BSG fic!
This fic is for Daniela, whose poking with a sharp stick really gets results!
Gaius Baltar, Doc Cottle and an OC.
“Where are you taking me? I demand to know--”
With the unexpected arrival of Gaius Baltar in Galactica's brig, Sam Lucas was relishing what he had always thought of as a dead-end job. He nodded a subtle affirmation and watched with interest as Broman grabbed the prison-issue shirt and tossed Gaius Baltar effortlessly against the bars, the thump of his wiry body - and especially his grimace of pain - settling scores and bringing a smile to Lucas' face.
“Watch out, doc,” Lucas purred, disengaging his bulky body from the hard support of the prison wall. “You're getting very clumsy of late. You're becoming a real danger to yourself.”
“Enjoy that, did you?” Baltar spat, turning sullenly, a hand straying to rub the bruise that would soon bloom upon that fragile shoulder. “You're animals. Nothing but animals.”
“And yet, from where I'm standing, you're the prime exhibit in the cage,” Lucas said. “Funny that, don'tchya think?”
Broman grabbed Baltar's hand, tugged it down and snapped on the restraint, tethering wrist-to-wrist with satisfying tightness, before starting on his ankles. Baltar grew silent, his resentment almost palpable, even to an animal like Lucas.
Baltar lifted a foot and gingerly tested the boundaries of the tethers. “You don't need to do this.”
“Regulations,” Broman murmured with satisfaction, clambering to his feet with a grimace.
“And do these regulations say to put filth in my food and wake me at unGodly hours...”
“They wrote an addendum to the rulebook when you were admitted,” Lucas explained, standing back to survey Broman's handiwork. Baltar, caught in the light, wilted under their combined glare, his moist gaze straying to the floor, to the top of his soft prison-issue shoes, to the bars that defined his own little rectangle of existence.
“Things are different now, aren't they?” Lucas muttered, barely suppressing a triumphant smile.
The former President remained silent, raising his shackled hands to rub at his shoulder, the links clinking with the movement.
Lucas indicated Baltar's cell with a wave of his hand, and it was hard to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “I bet it wasn't like this on Colonial One.”
“Colonial One?” Baltar responded dully, tentatively flexing his shoulder. “Colonial One was an exclusive prison. Maybe the beds were softer but the basic premise was the same. Containment. Isolation. Intimidation. Coercion. All those comforting homely things that rock people like you to sleep at night.”
“Do you really expect me to believe you suffered?” Lucas snorted, taking a menacing step forward, but Baltar held his ground, his gaze hard and leveling. “That the so very exclusive Colonial One was a prison?”
“From a dolt like you, I really don't expect anything.”
Lucas considered, then shrugged, grabbed the sore shoulder and smiled when Baltar winced.
“Where are you taking-” Baltar began, this time uncertainly, his body-language screaming out like a reluctant child forced to do something it didn't want to do.
“You'll find out when you get there, won't you Mr President?” Lucas stated with that measured politeness that always made Broman laugh. And Broman, chuckling, propelled the former President forward, Baltar's rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the floor's hard-surface.
Lucas watched as Baltar shuffled past - too frakking slowly -- so Lucas rather politely thumped him in the back and sent him stumbling. “Just a little encouragement, Mr President.”
Baltar quickened his pace. “I haven't been tried yet. It may come as a surprise to you, but I have rights. As a citizen of the Colonies, I have inalienable rights--”
“Like we had rights on New Caprica? You didn't give a frak about our rights when you sold us to the Cylons. And now your rights don't mean a thing out here, inalienable or otherwise,” Lucas responded, closing the cell door with a reverberating bang. It was a nice way to end the conversation.
The brilliant scientist and former President shuffled to the hatchway, looking so small in his rumpled clothes, so frakkin' fragile without the armor of his arrogance... With two steps Lucas came up behind him, to that limp dark hair that shone dully in the light... Lucas stretched out his hand and yanked, and Baltar paused, hissed in pain, eyes closed tight. Lucas leaned in, whispered into Baltar's ear, “Maybe you forgot about us, but we never forgot about you.”
