Painted Lady (Epilogue)
Oh, it's not over yet...
Title: Painted Lady (Epilogue)
Author: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 3,679
Rating: MA
Pairing: Roslin/Adama
Spoilers: S2, Final Cut through LDYB II, Unfinished Business
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.
This is our love letter to everyone who stuck it out with us to the very end. Your feedback and enthusiasm has been overwhelming.
Yeah, we never said we weren't tricky motherfrakkers.
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 to the epilogue: Purgatory
____________________________________________________________
EPILOGUE:
I'm sitting on a riverbank on New Caprica, the breeze off the water taking the edge off the late-afternoon heat. My skirt ruffles around my legs and I dip my toe into the cool water, closing my eyes. My skin feels hot; it's still not used to the sun. This is my favorite time of day-waiting for the sun to dip behind the mountains so it can cast a golden glow across the water's surface.
Nicco would have loved this.
I watch clouds shift across the sky.
It's quiet until I hear the rumbling of trucks in the distance. It's an expected breach of peace and one that I actually welcome. Now that the Greenleaf is grounded, Caesar's part of a logging crew that brings in lumber from the mountains every day. An hour from now, after unloading the truck, he'll join me at the river's mouth to pull in our net and see what we'll be selling at the market tomorrow.
The hours I spent with my father on Aquarion, watching him make gillnets and helping him clean fish, never seemed like they'd be of use to me beyond inspiration for my paintings, but the knowledge of his trade came back to me more easily than I'd expected. Caesar's job gives us access to as much 'borrowed' cedar fiber as I need to make nets. It took me a few tries to get it right, and then to find the best place to cast it.
For anyone else, eating salted fish every day might be a meager existence, but remembering how much it hurts to go hungry, I usually just buck up and deal with it. But we do have a home, a place we don't have to share with anyone else. We've got no demands or obligations besides taking care of ourselves. I can handle that.
A few days before the election, when Caesar first opened up his quarters to me, we had to spend some time getting to know each other outside of the business relationship we had. He had to forget that I'd frakked more men than I could count; I had to forget he was one of them. I had to open up and tell him things about Laura, not Brooke. Laura, the artist from the fishing village, who loved Gemenese cuisine, and who cried when her favorite dog died when she was twelve.
It felt like I hadn't been Laura for a really long time. It was refreshing, but sometimes scary as hell, to be myself again and to let him see that part of me.
At first, the time I spent alone on his ship was uncomfortable and awkward. I had too much time to think, and thinking was the last thing I wanted to do. I wasn't used to sitting around doing nothing all day, but Caesar didn't want me to work, telling me I'd done enough, which I had to give him. I'd done way more than enough.
The same day I finally opened up and told him my profession before the fall, he came home with oil paint to add to my shoddy collection, and also brought rigid, white fabric that he had jacked from the ship's laundry facilities. Even then he apologized that I had to make do with what he could find.
I think I fell in love with him then.
I painted everything I could, all the time. I spent hours consumed by this work, getting every one of my emotions out, expressed within bold swirls of color instead of trapped inside of my head. I let out anger, confusion, self-doubt and guilt-a lot of feelings about the time I spent with Adama in that frakkin’ cramped room on Cloud 9.
I didn't even tell him when I left to live with Caesar. That's where the guilt comes in.
I still wonder if he even went to look for me between the time I left and when Cloud 9 blew up just a few days later. I wonder if one day he walked that causeway like he always did, looking for the ghost of the woman he loves, who was always there until she wasn't. I needed to leave that life there, and that life included him.
I missed him a lot at first, but found comfort in Caesar instead. I'm sure, if he missed me at all, Laura comforted him just as well. I think he needed to let me go, so he could let her in. I hope he brought her down planetside like I told him to do, but he was always a stubborn old frak.
When I heard about the nuke, I threw up on Caesar’s carpet. Everything I'd known and nearly everything I'd grown to love had again been ruthlessly torn away from me. In the middle of the confusion and the pain over the loss of what little 'family' I had left, I found myself next to Caesar's wireless ready to make a phone call to Galactica to tell Adama I was all right. But I stopped myself. I couldn't do it to him, and I couldn't do it to myself.
