[bsg] Fic: If There Are None, Travel Alone
Title: If There Are None, Travel Alone
Author: icedteainthebag
Summary: Laura Roslin's complex relationship with Richard Adar.
Spoilers: Through BSG Miniseries, Daybreak
Pairing: Laura Roslin/Richard Adar, a little Laura Roslin/Sean Allison
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 4,570
Notes: I wrote this fic because I’ve become intensely curious about the origins of Laura Roslin. I’m not specifically adhering to any known pre-series timeline here, just a general pattern of events that occurred throughout her and Adar’s rise through the Caprican political system. Thanks to dashakay for the absolutely astounding beta read. You are owed mango martinis.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, nor am I making any profit from playing around with them.
Travel only with thy equals or thy betters; if there are none, travel alone.
The Dhammapada
x x x x
It's a momentous occasion, Richard's mayoral inauguration, and they find themselves in the coat closet of the ballroom of the Grand Caprican, fumbling at each other's clothes with a zealous impatience usually reserved for youth. They have been young in spirit tonight, sweating under bright lights and smiling through confident facades against the roar of the crowd.
He's promised Laura a spot in his cabinet, and this makes the moment seem all the more provocative, that she'll serve with him, under him, yet the most intoxicating factor about it is not his breath on her neck or his hand under her skirt, sliding over the silk of her pantyhose.
This moment plants a sapling, young and tender, roots unsteady.
x x x x
Richard makes a fabulous politician-a stunning speaker, easy on the eyes, remembers everyone’s name, kisses babies with a sparkle in his smile. Despite all this, he fronts a hard sell, insistent on his demands, unwilling to waver: all, so he says, for the goodwill of the people of Caprica City.
He spends more time at work than he does at home with his family. She spends more time at work than she does at home by herself.
At night, his office overlooks an ocean of city lights from the twenty-fourth floor of City Hall. Vehicles move past in the sky in slow motion. She can see for miles, out past the dark edge of the city where water meets land. She likes to stand here sometimes while he works at his desk, a glass of one drink or another in her hand, and think about battlestars floating overhead. She can’t see them, the city lights are too bright, but she knows they’re there.
“What do you think it’s like?” she asks him one night. She runs her fingernails silently down the long glass panel of his window and looks over at him. He’s hunched over his paperwork, as usual.
“What do I think what’s like?” he mumbles, scratching a line of text out emphatically with his pen. He leans back in his chair and stretches his hands high, rolling his head on his neck with a groan.
“Living up there,” she says, tapping the glass. “Among the stars. Looking down on us.”
“It’s not something I ever considered doing,” he says after a pause, glancing up at her. “So I have no idea, nor do I really want to.”
She pulls her hair behind her ear and gives him a smile, then looks back up at the sky.
“Me either,” she says.
That night, tangled in sweaty sheets, she dreams of the light and heat of stars so close she can touch them.
x x x x
One night when she's wrapped around Richard she thinks about her evening with Sean, eons ago it seems, with his expectant eyes and his chivalrous formalities, how surprise and naïveté simmered into lust over one dinner, the light of two candles flickering over their faces.
She thinks about his bare arms, sun-kissed and strong as they held her down gently against the firm cushions of her living room couch. She thinks about the smell of his cologne when he leaned in to lick at her straining neck. She thinks about the hardness of his abs under her fingernails and the ceaseless grind of his hips between her thighs, the softness of the back of his calf as she ran her toes up it and hooked her leg around his hip.
She thinks about this when Richard is inside her because he was inside her even then, even as she writhed under Sean's mouth as it slid hotly across her stomach. Richard was a burr in the back of her mind that she couldn't shake. He'd asked her two days before to help with his campaign, told her he was a shoo-in for an eventual presidency, and detailed the wild ride they'd have from his mayoral candidacy announcement through the last winning presidential vote cast and beyond.
It seemed like a fantasy, but one that she wanted, one that she needed.
She’d realized, as she led Sean by hand down her hallway to the bedroom, that there was so much more to her life than captive moments.
A young, very young, man was waiting in her bed, waiting to dote on every inch of her body. She’d looked in the mirror and saw the woman she wanted to be-she wasn't far from it, that woman. It would take some work, a little polish, a lot of research and observation and even more than that, and it would sometimes take more will than she thought she could conjure. She could be strong. She could be resolute. She could make a difference, no matter how small.
Back in her darkened room, in the sometimes unsettling reality of here and now, Richard turns away as he gets dressed. He never stays the night. He can’t. She knows this.
For a fleeting moment after her front door closes and she hears the click of the deadbolt lock, she thinks about getting out-getting out of this life, getting out of politics, getting out of the city.
It branches out slowly, weak limbs spreading above the ground, desperately leaching from the earth for sustenance, gaining strength.
x x x x
"I want you on board, Laura," Richard says over raw fish, white rice and ambrosia. His head is lowered when he says it and she shifts in her seat in front of him, looking to the side. The roll of her eyes is nearly automatic. She blinks it away and presses her fingernails against her thighs.
The din from the restaurant encompasses them and should overwhelm a conversation such as this, but she hears his words as clearly as if he's whispering them into her ear.
"Why?" She sounds more pointed than she intended. She feels a rush of energy through her body, the thrill of expectation rearing its head. Again. She keeps her face turned, studying the long, frosted glass doors of the restaurant, surrounded by mahogany panels.