“I have rights,” Baltar repeated softly, like a prayer, like a mantra. Like if he said it enough times, these rights would somehow manifest themselves, like they hadn't for the people on New Caprica -- the living, or the dead.”
“The dead don't have rights,” Lucas hissed, releasing the hair and pushing Baltar towards the brig door.
xx
Lucas had chosen the long way to the brig infirmary, with scattered on-lookers curiously eyeing the shuffling former-President who cowered from their presence like a skittery cat, gaze flicking from side-to-side, or fixed on the floor which gleamed under Galactica's lighting.
“Hey, dead man, we're here,” Lucas called casually, as Baltar, following Broman, overshot the infirmary door. “What, you wanna walk these corridors forever? I know you need the exercise, but I thought you were smarter than that.”
“'The Smart Choice',” Broman chuckled, his dull laugh loud in the metal-clad corridor.
Baltar stopped and turned, watching blankly as Lucas shoved down the infirmary handle. The heavy door creaked open, the harsh light spilling out, making Lucas cast two shadows.
“Is this another interrogation?” Baltar asked, eyes widening with something akin to panic. “Another of Roslin's torture sessions?”
Lucas stretched out his hand and had the immense joy of seeing Baltar flinch. He took the battered shoulder of choice and guided the unwilling former-President firmly into the small room.
“He's all yours, Doctor Cottle,” Lucas said deferentially.
xx
“Do you know what time it is?” Cottle growled, glancing up from his chair at the table. “And, take those restraints off. Doctor Baltar is here as a patient--”
“Am I? I'm not a test-subject this time?” Baltar asked suspiciously from his spot near the entrance, his penetrating gaze shifting to Cottle's medical bag. “What other interesting psychosis-inducing drugs have you got in there?”
Cottle's voice hardened. “I'm here as your doctor, not your inquisitor.”
“So, this is an humanitarian gesture, a minimum baseline of care? Or, is this just another ploy?” Baltar glanced up, pale face searching for a camera or a bug.
“If it were, it wouldn't be so obvious. We had a lessons learned review,” Cottle said more agreeably. “And, for all my faults, I'm not in the habit of lying. And take those damned restraints off,” he repeated, as Broman moved reluctantly to unfasten them.
Baltar rubbed his wrists and watched impassively as Broman knelt to remove the shackles from his ankles. “Why have they sent you?”
Cottle shrugged. “Because I'm not in the habit of refusing orders either,” he stated, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes from his bag. “You want one? Or have you taken this opportunity to give them up?”
Baltar's eyes lit up, and as the shackles fell away, he stepped across to the table, looking uncertainly at the empty chair. “If I may?”
“Be my guest,” Cottle said, taking a quick puff of the already lit cigarette. He handed it over to Baltar whose hand shook slightly as he cradled it like a new-born baby.
“These last few days, I so rarely...” Baltar began, staring at the lit cigarette in his fingers. “I mean...” He placed the cigarette in his mouth, eyes closing as he almost gulped down the smoke. He opened his eyes, plucked the cigarette from his mouth and regarded the glowing tip with reverence. “It's all about denial, isn't it?”
“In what way?” Cottle answered evasively.
Baltar's hand made a sweeping gesture. “In every way.”
“I wouldn't know,” Cottle said, retreating to the safety of the known and quantifiable, of orders given and obeyed. He pulled his medical bag closer, gazed at the rolls of tattered bandages lodged inside, at the vials of pills with their faded names of long-dead recipients. “I take drugs from the dead and dying, and give them to the barely living in an effort to make it all make sense. That's the sum total of what I do all day, more or less. Sometimes, that equation works--”
“Redressing the balance. I can understand that,” Baltar cut-in cryptically. He tapped the cigarette ash into the tray with a flick of his finger. “I can understand that all too well.”
Cottle suppressed a surge of irritation. “That knowledge makes me feel so much better.”
“I have rights,” Baltar stated in that soft voice of his. “And until the...verdict, I am entitled to certain basic levels of humane treatment. Maybe a presumption of innocence would be a novel idea, or even a good place to start.” He glanced across at Broman and Lucas who stood impassively at either side of the door.
Cottle scratched the stubble on his chin and leaned back in his chair. “Last time I looked, I was a doctor, not a lawyer.”