The sense that there's someone behind me breaks my reverie and I open my eyes to the riverbank. I wonder if it's Adama, but realize it's not.
"Hey," Caesar says. I feel his fingers brush over the top of my head and I look up at him. He never fails to make me smile. "Ready to head home?"
It's nice to finally have one again.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It's a rare day off and fates be damned, I get an unexpected visitor in my tent. Apparently, that curly haired, dark-skinned guy who frequently used to visit Nicco is now working as President Baltar's right-hand man, probably in a number of ways. I’m not sure if he recognizes me. I don't wear the Roslin shit anymore; I'm dressed just like every other schlub on this godsforsaken mud ball. He looks troubled and he's got this nervous tick about him as he tells me the President has requested me for a 'very important task.'
"I don't do that anymore," I say, eyeing him with as much distaste as possible.
The guy looks completely confused. "I heard that you paint."
Now I'm confused. "I fish."
His eyes shift to the walls of our tent and I realize what he's looking at. I've hung a few of my canvas panels around to try and make the place more liveable. Guess my secret's out. "Okay, I might dabble in some paint. How'd you find me?"
"I’ve been looking for a painter," he says, his voice slightly frustrated. "At the market there's a potter, who directed me to a weaver, who directed me to a jeweler, who finally frakkin' knew a painter. That painter was you. I guess she's traded with you before."
Lena. She makes some of the most gorgeous pieces I've ever seen. I traded her some fish for a few bracelets. Down in the market, goods often pass hands more than money does. "So this very important task involves painting?" I ask.
"Yes, I'm commissioning a painting," he says, his voice wavering with impatience, but I don't think it's directed at me. "I don't know shit about how to do it. President Baltar just wants a portrait of himself done by a real artist. Big frakkin' surprise." He takes a deep breath. I'm rapidly feeling sorrier for this guy.
"If I do it … how big do you want it?"
The guy nods as he thinks. "Pretty godsdamned big. What's your going rate?"
Going rate. Last time I quoted a commission, it was to President Adar's office, and there's probably not that much money left in the entire Fleet. I think about what I can get out of this deal. Times have changed, and there are some things that are worth more than the cubits I used to charge.
"I want electricity in my tent." I think on my feet. "And a heater. And an electric stove."
His brow furrows. Then, like a lightbulb going off, he understands. "Generators are hard to come by, you know."
"I could ask for two hundred thousand cubits instead." I shrug.
That sobers him up. He looks like I asked him for his left nut. "I will run your proposal by the President," he responds testily. I'm probably one of the few decent artists on this shitty planet and he knows it. "If he agrees, when do you think you could come up to Colonial One?"
My patience is wearing thin. This guy's like Baltar's lapdog. "I don't work that way. You'll need to bring me a set of photographs." I spell it out for him slowly. I'm not going to risk going to Colonial One. There's a reason I live on the other side of the city-I'm avoiding a chance run-in with Adama. Besides, I'm guessing President Baltar has a portfolio or two full of photos of himself available.
"You don't just … paint him?" he asks.
"Can he sit still for eight hours?"
"He can't sit still for three minutes."
"My point exactly." I think through a laundry list of items. "I need a good quality canvas of decent size, white. Oil paints and an assortment of brushes. Good brushes. A palette. Some linseed oil."
"Linseed oil?" he exclaims. "I don't even know what a linseed is."
"I just need a solvent, something to thin the paint. Oil, turpentine." I can't wait for him to get out of here.
He sighs. "I should have brought a godsdamned notepad. Don't know how the frak I'm gonna find this stuff, but that's my job, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it is now," I say. Normally I'd be responsible for these items, but they're gonna have to figure it out. I don't have what I need, and I don't have the cubits to get it.
"You'll hear from me." His voice gains an air of formality. "Thank you for your willingness to serve at the pleasure of the President."
A burst of laughter escapes me at the irony. I cut it out when I notice his look of obvious dejection. He's the Fleet's new whore, I think as he rushes out of my tent to the next item on his to-do list. At least I only have to gut fish for a living.
By the afternoon, I receive via 'Colonial Courier' a portfolio of photos to work with, a wooden boxed set of unused hog bristle brushes-rounds and flats-and twenty colors of oil paint along with a palette and a canvas big enough to cover the entire table. It all accompanies a small medicine bottle of linseed oil; I recognize the initials etched on the brown glass. It's from one of the market's medicinal vendors.