"I need you," he says, sucking down the rest of his drink. "You're an amiable delegate to the people. You'd bring a breadth of experience to my cabinet. And you've been with me for this long." He sits back and she turns to face him again. Her toes begin to tap against the floor.
"You need me," she repeats, picking up her ambrosia and swirling the emerald liquid dangerously close to the rim. "That's a new one, Richard."
"Laura, all I'm hearing is if I serve a term as governor, then I've got the presidency in a bag." He's fidgeting, a nervous habit he's picked up since his more confident days. She sees the blossoming insecurity in him that he refuses to see himself.
"That's wonderful," she says, leaning forward. "But what's in it for me?"
His smile is small, and not one of content. They are much better at pleasure than business, even after a few years. She tilts her head and smiles back, jutting her chin out, awaiting a response.
"A position in my cabinet in an advisory role when I'm governor, and then, Gods willing, if we get the presidency, I'll appoint you Secretary of Education." His stare is intense and she finds it a little amusing. She nearly grins, but catches herself. One cannot throw emotions on the table when you've got a winning hand.
"'We'?" she asks with an arch of her eyebrow.
He looks embarrassed for a split second, then corrects himself. "You know what I mean."
She nods her head once, folding her hands in her lap. Her fingers twine, tensing, releasing. She can feel her fingernails pressing into the flesh of her palms.
"I'll consider it," she says.
"You'll consider it?" He smirks and rolls his eyes with a sigh. "Laura, I'm treating you really well here. You know that."
"You're offering to let me spend at least the next eight years of my life working sixteen-hour days, answering pointed questions, dealing with disgruntled workers, defending your policy mistakes, and trying to make a verifiable difference in the lives of schoolchildren and educators around the world." She sips her ambrosia again, finishing it off. It tastes sharp on her tongue, makes her head dizzy. "Yes, Richard, you're treating me really well."
She can practically see the cogs whirring in his head. "Well, of course there will be all the usual perks of public office, and additional other benefits as well, and a guarantee of early retirement and a comfortable living-"
"Stop," she says, putting her hand over her mouth. She laughs, her chest shaking as she tries to hold it in. She takes a deep breath and gives him half a smile. "Give me a few days. I'll consider it."
It is grounded, steadfast. Its roots tug at the earth.
x x x x
Richard wins his campaign for governor as easily as he won his campaign for mayor. It doesn’t surprise her at all. She stands behind him, off to the side as always, during his acceptance speech. She feels flush with excitement and she can’t stop grinning and smoothing down the skirt of her brand-new suit with shaking hands.
She zones out while he speaks. She thinks of what being governor means to him-more money, more power, more ways to change the world. She’s not at all sure he takes the latter into consideration as much as he should.
She does. It’s all she thinks about lately. She writes plans for the reformation of the school system, she talks to her former coworkers about the state of education in the city. She wants to work for change. She wants him to accept that, to listen to her ideas, but she also knows him, and knows that for every time he says he values her input, he also begrudges her for speaking up too much.
She wonders why he keeps her by his side. She doesn’t want it to be only for the obvious reasons, but sometimes, when he looks at her when they’re alone, she wonders if what exists on the surface is all they have left.
She watches him turn to his wife and kiss her on the cheek. Laura blushes harder, claps more enthusiastically with the crowd, and shifts her eyes to a string of lights dangling from the ceiling.
x x x x
The sun shining through his office windows heats the lush carpet under her bare feet as she paces like a lioness in her den. She's talking to herself, lips moving inaudibly, her eyes squeezed shut. She clutches a note card in her hands. We're facing a time of astounding challenge for Caprica and its citizens, a challenge of...of...
"Gods damn it," she growls, slamming her fist against her thigh. She glances down at the card. Her eyes travel quickly over the words, over and over, and then she sets on her track again, pacing.
We're facing a time of astounding challenge for Caprica and its citizens, a challenge of unprecedented size, scale and suddenness. The president and his advisers understand the budget cuts affect our public school systems, yet after exploring all possible options to eradicate our budget shortfall in the current fiscal year...
"Laura," he says. She gasps and nearly jumps out of her skin. Richard is standing just inside his door with his arms crossed. She gives him a sheepish smile.
"Just practicing," she says with a titter of laughter. She folds the note card in half, tears it at the fold, and places it in her suit pocket. "You know how I get, Richard."
He smiles, tolerantly, and it's a gesture she knows all too well. He doesn't think she notices what he's really thinking. She can read him like a book.
"You'll be fine. You're always fine," he says, crossing the room to his desk. He sits down and begins sifting through his inbox, piled with at least a hundred sheets of paper, each one of them waiting for a scan of his eyes for his approval or dissent.
She wanders to the edge of his desk and perches on it with one hip. The gentle swing of her leg catches his eye. It always does. Her skirt shifts up her thigh, just above her knee, and she observes him as he tries not to notice.
"I've never been able to understand why the legislators voted to take such a wide swath of cuts out of my department," she says. She tries to sound tentative, yet firm. "Richard, if we proposed taking five percent out of the defense budget, we could spare my department the entirety of its cuts."
"Defense trumps education," he says, picking up his pen.
"Don't be pithy," she answers, sharpening her tone.
"And we don't propose fiscal policy. That's my job." He leans back in his chair and taps his fingers against the armrests in some solitary tune, arching his eyebrow at her.
"We do when it's causing significant, lasting damage to the most valuable investment in the Colonies' future, Richard. The Cylons haven't been seen or heard from in forty years. I don't understand what justifies our current expenditure levels in defense, while I have to give two hundred teachers their notices next week and compact already dense classes of schoolchildren into buildings in dire need of repair."
