~BSG: Great Expectations
Title: Great Expectations
Author: kastari
Summary: Gardening is the ultimate form of hope. You plant tiny seeds in the absolute faith that something grand will grow.
Characters: Adama/Roslin
Rating: T
Word Count: 300
Timeframe: After Founder’s Day on New Caprica, before the occupation.
Author’s Note: In my world, William Adama knew his paternal grandparents. Written for the 15th ar_drabbles challenge. Prompt: Dirty Hands.
Disclaimer: I'm just playing in Universal's sandbox.
Happy Birthday, frakcancer . This button’s for you. Consider my pushing it your ‘pre-present-just a little something to tide you over until I finish my ‘other’ gift. I’m a big fan of extended celebrations. Thanks to lacklusterfic for the kick in the ass. And it’s such a pleasure listening to bsg_aussiegirl whine…
Great Expectations
He found her behind the make-shift tent school. Bent over with a claw-like tool in hand, she toiled in a patch of dirt.
“Nice bed.”
Her heart smiled at the sound of his voice, but she didn’t look up.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“This is…our…outdoor classroom,” she said in-between labored breaths. “It…needed…weeding.”
He watched in silence, admiring her determination and drive. Native wildflowers perfumed the air; the interesting forms and texture of the eclectic, indigenous New Caprican plants resulted in an explosion of colorful foliage. Order, balance, proportion, harmony, and flow-the design of the green classroom would have made any gardener proud.
“You have hands like my grandmother,” he said.
She stopped hacking the unbridled growth. With a grunt, she stood, turned, and faced him.
“Old lady hands?” She snorted. “Is that supposed to be some sort of a compliment?
Her fiery green eyes flashed, meeting his cool blue.
“Actually, yes, but allow me to re-phrase that. Miss Havisham hands.
She giggled. “Miss Havisham was only supposed to be in her mid-fifties, you know.” She tossed her claw-like tool into a bucket. “But mine are a bit like The Picture of Dorian Gray, aren’t they?” She brushed the dirt from them onto her pants. “Un-manicured, broad palms, bony fingers, big knuckles, chapped, rough, dry, dirty-they’re man hands. I should wear gloves when I garden.”
“My Grandmother Joles was an avid gardener. She never wore gloves. Always said she needed to feel the soil.
“The stubborn, opinionated, willful woman married to your Grandfather Adama.”
"Yes. My grandfather loved her hands. So did I. They were weathered and wise.”
“So, the truth is finally revealed. You’re a hand man.”
He laughed. “Definitely, but with you here and me there,” he nodded skyward, “mine could really use a rest.”
~finis~
Author: kastari
Summary: Gardening is the ultimate form of hope. You plant tiny seeds in the absolute faith that something grand will grow.
Characters: Adama/Roslin
Rating: T
Word Count: 300
Timeframe: After Founder’s Day on New Caprica, before the occupation.
Author’s Note: In my world, William Adama knew his paternal grandparents. Written for the 15th ar_drabbles challenge. Prompt: Dirty Hands.
Disclaimer: I'm just playing in Universal's sandbox.
Happy Birthday, frakcancer . This button’s for you. Consider my pushing it your ‘pre-present-just a little something to tide you over until I finish my ‘other’ gift. I’m a big fan of extended celebrations. Thanks to lacklusterfic for the kick in the ass. And it’s such a pleasure listening to bsg_aussiegirl whine…
Great Expectations
He found her behind the make-shift tent school. Bent over with a claw-like tool in hand, she toiled in a patch of dirt.
“Nice bed.”
Her heart smiled at the sound of his voice, but she didn’t look up.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“This is…our…outdoor classroom,” she said in-between labored breaths. “It…needed…weeding.”
He watched in silence, admiring her determination and drive. Native wildflowers perfumed the air; the interesting forms and texture of the eclectic, indigenous New Caprican plants resulted in an explosion of colorful foliage. Order, balance, proportion, harmony, and flow-the design of the green classroom would have made any gardener proud.
“You have hands like my grandmother,” he said.
She stopped hacking the unbridled growth. With a grunt, she stood, turned, and faced him.
“Old lady hands?” She snorted. “Is that supposed to be some sort of a compliment?
Her fiery green eyes flashed, meeting his cool blue.
“Actually, yes, but allow me to re-phrase that. Miss Havisham hands.
She giggled. “Miss Havisham was only supposed to be in her mid-fifties, you know.” She tossed her claw-like tool into a bucket. “But mine are a bit like The Picture of Dorian Gray, aren’t they?” She brushed the dirt from them onto her pants. “Un-manicured, broad palms, bony fingers, big knuckles, chapped, rough, dry, dirty-they’re man hands. I should wear gloves when I garden.”
“My Grandmother Joles was an avid gardener. She never wore gloves. Always said she needed to feel the soil.
“The stubborn, opinionated, willful woman married to your Grandfather Adama.”
"Yes. My grandfather loved her hands. So did I. They were weathered and wise.”
“So, the truth is finally revealed. You’re a hand man.”
He laughed. “Definitely, but with you here and me there,” he nodded skyward, “mine could really use a rest.”
~finis~