Baltar's gaze cut through the cigarette smoke. “And believe me, I'm grateful for the distinction. But, I have certain basic rights as laid out in the constitution...not only as a patient, but also as a human being. A citizen of the Colonies.” His fist thumped lightly upon the table top.
“You're not running for election now, Doctor Baltar.”
Baltar deflated, his shoulders slumping forward. “It's not much, just...just distractions. A book, a magazine, a cigarette...or, is Roslin killing me by degrees? Yes, that must be it. So amusing.”
“Your 'distractions' as you call them, have been limited. Suicide watch is--”
“Limited?” Baltar's voice rose in protest. “Limited? Try non-existent. Or maybe try 'endless hours of literally mindless tedium'.” He leaned forward earnestly and adopted that curiously honest tone he sometimes used. “Look, I'm not going to commit suicide--”
“Again,” Cottle interrupted, non-commitally.
“That was just a...a good idea at the time... I'm over it now.”
“You haven't lost that talent for putting folks at ease,” Cottle said, smiling as he lit a cigarette for himself. “And, against my better judgment, I'd trust you.” He took a puff and blew the blue smoke into the air. “I even think the Admiral will be glad to hear that you want to stick around.”
“Will he? Will he really? Then it's joy all round,” Baltar muttered, voice thick with mockery. He lifted the cigarette, took another long drag. “And now that we've ascertained that I have no intentions of setting my mattress straw alight, if I could just make a formal request for a few basic necessities.”
“Such as?”
Baltar shrugged. “Books, a sheet of paper, a writing implement of some kind, a cigarette from time to time. The basic human necessities.”
“I'll pass that along too.”
“I can't kill myself with a paper-cut,” Baltar whined, withdrawing a little. He watched the smoke meander, eyes following the trail upward. His hand rose involuntarily to the bandage that could be seen under his shirt collar.
“How is it?” Cottle asked solicitously, flicking his own ash into the tray. “Still giving you pain?”
Baltar shrugged, watchful now. Wary.
“Even from here I can see you're a fast healer,” Cottle continued, the consummate professional.
Baltar smiled wryly. “You make that sound like an accusation. Another crime to add to my ever expanding list.”
“It's just an observation.”
“Which happens, by the way, to be true.”
Cottle tilted his head to the side in assessment. “You know, I never thought you'd make the ideal patient.”
Baltar suppressed a snort. “Well, you know what they say, practice makes perfect.”
“I've heard that, but I don't know if I subscribe to it. I always think that a man either has talent, or he hasn't. No end of learning can fill that void.”
“A talent for what? Or am I just being unnecessarily sensitive,” Baltar grumbled, dragging the ashtray closer to the center of the table, “due to my less than ideal circumstances.”
“I've already said that I'll pass your requests along.”
“Thank you.”
There was an awkward pause, a sudden realization from both men that they didn't want to be there.
Cottle slipped into his professional persona. “You're losing weight.”
“Am I?” Baltar sounded almost bored now. He looked down at his scrawny body. “Yes, that appears to be true.”
“How have you been sleeping?”
“Actually, not too bad...considering,” Baltar mumbled evasively, gaze flicking to the silent guards. Then, he leaned forward again and seemed to come to some sort of decision. “Doc? What's the feeling out there? Is there any chance that... Will things...well, when the time comes, will things be fair?”
“I don't know,” Cottle said after a pause. “I'm a doctor, not a fortune-teller.”
“So, it's really that bad?” Baltar's voice was dull with resignation.
“I'm not paid to make idle speculations.”
Baltar paused, then looked away. “You always were an honest man. Brutally honest.”
Cottle coughed at the physicality of the word. “I just do as I'm asked.”
“Maybe the last of the brutally honest men,” Baltar reiterated, carefully drawing down the last of the cigarette before reluctantly stubbing the slim remnant into the ashtray. “How very poetic. How very apt.”
Reaching into his bag, Cottle withdrew a battered cigarette pack and tossed them to Baltar. “Doctor's orders...”
“Thanks,” Baltar responded, hunkering into his chair and slipping them furtively into his pocket, as if he was guilty of something.