She's been readying herself for this moment, and every word is a precise pinprick designed to work its way in and make him think. She's watched his face transform from bemusement to irritation. It's a slow change, as each phrase filters into his mind and leaves its impression.
"Laura, you're not a politician," he finally says, his gaze unmoving. He wants to intimidate her and uses the phrase he knows will hit her where it hurts. They do this to each other, like fencing with words, until one finds a weak spot and the other folds.
"You appointed me to this position, Richard," she answers, placing her palm on his desk and leaning over. "You obviously have some sort of faith in my ability to handle myself in politics. Or was it just about keeping me near?"
His clear blue eyes change in a way she's not previously seen. It unsettles her. "You're entitled to your opinion on why I selected you as an adviser."
"You're right," she says, unwavering. "I am entitled to an opinion, and I certainly have an opinion about our fiscal policy. And of all things, this, I truly believe, is an opinion I'm not only qualified to have, but it is a reality that we are required to face. As not only politicians, but as responsible citizens."
"Reality," he says. "Maybe it's time we faced it after all."
He stands up and walks toward the windows.
She bites the inside of her cheek so hard it bleeds.
The storm is strong, and it shakes in the wind, but it does not fall. It never falls.
x x x x
Politically, ideologically, morally, metaphorically, they have been and always will be the equivalent of light years away from each other.
He was dirty, corrupt, and undeliverable from his personal demons. She knew this. She knew it deep inside from the moment he called her into the Caprica City campaign. It's a sense she has, a sense she's always had about people-what side they fall on. But she'd ignored her gut feeling on Richard and she never could pin down why.
She ignored it again that inauguration night in the coatroom, the unchaste events that sent them spinning into reckless hedonism, with no regard for his family or professional protocol. It was what it was. She ignored her sense then.
She can't ignore it now. He put her in her place early on this morning, using her settlement of the teacher's strike as grounds for demanding her resignation. By doing so, he’s blatantly communicating to her that honesty and integrity don’t go far in his administration. He wants to dictate from a farcical stage with his feign of honor and undercurrents of intimidation and aggression.
These are the consequences when she lies to herself. She accepts this as any self-respecting woman would, looking him in the eye, turning away before she starts shaking in anger. She refuses to accept the idea of resignation at all. If he's going to push her overboard, she will be the one to capsize his dream.
It holds fast, but its leaves shed away, dried and forgotten.
x x x x
"The Galactica decommissioning ceremony," she says, her voice rising and falling ever so slightly with the rapid click of her three-inch heels down the marbled hallway of the state building. She's on her way to a doctor's appointment now, still fuming from her confrontation with Richard, partially in avoidance of the fact that she's following up with the doctor at all.
"Um, yes," the assistant says, shuffling through papers and rushing to keep up with her quickened gait. She thinks his name is Allen and he's from Virgon. She's not really sure, and she's not sure she cares. "You're to serve at the pleasure of President Adar as a representative of the Twelve Colonies."
"Fantastic," she mutters with a sigh. She straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin. "So when is this distinguished event?"
"You'll leave on...um...yes, you'll depart on Colonial Flight 798 today at 1300 hours from the north terminal at Skybase 1. I have the itinerary right here." He holds it out as they walk.
"Today." She's even more displeased with Richard Adar now.
She keeps walking, then realizes Allen is still keeping up with her, the paper shaking in his hand. She eyes it, then stops and turns to face him. She puts her hand on his arm and he flashes a nervous smile. He's only a few days into his job and he's bright with promise and desperate for approval.
"Allen," she says, squeezing his jacket.
"Kenneth," he responds, his smile fading slightly.
"Right. Kenneth." She widens her eyes and lowers her chin. She deems this her schoolteacher look, and it works wonders when trying to convey a simple message. "Could you put that itinerary on my desk, so that I might find it later?"
"Yes," he says. "I should have done that in the first place, I apologize. You're headed to an appointment now."
Her face softens for a moment before she quickly forces a smile. "Yes. I'll pick it up after that. Then I'll run home and decide what essentialities pack for this, um, decommissioning ceremony."
"Is there anything you need me to take care of in your absence, Madam Secretary?" he asks. She's sure he's thinking of the precious hours he could have to lounge in her office, reading a magazine or a novel, anything that has nothing to do with Colonial legislation. He obviously doesn't know Richard, who'll have him sorting his mail, fetching his lunch, and forging his signature on bills.
"President Adar's coffee order," she replies, raising her eyebrows with a curt nod. "From Café Express in the atrium. Large, sugar, two tablespoons of creamer, scalding hot."
Kenneth looks at her like she's kidding, but she blinks at him expectantly. His mouth forms an "O" and he quickly recovers. "Oh. Yes, of course."
"Thank you, Kenneth." She turns and walks away, her heels echoing in the hall.
Small, black, lukewarm as bathwater. She giggles for the first time in days.
If all else fails, she's getting a free daytrip to space out of the deal.
Green springs forth, smooth, diminutive leaves at first, budding from strong branches, and they begin to soak in the sun.
x x x x
She looks away from her doctor and out into the cascading daylight, bright with promises she doubts it can keep.
