Galaxy of the Lost (Five scenes of affection)
roslin/adama - g
a/n: I believe I owe this to pythiaprophet who, about a million years ago, wanted "five times Adama and Roslin loved each other" (mind you this was a million years ago so the prompt has been loosely interpreted.) I hope you find it true and beautiful girl ♥
v.
War stains him. A tender pallet of worn yellows, reds, grays, and silently - slowly - turns him hollow. Some kind of flower he is to her, not that she would ever tell him that, not that she would ever want to make the great Admiral Adama any less of the man he is, but he is some kind of tragic and engaging beauty and she captures him, placing him inside the book of her heart and preserves him there.
In the end she's all he's got.
iv.
"I'm dying."
They all are. Silent, tiny deaths, inside and out, by their hand or the hands of Cylons, they are dying. But this is Laura Roslin and if only for his own selfishness he will not accept this.
Large hands form shackles around delicate wrists and her eyes start to swim in pools of liquid star shine that blind them both.
You don't have to die, is what he doesn't say. Of course she does, of course she has to die for she is the dying leader, earth is over there and scripture is truth. Every bit of it as real as space, time and his hands holding desperately onto hers.
There's never enough time.
iii.
He reads to her. Quiet, whispered words under unfocused light and Doloxan treatments. The world is ending all around them, but no one ever disturbs and as much as he should, he never feels guilty.
ii.
The sand is hot on her hand as she lets it sift through her fingers, the moon bright and full. He lays beside her listlessly quoting poetry and novels, a gentle celebration of being back on land once more. He lets his eyes drift closed, the hot sand bed - a remembrance of sun - soothing. Something inside her, whether it was the high in her veins or the swell of her heart, compels her to kiss his forehead and trace a line across his cheek. Then, silently, breathed 'I love you' through his lips.
i.
They were built out of lines, protocols and procedures, splintering under the tension. His defiance only causing her stubborn relentlessness to try and coexist. First it was Lee and now it's his quarters where she sits, petite form relaxed as if she already won.
Reluctantly he offers her a drink and she takes it, too courteous, but doesn't sip it. Frustrated he makes a snide remark about her new found connects, her weaseling into his kingdom. She comments that it's simple politics.
"The world is too cut throat for politics," he says, voice thick as he polishes off the glass. She shrugs her shoulders, never mentioning politics to be a war of its own, finding it ironic. She has never known such a thing as brutal as politics and war. She thinks that in such time their brutality would have a polar effect, like oxygen and hydrogen, and form a fundamental element for the survival of the human race.
She was always such the idealist.
"Be it as it may, Commander, I am still the President," it rolls off her tongue like it was always a destiny to be fulfilled, "and you’d be surprised at how very 'cut throat' this politician can be."
She knocks back her drink with a brisk flick, smiling, "I certainly needed that, thank you."
Slightly taken back, he looks at her agape. The ease of which she can flow from authoritative to kind was staggering, and dare he say, impressive.
"I'm sure we'll be seeing an awful lot of each other," she says, smiling one last time before leaving. No dismissal or goodbye, only leaving him in his quarters to realize she's his equal.
a/n: I believe I owe this to pythiaprophet who, about a million years ago, wanted "five times Adama and Roslin loved each other" (mind you this was a million years ago so the prompt has been loosely interpreted.) I hope you find it true and beautiful girl ♥
v.
War stains him. A tender pallet of worn yellows, reds, grays, and silently - slowly - turns him hollow. Some kind of flower he is to her, not that she would ever tell him that, not that she would ever want to make the great Admiral Adama any less of the man he is, but he is some kind of tragic and engaging beauty and she captures him, placing him inside the book of her heart and preserves him there.
In the end she's all he's got.
iv.
"I'm dying."
They all are. Silent, tiny deaths, inside and out, by their hand or the hands of Cylons, they are dying. But this is Laura Roslin and if only for his own selfishness he will not accept this.
Large hands form shackles around delicate wrists and her eyes start to swim in pools of liquid star shine that blind them both.
You don't have to die, is what he doesn't say. Of course she does, of course she has to die for she is the dying leader, earth is over there and scripture is truth. Every bit of it as real as space, time and his hands holding desperately onto hers.
There's never enough time.
iii.
He reads to her. Quiet, whispered words under unfocused light and Doloxan treatments. The world is ending all around them, but no one ever disturbs and as much as he should, he never feels guilty.
ii.
The sand is hot on her hand as she lets it sift through her fingers, the moon bright and full. He lays beside her listlessly quoting poetry and novels, a gentle celebration of being back on land once more. He lets his eyes drift closed, the hot sand bed - a remembrance of sun - soothing. Something inside her, whether it was the high in her veins or the swell of her heart, compels her to kiss his forehead and trace a line across his cheek. Then, silently, breathed 'I love you' through his lips.
i.
They were built out of lines, protocols and procedures, splintering under the tension. His defiance only causing her stubborn relentlessness to try and coexist. First it was Lee and now it's his quarters where she sits, petite form relaxed as if she already won.
Reluctantly he offers her a drink and she takes it, too courteous, but doesn't sip it. Frustrated he makes a snide remark about her new found connects, her weaseling into his kingdom. She comments that it's simple politics.
"The world is too cut throat for politics," he says, voice thick as he polishes off the glass. She shrugs her shoulders, never mentioning politics to be a war of its own, finding it ironic. She has never known such a thing as brutal as politics and war. She thinks that in such time their brutality would have a polar effect, like oxygen and hydrogen, and form a fundamental element for the survival of the human race.
She was always such the idealist.
"Be it as it may, Commander, I am still the President," it rolls off her tongue like it was always a destiny to be fulfilled, "and you’d be surprised at how very 'cut throat' this politician can be."
She knocks back her drink with a brisk flick, smiling, "I certainly needed that, thank you."
Slightly taken back, he looks at her agape. The ease of which she can flow from authoritative to kind was staggering, and dare he say, impressive.
"I'm sure we'll be seeing an awful lot of each other," she says, smiling one last time before leaving. No dismissal or goodbye, only leaving him in his quarters to realize she's his equal.