Guilty... Cottle wasn't in the habit of making assumptions. Still, the word lingered in his mind, washed over him, tossing even the last of the brutally honest men in its endless ripples of association. Had Cottle been honest? He'd certainly been brutal, but had it been his choice? Had he ever really had a choice? Or was Baltar right, was it all about denial...?
Opposite him, Baltar shivered in the infirmary chill, drawing his slim arms about himself protectively, closing his eyes. Then Baltar's hand strayed to the crushed packet in his thin pants pocket, reassuring himself they were still there. As if he could anchor that slim comfort there, for ever. He almost looked content...
Cottle coughed, and wished he was somewhere other than here, where a throwaway gift of cigarettes became a substitute for some kind of humanity. When a crushed box of tobacco became a lifeline and an out of proportion comfort. Was that the sum total of what they had left, after all that running and dying? Was this endless blame and pathetic revenge what he'd obeyed orders for?
Cottle coughed again, stubbing out his own cigarette before rising to his feet, chair scraping on the metal floor. The movement made Baltar open his eyes, that dark enquiring gaze spearing through the veiling smoke.
“It's more than time I examined that wound, Doctor Baltar. When I last looked, I also happened to notice that you were not the only patient on my list.”
xx
end
Gaius Baltar, Doc Cottle and an OC.
“Where are you taking me? I demand to know--”
With the unexpected arrival of Gaius Baltar in Galactica's brig, Sam Lucas was relishing what he had always thought of as a dead-end job. He nodded a subtle affirmation and watched with interest as Broman grabbed the prison-issue shirt and tossed Gaius Baltar effortlessly against the bars, the thump of his wiry body - and especially his grimace of pain - settling scores and bringing a smile to Lucas' face.
“Watch out, doc,” Lucas purred, disengaging his bulky body from the hard support of the prison wall. “You're getting very clumsy of late. You're becoming a real danger to yourself.”
“Enjoy that, did you?” Baltar spat, turning sullenly, a hand straying to rub the bruise that would soon bloom upon that fragile shoulder. “You're animals. Nothing but animals.”
“And yet, from where I'm standing, you're the prime exhibit in the cage,” Lucas said. “Funny that, don'tchya think?”
Broman grabbed Baltar's hand, tugged it down and snapped on the restraint, tethering wrist-to-wrist with satisfying tightness, before starting on his ankles. Baltar grew silent, his resentment almost palpable, even to an animal like Lucas.
Baltar lifted a foot and gingerly tested the boundaries of the tethers. “You don't need to do this.”
“Regulations,” Broman murmured with satisfaction, clambering to his feet with a grimace.
“And do these regulations say to put filth in my food and wake me at unGodly hours...”
“They wrote an addendum to the rulebook when you were admitted,” Lucas explained, standing back to survey Broman's handiwork. Baltar, caught in the light, wilted under their combined glare, his moist gaze straying to the floor, to the top of his soft prison-issue shoes, to the bars that defined his own little rectangle of existence.
“Things are different now, aren't they?” Lucas muttered, barely suppressing a triumphant smile.
The former President remained silent, raising his shackled hands to rub at his shoulder, the links clinking with the movement.
Lucas indicated Baltar's cell with a wave of his hand, and it was hard to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “I bet it wasn't like this on Colonial One.”
“Colonial One?” Baltar responded dully, tentatively flexing his shoulder. “Colonial One was an exclusive prison. Maybe the beds were softer but the basic premise was the same. Containment. Isolation. Intimidation. Coercion. All those comforting homely things that rock people like you to sleep at night.”
“Do you really expect me to believe you suffered?” Lucas snorted, taking a menacing step forward, but Baltar held his ground, his gaze hard and leveling. “That the so very exclusive Colonial One was a prison?”
“From a dolt like you, I really don't expect anything.”
Lucas considered, then shrugged, grabbed the sore shoulder and smiled when Baltar winced.
“Where are you taking-” Baltar began, this time uncertainly, his body-language screaming out like a reluctant child forced to do something it didn't want to do.
“You'll find out when you get there, won't you Mr President?” Lucas stated with that measured politeness that always made Broman laugh. And Broman, chuckling, propelled the former President forward, Baltar's rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the floor's hard-surface.