She has no answers as to why she waited five years to have her mammogram. No answers she can verbalize, though she has her reasons, those which cannot be spoken because they're too deep to allow to surface. She acknowledges them as rooted in fear. Disgust. Anger. Hopelessness. She comprehends them through a slide show of memories that flickers in her mind on the side of a blank wall: her mother lying on the bathroom tile, violently ill after her treatments, the vacant gaze in her eyes. She remembers the smell of vomit and bodily fluids. She remembers feeling like her world was collapsing inward upon her.
She keeps these reasons to herself.
Suddenly, upon the doctor’s verdict, she can feel the lump in her breast. She knows she will feel it every day now for the remaining year of her life.
It burrows below the surface, underneath the thick, hard bark, and slowly eats away at the life within.
x x x x
It's one of the few times she promises herself it's okay to finally fall.
She closes her front door and leans her back against it, closing her eyes. She balls her hands into fists that start to tap a soft, slow rhythm against the wood at her sides, and with each tap, her control fades more, until the first tear slips down her face at last.
Her fists hit the wood painfully hard, a sharp, sudden thunder as she grits her teeth and lets out a sob.
She slips down the door like the tears streaming down her face. She feels the weight of a world without empathy. It presses her down on the tile floor of her comfortable house in her comfortable city.
She draws up her knees and wraps her arms around them, her heels sliding against the tile. Her chin grazes the flushed skin of her chest as her tears drop on the lavender sheen of her skirt.
She wants to refuse to recognize her own mortality but it's demanding her attention. It's standing up, grabbing her by the shoulders and screaming in her face. The time is now. Now. Now.
Time has never seemed such a precious commodity.
x x x x
She arrives at Skybase 1 for her flight and is greeted by a curly haired, lanky fellow by the name of Billy Keikeya. He grabs her luggage and rattles off a tale of how he’s been assigned to her as her personal assistant while they walk quickly through the terminal.
She finds it odd that she’s been assigned an actual assistant for her trip to Galactica, seeing as this morning, Richard had all but forced her to resign. In a way, she wonders if this is some uncouth way Richard is throwing his knowledge of Sean back in her face, a bit of emotional blackmail if nothing else.
This boy, this Billy Keikeya, is really nothing but a boy with dreams in his eyes who eagerly stutters his questions to her and attends to her needs the best he can. And he talks. He talks endlessly through boarding and through launch, save a few minutes of the craft shaking as it exits Caprica’s atmosphere. He’s quiet then, the knuckles of his long fingers turning white against his armrests.
He’s soon telling her stories again and she fades out often, staring out the passenger windows of the craft at the endless expanse of stars. It doesn’t feel like they’re moving, but they are. They’re moving so quickly.
There’s something endearing about Billy, though, as he shifts the weight of his long body in his seat and looks at her, expectantly awaiting her feedback or at least a kind smile. He’s just a boy from Picon whose family moved to Caprica recently, and this is his first job. He’s going to work his way up the political ladder, he jabbers to her, his hand sifting through the curls atop his head. He’s going to make a difference.
She listens with a smile and silently wishes him the best of luck in his endeavors.
In his momentary pause, she turns her head and closes her eyes, suddenly exhausted. She feels the lump in her breast like it’s a lead weight. Her heart beats next to it, not knowing that within a few inches of its existence, its demise resides.
x x x x
“I’m sorry that I’m inconveniencing you and the teachers. But I will not allow a networked computerized system to be placed on this ship while I’m in command.”
She’s glad she’s only on Galactica for the day, because this Commander Adama grates on her nerves like a Caprican rat gnaws on an old boot it finds in a sewer grate.
x x x x
Her stomach hits the floor when she hears the short wave wireless transmission.
Caprica has been-
“Oh my Gods. Richard,” she breathes, grabbing onto the arm of her chair. She can’t let go, not for minutes on end. Her eyelids flutter shut and she takes a deep breath. One. Two. Three. She counts them, because counting is the only way she can regain her sense of self in moments like this.
The room is silent and she is frozen in time, standing at the window overlooking the city lights at night.
She doesn’t meet any of their stares as she stands up and exits the room. She wanders up to the flight deck, squeezes her eyes shut and knocks on the door.
x x x x
She lists the nuked colonies one by one, and the gasps that follow only reaffirm her need for resolution in the here and now. She feels herself growing stronger as the room grows weaker.
She begins casting orders about, directing, demanding. She furrows her brow and thinks hard about her next steps. She will not cry. There will be time for that later.
She waits to hear of his fate.
The tactical situation is that they are losing.
They’ve never lost before.
x x x x
Richard.
Kenneth.
Sean.
Everyone, everyone she's ever known, everyone she's ever connected with or laughed with or had lunch with. Everyone she's loved, everyone she's cared about, everyone she's ever known.
All forty-two above her. The millions below her.
Everyone is gone.
Every last one of them.
Its roots are ripped from the ground. For the first time, it feels it is slowly dying.
x x x x
She's shaking at first as she looks at Elosha and begins repeating the Oath of Presidency. She knows the words of the oath are supposed to mean something, she knows this is the most important moment of her life, of her career, but she's hollow inside. Meaning cannot be derived from emptiness.
She lets herself go numb because if she allows herself to feel, she'll fall apart. And this is no time, no place for that. She will let herself feel later, in a moment alone, but for now, the words are repeated at a steady pace, monotonic recitations that seal her fate.
She takes a deep breath and focuses on each syllable. Her lips move on their own, her words drawn from some secret, confident place within.
She is the President of the Colonies.
The President of the Colonies.
Everyone is gone.