Who says the government isn't efficient?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I've spent every waking hour I'm not netting fish on finishing the portrait of President Baltar. That errand boy of his requested it by Founders' Day, and I think I'll barely make the deadline. I've had to work quickly, as it'll take two weeks to dry completely.
I have to admit there's an eerie parallel between my life now and my life before the attacks. Back then, I was meant to paint the President and never got the chance. Now I'm actually doing it. I went through so much to get here, but it seems like I've come full circle. It's just been a bizarre mindfrak of a circle.
My technique has changed since the painting I did for Adama. My brushstrokes are thicker, my shapes bolder. There's less detail than in my previous work. Maybe I've entered a new period. I guess it makes sense.
I pick the President's inauguration photo up off the chair beside me and study it more closely. Caesar walks in, home from work, and I glance at him as he begins to remove his boots.
"You know, for a skeevy frakker, this Baltar guy's not bad looking," I say.
I hear a low laugh from Caesar. "Nice to see you, too."
I toss the photo back on the chair, wondering how many whores Baltar actually frequented back in the day. Rumor is, he's still indulging, but I try to keep myself out of that scene. I sense Caesar coming up behind me and it makes me smile. His hands slide up my back as he presses against me gently. "You got a thing for men of rank, don't you?"
I chuckle, though the statement sets me off-kilter for a moment. He only knows as much about my relationship with the Admiral as he saw that day they ran into each other outside my hatch door. "Guess not. My boyfriend's a lumberjack," I tease, bumping my hips back against him.
He slides his arms around me. "This is a really beautiful painting."
I lean into the solid wall of his chest. Caesar's no art critic, but he tries. "Thanks, sweetie."
"I'm serious. Baltar was lucky to find you," he says, and kisses my shoulder as I close my eyes. "I was lucky to find you, too."
I knew that was coming. I run my hands over his forearms, back and forth. This is who I am now. I look down at my painting again.
"I was lucky you found me," I murmur. I turn in his arms and kiss him softly. "You saved me, Caesar. You realize that?"
It pains me when I think I wanted to say those words to somebody else.
"All I did was love you." He kisses me again and I pull him closer, kissing back as hard as I can.
That's all I ever needed.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It's Founders' Day, a holiday I'm pretty sure President Baltar considers a big celebration of himself. But there's reportedly an open bar, and I'd celebrate Mud Puddle Day for free liquor at this point. After a quick go at the river to net some fish, we’ve been hanging out all day waiting for Baltar's guy to pick up his painting and drop off our generator and my new appliances. I’m irritated as hell that I haven’t been able to get my drink on while I wait for this unreliable frak, but I'm stoked about what he’ll be bringing us. I'm excited to be able to cook a hot meal, and that heater is gonna be priceless once winter hits.
We hear the rumble of a truck in the early evening, and I'm not pleased that this is being made into an event that's going to draw my neighbors' attention to the fact that we're getting some pretty precious cargo. Seeing as tent flaps don't lock, I'll be surprised if our goods aren't gone the first day Caesar and I go back to work.
Baltar's right-hand man hops out of the truck. Is this all he does all day? Irritate people?
"Thanks for making a big production out of this," I point out as we walk into the tent. "I hope you've got theft protection installed on this shit."
"You didn't ask for theft protection," he sneers as he walks over to the canvas spread across my table.
"Prick."
I'm hoping he won't notice that I worked that word right into my painting, in miniscule letters along Baltar's left shoulder. My secret message to them both.
He stops in his tracks. At first I think it's because of my harassment, but I realize he's staring down at the painting, his mouth slightly agape. I blush, suddenly realizing that he's in quiet awe of the portrait in front of him.
"This is amazing." He looks up at me and laughs, almost like he doesn't believe it. "You're amazing."
The words pack an unexpected punch. I hear Adama’s voice in my head, those same words he said to me. I wanted them to mean so many things that they didn't.
I'm speechless. I feel the prickle of tears as my throat constricts.
I can't take this.
I exit the tent and Caesar spots me. He walks over as I look around, wondering which way to go.