Lucas watched as Baltar shuffled past - too frakking slowly -- so Lucas rather politely thumped him in the back and sent him stumbling. “Just a little encouragement, Mr President.”
Baltar quickened his pace. “I haven't been tried yet. It may come as a surprise to you, but I have rights. As a citizen of the Colonies, I have inalienable rights--”
“Like we had rights on New Caprica? You didn't give a frak about our rights when you sold us to the Cylons. And now your rights don't mean a thing out here, inalienable or otherwise,” Lucas responded, closing the cell door with a reverberating bang. It was a nice way to end the conversation.
The brilliant scientist and former President shuffled to the hatchway, looking so small in his rumpled clothes, so frakkin' fragile without the armor of his arrogance... With two steps Lucas came up behind him, to that limp dark hair that shone dully in the light... Lucas stretched out his hand and yanked, and Baltar paused, hissed in pain, eyes closed tight. Lucas leaned in, whispered into Baltar's ear, “Maybe you forgot about us, but we never forgot about you.”
“I have rights,” Baltar repeated softly, like a prayer, like a mantra. Like if he said it enough times, these rights would somehow manifest themselves, like they hadn't for the people on New Caprica -- the living, or the dead.”
“The dead don't have rights,” Lucas hissed, releasing the hair and pushing Baltar towards the brig door.
xx
Lucas had chosen the long way to the brig infirmary, with scattered on-lookers curiously eyeing the shuffling former-President who cowered from their presence like a skittery cat, gaze flicking from side-to-side, or fixed on the floor which gleamed under Galactica's lighting.
“Hey, dead man, we're here,” Lucas called casually, as Baltar, following Broman, overshot the infirmary door. “What, you wanna walk these corridors forever? I know you need the exercise, but I thought you were smarter than that.”
“'The Smart Choice',” Broman chuckled, his dull laugh loud in the metal-clad corridor.
Baltar stopped and turned, watching blankly as Lucas shoved down the infirmary handle. The heavy door creaked open, the harsh light spilling out, making Lucas cast two shadows.
“Is this another interrogation?” Baltar asked, eyes widening with something akin to panic. “Another of Roslin's torture sessions?”
Lucas stretched out his hand and had the immense joy of seeing Baltar flinch. He took the battered shoulder of choice and guided the unwilling former-President firmly into the small room.
“He's all yours, Doctor Cottle,” Lucas said deferentially.
xx
“Do you know what time it is?” Cottle growled, glancing up from his chair at the table. “And, take those restraints off. Doctor Baltar is here as a patient--”
“Am I? I'm not a test-subject this time?” Baltar asked suspiciously from his spot near the entrance, his penetrating gaze shifting to Cottle's medical bag. “What other interesting psychosis-inducing drugs have you got in there?”
Cottle's voice hardened. “I'm here as your doctor, not your inquisitor.”
“So, this is an humanitarian gesture, a minimum baseline of care? Or, is this just another ploy?” Baltar glanced up, pale face searching for a camera or a bug.
“If it were, it wouldn't be so obvious. We had a lessons learned review,” Cottle said more agreeably. “And, for all my faults, I'm not in the habit of lying. And take those damned restraints off,” he repeated, as Broman moved reluctantly to unfasten them.
Baltar rubbed his wrists and watched impassively as Broman knelt to remove the shackles from his ankles. “Why have they sent you?”
Cottle shrugged. “Because I'm not in the habit of refusing orders either,” he stated, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes from his bag. “You want one? Or have you taken this opportunity to give them up?”
Baltar's eyes lit up, and as the shackles fell away, he stepped across to the table, looking uncertainly at the empty chair. “If I may?”
“Be my guest,” Cottle said, taking a quick puff of the already lit cigarette. He handed it over to Baltar whose hand shook slightly as he cradled it like a new-born baby.
“These last few days, I so rarely...” Baltar began, staring at the lit cigarette in his fingers. “I mean...” He placed the cigarette in his mouth, eyes closing as he almost gulped down the smoke. He opened his eyes, plucked the cigarette from his mouth and regarded the glowing tip with reverence. “It's all about denial, isn't it?”
“In what way?” Cottle answered evasively.