This moment plants a sapling, young and tender, roots unsteady.
Author: icedteainthebag
Summary: Laura Roslin's complex relationship with Richard Adar.
Spoilers: Through BSG Miniseries, Daybreak
Pairing: Laura Roslin/Richard Adar, a little Laura Roslin/Sean Allison
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 4,570
Notes: I wrote this fic because I’ve become intensely curious about the origins of Laura Roslin. I’m not specifically adhering to any known pre-series timeline here, just a general pattern of events that occurred throughout her and Adar’s rise through the Caprican political system. Thanks to dashakay for the absolutely astounding beta read. You are owed mango martinis.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, nor am I making any profit from playing around with them.
Travel only with thy equals or thy betters; if there are none, travel alone.
The Dhammapada
x x x x
It's a momentous occasion, Richard's mayoral inauguration, and they find themselves in the coat closet of the ballroom of the Grand Caprican, fumbling at each other's clothes with a zealous impatience usually reserved for youth. They have been young in spirit tonight, sweating under bright lights and smiling through confident facades against the roar of the crowd.
He's promised Laura a spot in his cabinet, and this makes the moment seem all the more provocative, that she'll serve with him, under him, yet the most intoxicating factor about it is not his breath on her neck or his hand under her skirt, sliding over the silk of her pantyhose.
This moment plants a sapling, young and tender, roots unsteady.
x x x x
Richard makes a fabulous politician-a stunning speaker, easy on the eyes, remembers everyone’s name, kisses babies with a sparkle in his smile. Despite all this, he fronts a hard sell, insistent on his demands, unwilling to waver: all, so he says, for the goodwill of the people of Caprica City.
He spends more time at work than he does at home with his family. She spends more time at work than she does at home by herself.
At night, his office overlooks an ocean of city lights from the twenty-fourth floor of City Hall. Vehicles move past in the sky in slow motion. She can see for miles, out past the dark edge of the city where water meets land. She likes to stand here sometimes while he works at his desk, a glass of one drink or another in her hand, and think about battlestars floating overhead. She can’t see them, the city lights are too bright, but she knows they’re there.
“What do you think it’s like?” she asks him one night. She runs her fingernails silently down the long glass panel of his window and looks over at him. He’s hunched over his paperwork, as usual.
“What do I think what’s like?” he mumbles, scratching a line of text out emphatically with his pen. He leans back in his chair and stretches his hands high, rolling his head on his neck with a groan.
“Living up there,” she says, tapping the glass. “Among the stars. Looking down on us.”
“It’s not something I ever considered doing,” he says after a pause, glancing up at her. “So I have no idea, nor do I really want to.”
She pulls her hair behind her ear and gives him a smile, then looks back up at the sky.
“Me either,” she says.
That night, tangled in sweaty sheets, she dreams of the light and heat of stars so close she can touch them.
x x x x
One night when she's wrapped around Richard she thinks about her evening with Sean, eons ago it seems, with his expectant eyes and his chivalrous formalities, how surprise and naïveté simmered into lust over one dinner, the light of two candles flickering over their faces.
She thinks about his bare arms, sun-kissed and strong as they held her down gently against the firm cushions of her living room couch. She thinks about the smell of his cologne when he leaned in to lick at her straining neck. She thinks about the hardness of his abs under her fingernails and the ceaseless grind of his hips between her thighs, the softness of the back of his calf as she ran her toes up it and hooked her leg around his hip.
She thinks about this when Richard is inside her because he was inside her even then, even as she writhed under Sean's mouth as it slid hotly across her stomach. Richard was a burr in the back of her mind that she couldn't shake. He'd asked her two days before to help with his campaign, told her he was a shoo-in for an eventual presidency, and detailed the wild ride they'd have from his mayoral candidacy announcement through the last winning presidential vote cast and beyond.
It seemed like a fantasy, but one that she wanted, one that she needed.
She’d realized, as she led Sean by hand down her hallway to the bedroom, that there was so much more to her life than captive moments.
A young, very young, man was waiting in her bed, waiting to dote on every inch of her body. She’d looked in the mirror and saw the woman she wanted to be-she wasn't far from it, that woman. It would take some work, a little polish, a lot of research and observation and even more than that, and it would sometimes take more will than she thought she could conjure. She could be strong. She could be resolute. She could make a difference, no matter how small.
Back in her darkened room, in the sometimes unsettling reality of here and now, Richard turns away as he gets dressed. He never stays the night. He can’t. She knows this.
For a fleeting moment after her front door closes and she hears the click of the deadbolt lock, she thinks about getting out-getting out of this life, getting out of politics, getting out of the city.
It branches out slowly, weak limbs spreading above the ground, desperately leaching from the earth for sustenance, gaining strength.
x x x x
"I want you on board, Laura," Richard says over raw fish, white rice and ambrosia. His head is lowered when he says it and she shifts in her seat in front of him, looking to the side. The roll of her eyes is nearly automatic. She blinks it away and presses her fingernails against her thighs.
The din from the restaurant encompasses them and should overwhelm a conversation such as this, but she hears his words as clearly as if he's whispering them into her ear.
"Why?" She sounds more pointed than she intended. She feels a rush of energy through her body, the thrill of expectation rearing its head. Again. She keeps her face turned, studying the long, frosted glass doors of the restaurant, surrounded by mahogany panels.