"Make sure he takes the painting," I manage to say, holding back my tears. "Make sure you get our stuff."
"Laura, what's wrong?" he asks. "What did he-"
"It's not him." I squeeze his arm. "I'll be back soon."
I need to get away from that tent, from that portrait. I take the dirt path to the left, toward the city center, following the drifting music as it gets louder with each step. I wipe the few tears slipping down my face with the back of my hand and will myself to stop. I feel so frakking foolish. I can't believe I'm crying over him again.
The crowd gets thicker toward the celebration and I maneuver my way around it. There are too many people, too much noise, and I need to get away from the commotion inside and outside of my mind.
I decide to walk to a remote part of the settlement the locals jokingly refer to as 'Skivvy Beach,' a concession to the fact that everybody wants to swim even though nobody owns a bathing suit anymore. The 'beach' is a cordoned off adults-only area on the edge of the most beautiful lake on New Caprica. The water's so calm and pure that on most days, it's like looking through glass. This is where I go to get out of my head. To get him out of my head.
It's just after dark when I finally reach the water's edge, but there's enough light reflecting off the planet's twin moons that I can see I'm not the only one seeking solitude tonight. A lone couple is frolicking near the shoreline, laughing playfully as they splash and dunk each other in the lake's pristine water. I stay quietly hidden near the tree line, not wanting to disrupt their hard-won privacy. I watch the two of them curiously, wondering if there was ever a point in my life where I was that carefree. Their whimsical antics are interspersed with moments of true affection. Instances of friskiness are broken up by stolen kisses and sweet caresses. They're obviously in love.
Maybe it's because it's dark, maybe it's because I've never seen him act like this before, maybe it's because I never wanted to see him act like this with anybody else. Whatever it is, I eventually come to the painful realization that I'm watching William Adama and Laura Roslin playing in the water like a couple of boisterous teenagers.
My first reaction is to blink, but there's really no mistaking the determined set to his shoulders, even if his only mission at the moment is to throw the former President of the Twelve Colonies over his shoulder so he can toss her into the water. He's rewarded for his efforts with a laugh of unrestrained delight from the woman who's now bobbing on the surface of the lake like a buoy. I could never have imagined the stoic woman who wore the severe blue suit splashing around in a lake clad only in a black bra and underwear. I'm thankful I don't have to load this moment into my 'Laura Roslin's quirky mannerisms' arsenal. That part of my life is over with, just as surely as it is for her.
Adama is wading toward her, and it's too dark to make out his expression, but I'd bet last month's catch that he's smiling from ear to ear. I'd bet she is too. They're maybe a foot apart when he reaches for her again, but this time, it's to drag her to him. She goes willingly, her hands wrapping possessively around his neck as she pulls him into a kiss that's neither chaste nor playful, but shockingly heated. He responds to her immediately, one hand moving below the surface of the water to do gods only know what.
I remember what his broad chest feels like pressed against me; I can still feel the phantom brush of his lips across mine. I have to look away. I want to say it's to afford them their privacy, but the truth of the matter is I can't bear to watch him responding to her like that.
Then I realize that he's finally doing exactly what I told him to do.
"The party's over there."
I nearly jump out of my skin before I realize it's Caesar's voice I'm hearing behind me. I turn around sharply to be sure, and see him standing there, his face shadowed and sculpted by the moonlight. I let out a slow breath and relax as he walks up to me and puts his arms around my waist.
"You found me," I say softly.
"I know you like this spot." He presses his lips into my hair as he holds me tighter. "The last time we swam like those two over there, the moons weren't nearly as full."
I blush when I realize he'd been watching them too. We had our own moonlit rendezvous once. It was too long ago, really. Amazing how you get so swept up in life that you forget about the small things that make you the happiest. You'd think I would have learned that by now. My eyes drift to the far-off figures in the water and I sigh deeply.
He pulls away and kisses me. "I miss that," he says, looking into my eyes.
I kiss him back gently and his fingers twine with mine. "I do, too."
I tug on his hand, pulling him toward the tree line.
"Do you know that couple in the water?" he asks as we begin our walk down the darkened forest path. I begin to hear the soft echoes of music from the celebration just beyond our view.
I shake my head. "No." I may have known them once, but I don't know them now.
