First Night [post-Maelstrom ficlet]
A tiny freehand drabble, post-Maelstrom, pre-TSAR. Raw, no beta unexpurgated (my dearest wisteria_ performed a lightning beta, i.e. "go post it" - all remaining flaws are my fault), there it is.
~
When he lands, he sits in his cockpit for a very long time. He senses the ladder being nudged against his ship - senses someone coming up to take his helmet, knows it’s Chief by the shape of his head though he doesn’t acknowledge him - and senses again when he backs away and leaves him to his grief. Then he lets the pain flow through him.
This is all the time he has, all the space left to mourn Kara. When he leaves this bubble she will no longer belong to him: CAP will be over, he will resume his place beside Dee, in front of the pilots, reporting to the Old Man. As long as he keeps his flight suit on, keeps the canopy shut, he gets to tell her he loves her, all the ways he’s failed her, failed himself, failed to live up to everyone’s expectations. Failed to keep her alive.
The ship cools around him, machinery creaking as it contracts. Returns to rest. He thinks about the particles of her body, her ship, floating in the void that was like a vast stage for her performances. Thinks about how there was nothing but bright sparks, nothing to save - less than there was for Zak. He thought he’d known pain, then; learned how to survive the loss of a brother, a limb. How do trees go on living when their heartwood is gone?
The hangar deck is shadowed, the next CAP launched. A few knuckledraggers talk quietly in a far corner but they carefully angle away as he steps down. He is grateful. He sets his helmet down on a step and fights once more not to lose it as he realizes they are one helmet short, again - harder than Vipers to replace, metal can be welded but there is no place to mold the duraglass, no silica for raw materials. He takes a deep breath, and again, mentally reviewing the post-flight checklist till he can walk without collapsing. He is the CAG. He is an Adama. He can do this.
He checks the clock as he walks past: mid-shift. If he’s lucky he can get to the showers without having to speak with anyone. He should debrief with Tigh, he knows, but first he has to be capable of talking, and he doesn’t trust his voice yet. It’s strange, actually, that his father hasn’t sent for him, but he won’t question small mercies.
He doesn’t get as far as the head, after all. He approaches the rec room and is surprised to hear voices - he’d thought everyone would have retreated to private corners, there to deal with their sorrow. But the voices are rhythmic, a single voice, then a chorus, call and response. Curious in spite of himself, he peers around the hatch.
Of course. A vigil. He’d forgotten that custom, it’s more common on Picon than Caprica. The first night, keeping watch while the soul journeys in unfamiliar lands. He would have left, but Racetrack catches his eye - she’s leading the recital - and nods. There are other bowed heads in the room, no one’s seen him, they are all facing forward. It’s oddly comforting - the anonymous, shared grief. He stands in the back row and is surprised by how much of the chant he can summon from memory.
Racetrack concludes her passage and hands the book to another pilot. She moves quietly through the ranks and comes to stand beside him, her shoulder barely touching his. It’s enough.
~
~
When he lands, he sits in his cockpit for a very long time. He senses the ladder being nudged against his ship - senses someone coming up to take his helmet, knows it’s Chief by the shape of his head though he doesn’t acknowledge him - and senses again when he backs away and leaves him to his grief. Then he lets the pain flow through him.
This is all the time he has, all the space left to mourn Kara. When he leaves this bubble she will no longer belong to him: CAP will be over, he will resume his place beside Dee, in front of the pilots, reporting to the Old Man. As long as he keeps his flight suit on, keeps the canopy shut, he gets to tell her he loves her, all the ways he’s failed her, failed himself, failed to live up to everyone’s expectations. Failed to keep her alive.
The ship cools around him, machinery creaking as it contracts. Returns to rest. He thinks about the particles of her body, her ship, floating in the void that was like a vast stage for her performances. Thinks about how there was nothing but bright sparks, nothing to save - less than there was for Zak. He thought he’d known pain, then; learned how to survive the loss of a brother, a limb. How do trees go on living when their heartwood is gone?
The hangar deck is shadowed, the next CAP launched. A few knuckledraggers talk quietly in a far corner but they carefully angle away as he steps down. He is grateful. He sets his helmet down on a step and fights once more not to lose it as he realizes they are one helmet short, again - harder than Vipers to replace, metal can be welded but there is no place to mold the duraglass, no silica for raw materials. He takes a deep breath, and again, mentally reviewing the post-flight checklist till he can walk without collapsing. He is the CAG. He is an Adama. He can do this.
He checks the clock as he walks past: mid-shift. If he’s lucky he can get to the showers without having to speak with anyone. He should debrief with Tigh, he knows, but first he has to be capable of talking, and he doesn’t trust his voice yet. It’s strange, actually, that his father hasn’t sent for him, but he won’t question small mercies.
He doesn’t get as far as the head, after all. He approaches the rec room and is surprised to hear voices - he’d thought everyone would have retreated to private corners, there to deal with their sorrow. But the voices are rhythmic, a single voice, then a chorus, call and response. Curious in spite of himself, he peers around the hatch.
Of course. A vigil. He’d forgotten that custom, it’s more common on Picon than Caprica. The first night, keeping watch while the soul journeys in unfamiliar lands. He would have left, but Racetrack catches his eye - she’s leading the recital - and nods. There are other bowed heads in the room, no one’s seen him, they are all facing forward. It’s oddly comforting - the anonymous, shared grief. He stands in the back row and is surprised by how much of the chant he can summon from memory.
Racetrack concludes her passage and hands the book to another pilot. She moves quietly through the ranks and comes to stand beside him, her shoulder barely touching his. It’s enough.
~