"I need you," he says, sucking down the rest of his drink. "You're an amiable delegate to the people. You'd bring a breadth of experience to my cabinet. And you've been with me for this long." He sits back and she turns to face him again. Her toes begin to tap against the floor.
"You need me," she repeats, picking up her ambrosia and swirling the emerald liquid dangerously close to the rim. "That's a new one, Richard."
"Laura, all I'm hearing is if I serve a term as governor, then I've got the presidency in a bag." He's fidgeting, a nervous habit he's picked up since his more confident days. She sees the blossoming insecurity in him that he refuses to see himself.
"That's wonderful," she says, leaning forward. "But what's in it for me?"
His smile is small, and not one of content. They are much better at pleasure than business, even after a few years. She tilts her head and smiles back, jutting her chin out, awaiting a response.
"A position in my cabinet in an advisory role when I'm governor, and then, Gods willing, if we get the presidency, I'll appoint you Secretary of Education." His stare is intense and she finds it a little amusing. She nearly grins, but catches herself. One cannot throw emotions on the table when you've got a winning hand.
"'We'?" she asks with an arch of her eyebrow.
He looks embarrassed for a split second, then corrects himself. "You know what I mean."
She nods her head once, folding her hands in her lap. Her fingers twine, tensing, releasing. She can feel her fingernails pressing into the flesh of her palms.
"I'll consider it," she says.
"You'll consider it?" He smirks and rolls his eyes with a sigh. "Laura, I'm treating you really well here. You know that."
"You're offering to let me spend at least the next eight years of my life working sixteen-hour days, answering pointed questions, dealing with disgruntled workers, defending your policy mistakes, and trying to make a verifiable difference in the lives of schoolchildren and educators around the world." She sips her ambrosia again, finishing it off. It tastes sharp on her tongue, makes her head dizzy. "Yes, Richard, you're treating me really well."
She can practically see the cogs whirring in his head. "Well, of course there will be all the usual perks of public office, and additional other benefits as well, and a guarantee of early retirement and a comfortable living-"
"Stop," she says, putting her hand over her mouth. She laughs, her chest shaking as she tries to hold it in. She takes a deep breath and gives him half a smile. "Give me a few days. I'll consider it."
It is grounded, steadfast. Its roots tug at the earth.
x x x x
Richard wins his campaign for governor as easily as he won his campaign for mayor. It doesn’t surprise her at all. She stands behind him, off to the side as always, during his acceptance speech. She feels flush with excitement and she can’t stop grinning and smoothing down the skirt of her brand-new suit with shaking hands.
She zones out while he speaks. She thinks of what being governor means to him-more money, more power, more ways to change the world. She’s not at all sure he takes the latter into consideration as much as he should.
She does. It’s all she thinks about lately. She writes plans for the reformation of the school system, she talks to her former coworkers about the state of education in the city. She wants to work for change. She wants him to accept that, to listen to her ideas, but she also knows him, and knows that for every time he says he values her input, he also begrudges her for speaking up too much.
She wonders why he keeps her by his side. She doesn’t want it to be only for the obvious reasons, but sometimes, when he looks at her when they’re alone, she wonders if what exists on the surface is all they have left.
She watches him turn to his wife and kiss her on the cheek. Laura blushes harder, claps more enthusiastically with the crowd, and shifts her eyes to a string of lights dangling from the ceiling.
x x x x
The sun shining through his office windows heats the lush carpet under her bare feet as she paces like a lioness in her den. She's talking to herself, lips moving inaudibly, her eyes squeezed shut. She clutches a note card in her hands. We're facing a time of astounding challenge for Caprica and its citizens, a challenge of...of...
"Gods damn it," she growls, slamming her fist against her thigh. She glances down at the card. Her eyes travel quickly over the words, over and over, and then she sets on her track again, pacing.
We're facing a time of astounding challenge for Caprica and its citizens, a challenge of unprecedented size, scale and suddenness. The president and his advisers understand the budget cuts affect our public school systems, yet after exploring all possible options to eradicate our budget shortfall in the current fiscal year...
"Laura," he says. She gasps and nearly jumps out of her skin. Richard is standing just inside his door with his arms crossed. She gives him a sheepish smile.
"Just practicing," she says with a titter of laughter. She folds the note card in half, tears it at the fold, and places it in her suit pocket. "You know how I get, Richard."
He smiles, tolerantly, and it's a gesture she knows all too well. He doesn't think she notices what he's really thinking. She can read him like a book.
"You'll be fine. You're always fine," he says, crossing the room to his desk. He sits down and begins sifting through his inbox, piled with at least a hundred sheets of paper, each one of them waiting for a scan of his eyes for his approval or dissent.
She wanders to the edge of his desk and perches on it with one hip. The gentle swing of her leg catches his eye. It always does. Her skirt shifts up her thigh, just above her knee, and she observes him as he tries not to notice.
"I've never been able to understand why the legislators voted to take such a wide swath of cuts out of my department," she says. She tries to sound tentative, yet firm. "Richard, if we proposed taking five percent out of the defense budget, we could spare my department the entirety of its cuts."
"Defense trumps education," he says, picking up his pen.
"Don't be pithy," she answers, sharpening her tone.
"And we don't propose fiscal policy. That's my job." He leans back in his chair and taps his fingers against the armrests in some solitary tune, arching his eyebrow at her.
"We do when it's causing significant, lasting damage to the most valuable investment in the Colonies' future, Richard. The Cylons haven't been seen or heard from in forty years. I don't understand what justifies our current expenditure levels in defense, while I have to give two hundred teachers their notices next week and compact already dense classes of schoolchildren into buildings in dire need of repair."