They looked happy.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The end.
Title: Painted Lady (Epilogue)
Author: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 3,679
Rating: MA
Pairing: Roslin/Adama
Spoilers: S2, Final Cut through LDYB II, Unfinished Business
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.
This is our love letter to everyone who stuck it out with us to the very end. Your feedback and enthusiasm has been overwhelming.
Yeah, we never said we weren't tricky motherfrakkers.
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 to the epilogue: Purgatory
____________________________________________________________
EPILOGUE:
I'm sitting on a riverbank on New Caprica, the breeze off the water taking the edge off the late-afternoon heat. My skirt ruffles around my legs and I dip my toe into the cool water, closing my eyes. My skin feels hot; it's still not used to the sun. This is my favorite time of day-waiting for the sun to dip behind the mountains so it can cast a golden glow across the water's surface.
Nicco would have loved this.
I watch clouds shift across the sky.
It's quiet until I hear the rumbling of trucks in the distance. It's an expected breach of peace and one that I actually welcome. Now that the Greenleaf is grounded, Caesar's part of a logging crew that brings in lumber from the mountains every day. An hour from now, after unloading the truck, he'll join me at the river's mouth to pull in our net and see what we'll be selling at the market tomorrow.
The hours I spent with my father on Aquarion, watching him make gillnets and helping him clean fish, never seemed like they'd be of use to me beyond inspiration for my paintings, but the knowledge of his trade came back to me more easily than I'd expected. Caesar's job gives us access to as much 'borrowed' cedar fiber as I need to make nets. It took me a few tries to get it right, and then to find the best place to cast it.
For anyone else, eating salted fish every day might be a meager existence, but remembering how much it hurts to go hungry, I usually just buck up and deal with it. But we do have a home, a place we don't have to share with anyone else. We've got no demands or obligations besides taking care of ourselves. I can handle that.
A few days before the election, when Caesar first opened up his quarters to me, we had to spend some time getting to know each other outside of the business relationship we had. He had to forget that I'd frakked more men than I could count; I had to forget he was one of them. I had to open up and tell him things about Laura, not Brooke. Laura, the artist from the fishing village, who loved Gemenese cuisine, and who cried when her favorite dog died when she was twelve.
It felt like I hadn't been Laura for a really long time. It was refreshing, but sometimes scary as hell, to be myself again and to let him see that part of me.
At first, the time I spent alone on his ship was uncomfortable and awkward. I had too much time to think, and thinking was the last thing I wanted to do. I wasn't used to sitting around doing nothing all day, but Caesar didn't want me to work, telling me I'd done enough, which I had to give him. I'd done way more than enough.
The same day I finally opened up and told him my profession before the fall, he came home with oil paint to add to my shoddy collection, and also brought rigid, white fabric that he had jacked from the ship's laundry facilities. Even then he apologized that I had to make do with what he could find.
I think I fell in love with him then.
I painted everything I could, all the time. I spent hours consumed by this work, getting every one of my emotions out, expressed within bold swirls of color instead of trapped inside of my head. I let out anger, confusion, self-doubt and guilt-a lot of feelings about the time I spent with Adama in that frakkin’ cramped room on Cloud 9.
I didn't even tell him when I left to live with Caesar. That's where the guilt comes in.
I still wonder if he even went to look for me between the time I left and when Cloud 9 blew up just a few days later. I wonder if one day he walked that causeway like he always did, looking for the ghost of the woman he loves, who was always there until she wasn't. I needed to leave that life there, and that life included him.
I missed him a lot at first, but found comfort in Caesar instead. I'm sure, if he missed me at all, Laura comforted him just as well. I think he needed to let me go, so he could let her in. I hope he brought her down planetside like I told him to do, but he was always a stubborn old frak.
When I heard about the nuke, I threw up on Caesar’s carpet. Everything I'd known and nearly everything I'd grown to love had again been ruthlessly torn away from me. In the middle of the confusion and the pain over the loss of what little 'family' I had left, I found myself next to Caesar's wireless ready to make a phone call to Galactica to tell Adama I was all right. But I stopped myself. I couldn't do it to him, and I couldn't do it to myself.
The sense that there's someone behind me breaks my reverie and I open my eyes to the riverbank. I wonder if it's Adama, but realize it's not.
