paint. The colors are darker than what I'm used to working with, but I should be able to do something with them. I've only been able to get my hands on a quarter tube of white or this wouldn't even be a concern. I'm resigned to the fact that I'm painting on the fly and it's really not going to be the best thing I've ever done.
The dim interior lighting on our deck is completely worthless to me, so I put on the cleanest, classiest outfit I can muster, and hope nobody wonders why a woman, who looks suspiciously like the President, is painting a landscape under the biodome. The artificial sunlight is too bright for my eyes after so much time down below, so I pick a cozy spot on a bench under some shade trees. They look so real, but aren't. Cylon foliage. That's frakking depressing.
I didn't have any money left to buy canvas, so I've brought Steven's painting with me. I refuse to cover his work with mine. There's something wrong with that, especially now. So I turn the board over, and use the pristine reverse side instead.
I prime a thin layer in a light blue made by mixing deep indigo with the last bit of white paint I have, and close my eyes. I rarely let myself think of my past, but today I'm going to indulge myself.
My father was an artist, but not in the traditional sense. Maybe 'craftsman' would be a more accurate description. The best part about watching him construct his beautiful, cedar fiber fishing nets was the smell. He would tie the mesh together with nimble fingers, attaching stones as weights and cedar wood pieces as floats. It would take him hours, and I would marvel at his perseverance. I didn't realize, at such a young age, that this act of creation was sustaining our family of six.
He taught me so much just from the simple construction of a net.
We would take these exquisitely woven creations to the river across the grassy marsh from our cabin in the early hours of the morning. Aquarion, appropriately enough, never lacked for waterways full of fish waiting to be harvested. The riverbank was rocky and rugged, and I'd hold his hand on the way down to the water's edge until I was old enough to do it on my own, and sometimes even then.
My father would travel the width of the river in his canoe, casting the net gently upon the water until he reached the other side. It was the first scene I ever drew, using charcoal on old butcher paper, the only thing we had at the time. On my thirteenth birthday, he gave me a simple set of watercolors-various pigments made from fruits and vegetables. I'd mix them with water, their colors mostly drab and earthy, but I didn't care. I used them until he gave me my first oil paints and cheap cotton fabric to use as canvas. He constructed cedar stretchers and would leave them for me without saying a word. This was his way of telling me he loved me.
I wish we had said it to each other the last time I saw him. I don't regret much, but I do regret that.
I begin to paint the river from memory, then the grassy marsh surrounding it, then my father's canoe floating on the water. I want to paint my father's face, but the tools I have are not meant for detail. Instead, I paint him with his back turned, broad shoulders hunched over as he waits with infinite patience for the sun to set on the horizon. As I look at the figure I've sketched, I realize he reminds me of Bill. It's a shocking revelation, but not entirely unexpected. My college roommate used to say that we eventually fall in love with men who remind us of our fathers. At the time, I was too embarrassed to admit that I hoped she was right. Everyone on campus was so preoccupied with being rebellious and artsy. It seemed pedestrian to wish for something so mundane.
When I made my first million, I took my father out to celebrate. Over an obscenely pretentious dinner of designer sushi, he warned me that the trappings of success were fleeting, and I should find my satisfaction in the simple things. I stupidly thought he said this because he'd never had any success to speak of, unless you counted that banner year he had on the docks when I was twelve years old.
I thought I was so frakking clever because I had money. It took an apocalypse to show me who the rich one was in the family.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Continued in Chapter 11...