She's been readying herself for this moment, and every word is a precise pinprick designed to work its way in and make him think. She's watched his face transform from bemusement to irritation. It's a slow change, as each phrase filters into his mind and leaves its impression.
"Laura, you're not a politician," he finally says, his gaze unmoving. He wants to intimidate her and uses the phrase he knows will hit her where it hurts. They do this to each other, like fencing with words, until one finds a weak spot and the other folds.
"You appointed me to this position, Richard," she answers, placing her palm on his desk and leaning over. "You obviously have some sort of faith in my ability to handle myself in politics. Or was it just about keeping me near?"
His clear blue eyes change in a way she's not previously seen. It unsettles her. "You're entitled to your opinion on why I selected you as an adviser."
"You're right," she says, unwavering. "I am entitled to an opinion, and I certainly have an opinion about our fiscal policy. And of all things, this, I truly believe, is an opinion I'm not only qualified to have, but it is a reality that we are required to face. As not only politicians, but as responsible citizens."
"Reality," he says. "Maybe it's time we faced it after all."
He stands up and walks toward the windows.
She bites the inside of her cheek so hard it bleeds.
The storm is strong, and it shakes in the wind, but it does not fall. It never falls.
x x x x
Politically, ideologically, morally, metaphorically, they have been and always will be the equivalent of light years away from each other.
He was dirty, corrupt, and undeliverable from his personal demons. She knew this. She knew it deep inside from the moment he called her into the Caprica City campaign. It's a sense she has, a sense she's always had about people-what side they fall on. But she'd ignored her gut feeling on Richard and she never could pin down why.
She ignored it again that inauguration night in the coatroom, the unchaste events that sent them spinning into reckless hedonism, with no regard for his family or professional protocol. It was what it was. She ignored her sense then.
She can't ignore it now. He put her in her place early on this morning, using her settlement of the teacher's strike as grounds for demanding her resignation. By doing so, he’s blatantly communicating to her that honesty and integrity don’t go far in his administration. He wants to dictate from a farcical stage with his feign of honor and undercurrents of intimidation and aggression.
These are the consequences when she lies to herself. She accepts this as any self-respecting woman would, looking him in the eye, turning away before she starts shaking in anger. She refuses to accept the idea of resignation at all. If he's going to push her overboard, she will be the one to capsize his dream.
It holds fast, but its leaves shed away, dried and forgotten.
x x x x
"The Galactica decommissioning ceremony," she says, her voice rising and falling ever so slightly with the rapid click of her three-inch heels down the marbled hallway of the state building. She's on her way to a doctor's appointment now, still fuming from her confrontation with Richard, partially in avoidance of the fact that she's following up with the doctor at all.
"Um, yes," the assistant says, shuffling through papers and rushing to keep up with her quickened gait. She thinks his name is Allen and he's from Virgon. She's not really sure, and she's not sure she cares. "You're to serve at the pleasure of President Adar as a representative of the Twelve Colonies."
"Fantastic," she mutters with a sigh. She straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin. "So when is this distinguished event?"
"You'll leave on...um...yes, you'll depart on Colonial Flight 798 today at 1300 hours from the north terminal at Skybase 1. I have the itinerary right here." He holds it out as they walk.
"Today." She's even more displeased with Richard Adar now.
She keeps walking, then realizes Allen is still keeping up with her, the paper shaking in his hand. She eyes it, then stops and turns to face him. She puts her hand on his arm and he flashes a nervous smile. He's only a few days into his job and he's bright with promise and desperate for approval.
"Allen," she says, squeezing his jacket.
"Kenneth," he responds, his smile fading slightly.
"Right. Kenneth." She widens her eyes and lowers her chin. She deems this her schoolteacher look, and it works wonders when trying to convey a simple message. "Could you put that itinerary on my desk, so that I might find it later?"
"Yes," he says. "I should have done that in the first place, I apologize. You're headed to an appointment now."
Her face softens for a moment before she quickly forces a smile. "Yes. I'll pick it up after that. Then I'll run home and decide what essentialities pack for this, um, decommissioning ceremony."
"Is there anything you need me to take care of in your absence, Madam Secretary?" he asks. She's sure he's thinking of the precious hours he could have to lounge in her office, reading a magazine or a novel, anything that has nothing to do with Colonial legislation. He obviously doesn't know Richard, who'll have him sorting his mail, fetching his lunch, and forging his signature on bills.
"President Adar's coffee order," she replies, raising her eyebrows with a curt nod. "From Café Express in the atrium. Large, sugar, two tablespoons of creamer, scalding hot."
Kenneth looks at her like she's kidding, but she blinks at him expectantly. His mouth forms an "O" and he quickly recovers. "Oh. Yes, of course."
"Thank you, Kenneth." She turns and walks away, her heels echoing in the hall.
Small, black, lukewarm as bathwater. She giggles for the first time in days.
If all else fails, she's getting a free daytrip to space out of the deal.
Green springs forth, smooth, diminutive leaves at first, budding from strong branches, and they begin to soak in the sun.
x x x x
She looks away from her doctor and out into the cascading daylight, bright with promises she doubts it can keep.