"Hey," Caesar says. I feel his fingers brush over the top of my head and I look up at him. He never fails to make me smile. "Ready to head home?"
It's nice to finally have one again.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It's a rare day off and fates be damned, I get an unexpected visitor in my tent. Apparently, that curly haired, dark-skinned guy who frequently used to visit Nicco is now working as President Baltar's right-hand man, probably in a number of ways. I’m not sure if he recognizes me. I don't wear the Roslin shit anymore; I'm dressed just like every other schlub on this godsforsaken mud ball. He looks troubled and he's got this nervous tick about him as he tells me the President has requested me for a 'very important task.'
"I don't do that anymore," I say, eyeing him with as much distaste as possible.
The guy looks completely confused. "I heard that you paint."
Now I'm confused. "I fish."
His eyes shift to the walls of our tent and I realize what he's looking at. I've hung a few of my canvas panels around to try and make the place more liveable. Guess my secret's out. "Okay, I might dabble in some paint. How'd you find me?"
"I’ve been looking for a painter," he says, his voice slightly frustrated. "At the market there's a potter, who directed me to a weaver, who directed me to a jeweler, who finally frakkin' knew a painter. That painter was you. I guess she's traded with you before."
Lena. She makes some of the most gorgeous pieces I've ever seen. I traded her some fish for a few bracelets. Down in the market, goods often pass hands more than money does. "So this very important task involves painting?" I ask.
"Yes, I'm commissioning a painting," he says, his voice wavering with impatience, but I don't think it's directed at me. "I don't know shit about how to do it. President Baltar just wants a portrait of himself done by a real artist. Big frakkin' surprise." He takes a deep breath. I'm rapidly feeling sorrier for this guy.
"If I do it … how big do you want it?"
The guy nods as he thinks. "Pretty godsdamned big. What's your going rate?"
Going rate. Last time I quoted a commission, it was to President Adar's office, and there's probably not that much money left in the entire Fleet. I think about what I can get out of this deal. Times have changed, and there are some things that are worth more than the cubits I used to charge.
"I want electricity in my tent." I think on my feet. "And a heater. And an electric stove."
His brow furrows. Then, like a lightbulb going off, he understands. "Generators are hard to come by, you know."
"I could ask for two hundred thousand cubits instead." I shrug.
That sobers him up. He looks like I asked him for his left nut. "I will run your proposal by the President," he responds testily. I'm probably one of the few decent artists on this shitty planet and he knows it. "If he agrees, when do you think you could come up to Colonial One?"
My patience is wearing thin. This guy's like Baltar's lapdog. "I don't work that way. You'll need to bring me a set of photographs." I spell it out for him slowly. I'm not going to risk going to Colonial One. There's a reason I live on the other side of the city-I'm avoiding a chance run-in with Adama. Besides, I'm guessing President Baltar has a portfolio or two full of photos of himself available.
"You don't just … paint him?" he asks.
"Can he sit still for eight hours?"
"He can't sit still for three minutes."
"My point exactly." I think through a laundry list of items. "I need a good quality canvas of decent size, white. Oil paints and an assortment of brushes. Good brushes. A palette. Some linseed oil."
"Linseed oil?" he exclaims. "I don't even know what a linseed is."
"I just need a solvent, something to thin the paint. Oil, turpentine." I can't wait for him to get out of here.
He sighs. "I should have brought a godsdamned notepad. Don't know how the frak I'm gonna find this stuff, but that's my job, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it is now," I say. Normally I'd be responsible for these items, but they're gonna have to figure it out. I don't have what I need, and I don't have the cubits to get it.
"You'll hear from me." His voice gains an air of formality. "Thank you for your willingness to serve at the pleasure of the President."
A burst of laughter escapes me at the irony. I cut it out when I notice his look of obvious dejection. He's the Fleet's new whore, I think as he rushes out of my tent to the next item on his to-do list. At least I only have to gut fish for a living.
By the afternoon, I receive via 'Colonial Courier' a portfolio of photos to work with, a wooden boxed set of unused hog bristle brushes-rounds and flats-and twenty colors of oil paint along with a palette and a canvas big enough to cover the entire table. It all accompanies a small medicine bottle of linseed oil; I recognize the initials etched on the brown glass. It's from one of the market's medicinal vendors.
Who says the government isn't efficient?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I've spent every waking hour I'm not netting fish on finishing the portrait of President Baltar. That errand boy of his requested it by Founders' Day, and I think I'll barely make the deadline. I've had to work quickly, as it'll take two weeks to dry completely.
I have to admit there's an eerie parallel between my life now and my life before the attacks. Back then, I was meant to paint the President and never got the chance. Now I'm actually doing it. I went through so much to get here, but it seems like I've come full circle. It's just been a bizarre mindfrak of a circle.
My technique has changed since the painting I did for Adama. My brushstrokes are thicker, my shapes bolder. There's less detail than in my previous work. Maybe I've entered a new period. I guess it makes sense.
I pick the President's inauguration photo up off the chair beside me and study it more closely. Caesar walks in, home from work, and I glance at him as he begins to remove his boots.
"You know, for a skeevy frakker, this Baltar guy's not bad looking," I say.
I hear a low laugh from Caesar. "Nice to see you, too."
I toss the photo back on the chair, wondering how many whores Baltar actually frequented back in the day. Rumor is, he's still indulging, but I try to keep myself out of that scene. I sense Caesar coming up behind me and it makes me smile. His hands slide up my back as he presses against me gently. "You got a thing for men of rank, don't you?"
I chuckle, though the statement sets me off-kilter for a moment. He only knows as much about my relationship with the Admiral as he saw that day they ran into each other outside my hatch door. "Guess not. My boyfriend's a lumberjack," I tease, bumping my hips back against him.
He slides his arms around me. "This is a really beautiful painting."
I lean into the solid wall of his chest. Caesar's no art critic, but he tries. "Thanks, sweetie."
"I'm serious. Baltar was lucky to find you," he says, and kisses my shoulder as I close my eyes. "I was lucky to find you, too."
I knew that was coming. I run my hands over his forearms, back and forth. This is who I am now. I look down at my painting again.
"I was lucky you found me," I murmur. I turn in his arms and kiss him softly. "You saved me, Caesar. You realize that?"
It pains me when I think I wanted to say those words to somebody else.
"All I did was love you." He kisses me again and I pull him closer, kissing back as hard as I can.
That's all I ever needed.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It's Founders' Day, a holiday I'm pretty sure President Baltar considers a big celebration of himself. But there's reportedly an open bar, and I'd celebrate Mud Puddle Day for free liquor at this point. After a quick go at the river to net some fish, we’ve been hanging out all day waiting for Baltar's guy to pick up his painting and drop off our generator and my new appliances. I’m irritated as hell that I haven’t been able to get my drink on while I wait for this unreliable frak, but I'm stoked about what he’ll be bringing us. I'm excited to be able to cook a hot meal, and that heater is gonna be priceless once winter hits.
We hear the rumble of a truck in the early evening, and I'm not pleased that this is being made into an event that's going to draw my neighbors' attention to the fact that we're getting some pretty precious cargo. Seeing as tent flaps don't lock, I'll be surprised if our goods aren't gone the first day Caesar and I go back to work.
Baltar's right-hand man hops out of the truck. Is this all he does all day? Irritate people?
"Thanks for making a big production out of this," I point out as we walk into the tent. "I hope you've got theft protection installed on this shit."
"You didn't ask for theft protection," he sneers as he walks over to the canvas spread across my table.
"Prick."
I'm hoping he won't notice that I worked that word right into my painting, in miniscule letters along Baltar's left shoulder. My secret message to them both.
He stops in his tracks. At first I think it's because of my harassment, but I realize he's staring down at the painting, his mouth slightly agape. I blush, suddenly realizing that he's in quiet awe of the portrait in front of him.
"This is amazing." He looks up at me and laughs, almost like he doesn't believe it. "You're amazing."
The words pack an unexpected punch. I hear Adama’s voice in my head, those same words he said to me. I wanted them to mean so many things that they didn't.
I'm speechless. I feel the prickle of tears as my throat constricts.
I can't take this.
I exit the tent and Caesar spots me. He walks over as I look around, wondering which way to go.