She has no answers as to why she waited five years to have her mammogram. No answers she can verbalize, though she has her reasons, those which cannot be spoken because they're too deep to allow to surface. She acknowledges them as rooted in fear. Disgust. Anger. Hopelessness. She comprehends them through a slide show of memories that flickers in her mind on the side of a blank wall: her mother lying on the bathroom tile, violently ill after her treatments, the vacant gaze in her eyes. She remembers the smell of vomit and bodily fluids. She remembers feeling like her world was collapsing inward upon her.
She keeps these reasons to herself.
Suddenly, upon the doctor’s verdict, she can feel the lump in her breast. She knows she will feel it every day now for the remaining year of her life.
It burrows below the surface, underneath the thick, hard bark, and slowly eats away at the life within.
x x x x
It's one of the few times she promises herself it's okay to finally fall.
She closes her front door and leans her back against it, closing her eyes. She balls her hands into fists that start to tap a soft, slow rhythm against the wood at her sides, and with each tap, her control fades more, until the first tear slips down her face at last.
Her fists hit the wood painfully hard, a sharp, sudden thunder as she grits her teeth and lets out a sob.
She slips down the door like the tears streaming down her face. She feels the weight of a world without empathy. It presses her down on the tile floor of her comfortable house in her comfortable city.
She draws up her knees and wraps her arms around them, her heels sliding against the tile. Her chin grazes the flushed skin of her chest as her tears drop on the lavender sheen of her skirt.
She wants to refuse to recognize her own mortality but it's demanding her attention. It's standing up, grabbing her by the shoulders and screaming in her face. The time is now. Now. Now.
Time has never seemed such a precious commodity.
x x x x
She arrives at Skybase 1 for her flight and is greeted by a curly haired, lanky fellow by the name of Billy Keikeya. He grabs her luggage and rattles off a tale of how he’s been assigned to her as her personal assistant while they walk quickly through the terminal.
She finds it odd that she’s been assigned an actual assistant for her trip to Galactica, seeing as this morning, Richard had all but forced her to resign. In a way, she wonders if this is some uncouth way Richard is throwing his knowledge of Sean back in her face, a bit of emotional blackmail if nothing else.
This boy, this Billy Keikeya, is really nothing but a boy with dreams in his eyes who eagerly stutters his questions to her and attends to her needs the best he can. And he talks. He talks endlessly through boarding and through launch, save a few minutes of the craft shaking as it exits Caprica’s atmosphere. He’s quiet then, the knuckles of his long fingers turning white against his armrests.
He’s soon telling her stories again and she fades out often, staring out the passenger windows of the craft at the endless expanse of stars. It doesn’t feel like they’re moving, but they are. They’re moving so quickly.
There’s something endearing about Billy, though, as he shifts the weight of his long body in his seat and looks at her, expectantly awaiting her feedback or at least a kind smile. He’s just a boy from Picon whose family moved to Caprica recently, and this is his first job. He’s going to work his way up the political ladder, he jabbers to her, his hand sifting through the curls atop his head. He’s going to make a difference.
She listens with a smile and silently wishes him the best of luck in his endeavors.
In his momentary pause, she turns her head and closes her eyes, suddenly exhausted. She feels the lump in her breast like it’s a lead weight. Her heart beats next to it, not knowing that within a few inches of its existence, its demise resides.
x x x x
“I’m sorry that I’m inconveniencing you and the teachers. But I will not allow a networked computerized system to be placed on this ship while I’m in command.”
She’s glad she’s only on Galactica for the day, because this Commander Adama grates on her nerves like a Caprican rat gnaws on an old boot it finds in a sewer grate.
x x x x
Her stomach hits the floor when she hears the short wave wireless transmission.
Caprica has been-
“Oh my Gods. Richard,” she breathes, grabbing onto the arm of her chair. She can’t let go, not for minutes on end. Her eyelids flutter shut and she takes a deep breath. One. Two. Three. She counts them, because counting is the only way she can regain her sense of self in moments like this.
The room is silent and she is frozen in time, standing at the window overlooking the city lights at night.
She doesn’t meet any of their stares as she stands up and exits the room. She wanders up to the flight deck, squeezes her eyes shut and knocks on the door.
x x x x
She lists the nuked colonies one by one, and the gasps that follow only reaffirm her need for resolution in the here and now. She feels herself growing stronger as the room grows weaker.
She begins casting orders about, directing, demanding. She furrows her brow and thinks hard about her next steps. She will not cry. There will be time for that later.
She waits to hear of his fate.
The tactical situation is that they are losing.
They’ve never lost before.
x x x x
Richard.
Kenneth.
Sean.
Everyone, everyone she's ever known, everyone she's ever connected with or laughed with or had lunch with. Everyone she's loved, everyone she's cared about, everyone she's ever known.
All forty-two above her. The millions below her.
Everyone is gone.
Every last one of them.
Its roots are ripped from the ground. For the first time, it feels it is slowly dying.
x x x x
She's shaking at first as she looks at Elosha and begins repeating the Oath of Presidency. She knows the words of the oath are supposed to mean something, she knows this is the most important moment of her life, of her career, but she's hollow inside. Meaning cannot be derived from emptiness.
She lets herself go numb because if she allows herself to feel, she'll fall apart. And this is no time, no place for that. She will let herself feel later, in a moment alone, but for now, the words are repeated at a steady pace, monotonic recitations that seal her fate.
She takes a deep breath and focuses on each syllable. Her lips move on their own, her words drawn from some secret, confident place within.
She is the President of the Colonies.
The President of the Colonies.
Everyone is gone.
This moment plants a sapling, young and tender, roots unsteady.