"Make sure he takes the painting," I manage to say, holding back my tears. "Make sure you get our stuff."
"Laura, what's wrong?" he asks. "What did he-"
"It's not him." I squeeze his arm. "I'll be back soon."
I need to get away from that tent, from that portrait. I take the dirt path to the left, toward the city center, following the drifting music as it gets louder with each step. I wipe the few tears slipping down my face with the back of my hand and will myself to stop. I feel so frakking foolish. I can't believe I'm crying over him again.
The crowd gets thicker toward the celebration and I maneuver my way around it. There are too many people, too much noise, and I need to get away from the commotion inside and outside of my mind.
I decide to walk to a remote part of the settlement the locals jokingly refer to as 'Skivvy Beach,' a concession to the fact that everybody wants to swim even though nobody owns a bathing suit anymore. The 'beach' is a cordoned off adults-only area on the edge of the most beautiful lake on New Caprica. The water's so calm and pure that on most days, it's like looking through glass. This is where I go to get out of my head. To get him out of my head.
It's just after dark when I finally reach the water's edge, but there's enough light reflecting off the planet's twin moons that I can see I'm not the only one seeking solitude tonight. A lone couple is frolicking near the shoreline, laughing playfully as they splash and dunk each other in the lake's pristine water. I stay quietly hidden near the tree line, not wanting to disrupt their hard-won privacy. I watch the two of them curiously, wondering if there was ever a point in my life where I was that carefree. Their whimsical antics are interspersed with moments of true affection. Instances of friskiness are broken up by stolen kisses and sweet caresses. They're obviously in love.
Maybe it's because it's dark, maybe it's because I've never seen him act like this before, maybe it's because I never wanted to see him act like this with anybody else. Whatever it is, I eventually come to the painful realization that I'm watching William Adama and Laura Roslin playing in the water like a couple of boisterous teenagers.
My first reaction is to blink, but there's really no mistaking the determined set to his shoulders, even if his only mission at the moment is to throw the former President of the Twelve Colonies over his shoulder so he can toss her into the water. He's rewarded for his efforts with a laugh of unrestrained delight from the woman who's now bobbing on the surface of the lake like a buoy. I could never have imagined the stoic woman who wore the severe blue suit splashing around in a lake clad only in a black bra and underwear. I'm thankful I don't have to load this moment into my 'Laura Roslin's quirky mannerisms' arsenal. That part of my life is over with, just as surely as it is for her.
Adama is wading toward her, and it's too dark to make out his expression, but I'd bet last month's catch that he's smiling from ear to ear. I'd bet she is too. They're maybe a foot apart when he reaches for her again, but this time, it's to drag her to him. She goes willingly, her hands wrapping possessively around his neck as she pulls him into a kiss that's neither chaste nor playful, but shockingly heated. He responds to her immediately, one hand moving below the surface of the water to do gods only know what.
I remember what his broad chest feels like pressed against me; I can still feel the phantom brush of his lips across mine. I have to look away. I want to say it's to afford them their privacy, but the truth of the matter is I can't bear to watch him responding to her like that.
Then I realize that he's finally doing exactly what I told him to do.
"The party's over there."
I nearly jump out of my skin before I realize it's Caesar's voice I'm hearing behind me. I turn around sharply to be sure, and see him standing there, his face shadowed and sculpted by the moonlight. I let out a slow breath and relax as he walks up to me and puts his arms around my waist.
"You found me," I say softly.
"I know you like this spot." He presses his lips into my hair as he holds me tighter. "The last time we swam like those two over there, the moons weren't nearly as full."
I blush when I realize he'd been watching them too. We had our own moonlit rendezvous once. It was too long ago, really. Amazing how you get so swept up in life that you forget about the small things that make you the happiest. You'd think I would have learned that by now. My eyes drift to the far-off figures in the water and I sigh deeply.
He pulls away and kisses me. "I miss that," he says, looking into my eyes.
I kiss him back gently and his fingers twine with mine. "I do, too."
I tug on his hand, pulling him toward the tree line.
"Do you know that couple in the water?" he asks as we begin our walk down the darkened forest path. I begin to hear the soft echoes of music from the celebration just beyond our view.
I shake my head. "No." I may have known them once, but I don't know them now.
They looked happy.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The end.