Baltar's hand made a sweeping gesture. “In every way.”
“I wouldn't know,” Cottle said, retreating to the safety of the known and quantifiable, of orders given and obeyed. He pulled his medical bag closer, gazed at the rolls of tattered bandages lodged inside, at the vials of pills with their faded names of long-dead recipients. “I take drugs from the dead and dying, and give them to the barely living in an effort to make it all make sense. That's the sum total of what I do all day, more or less. Sometimes, that equation works--”
“Redressing the balance. I can understand that,” Baltar cut-in cryptically. He tapped the cigarette ash into the tray with a flick of his finger. “I can understand that all too well.”
Cottle suppressed a surge of irritation. “That knowledge makes me feel so much better.”
“I have rights,” Baltar stated in that soft voice of his. “And until the...verdict, I am entitled to certain basic levels of humane treatment. Maybe a presumption of innocence would be a novel idea, or even a good place to start.” He glanced across at Broman and Lucas who stood impassively at either side of the door.
Cottle scratched the stubble on his chin and leaned back in his chair. “Last time I looked, I was a doctor, not a lawyer.”
Baltar's gaze cut through the cigarette smoke. “And believe me, I'm grateful for the distinction. But, I have certain basic rights as laid out in the constitution...not only as a patient, but also as a human being. A citizen of the Colonies.” His fist thumped lightly upon the table top.
“You're not running for election now, Doctor Baltar.”
Baltar deflated, his shoulders slumping forward. “It's not much, just...just distractions. A book, a magazine, a cigarette...or, is Roslin killing me by degrees? Yes, that must be it. So amusing.”
“Your 'distractions' as you call them, have been limited. Suicide watch is--”
“Limited?” Baltar's voice rose in protest. “Limited? Try non-existent. Or maybe try 'endless hours of literally mindless tedium'.” He leaned forward earnestly and adopted that curiously honest tone he sometimes used. “Look, I'm not going to commit suicide--”
“Again,” Cottle interrupted, non-commitally.
“That was just a...a good idea at the time... I'm over it now.”
“You haven't lost that talent for putting folks at ease,” Cottle said, smiling as he lit a cigarette for himself. “And, against my better judgment, I'd trust you.” He took a puff and blew the blue smoke into the air. “I even think the Admiral will be glad to hear that you want to stick around.”
“Will he? Will he really? Then it's joy all round,” Baltar muttered, voice thick with mockery. He lifted the cigarette, took another long drag. “And now that we've ascertained that I have no intentions of setting my mattress straw alight, if I could just make a formal request for a few basic necessities.”
“Such as?”
Baltar shrugged. “Books, a sheet of paper, a writing implement of some kind, a cigarette from time to time. The basic human necessities.”
“I'll pass that along too.”
“I can't kill myself with a paper-cut,” Baltar whined, withdrawing a little. He watched the smoke meander, eyes following the trail upward. His hand rose involuntarily to the bandage that could be seen under his shirt collar.
“How is it?” Cottle asked solicitously, flicking his own ash into the tray. “Still giving you pain?”
Baltar shrugged, watchful now. Wary.
“Even from here I can see you're a fast healer,” Cottle continued, the consummate professional.
Baltar smiled wryly. “You make that sound like an accusation. Another crime to add to my ever expanding list.”
“It's just an observation.”
“Which happens, by the way, to be true.”
Cottle tilted his head to the side in assessment. “You know, I never thought you'd make the ideal patient.”
Baltar suppressed a snort. “Well, you know what they say, practice makes perfect.”
“I've heard that, but I don't know if I subscribe to it. I always think that a man either has talent, or he hasn't. No end of learning can fill that void.”
“A talent for what? Or am I just being unnecessarily sensitive,” Baltar grumbled, dragging the ashtray closer to the center of the table, “due to my less than ideal circumstances.”
“I've already said that I'll pass your requests along.”
“Thank you.”
There was an awkward pause, a sudden realization from both men that they didn't want to be there.
Cottle slipped into his professional persona. “You're losing weight.”
“Am I?” Baltar sounded almost bored now. He looked down at his scrawny body. “Yes, that appears to be true.”
“How have you been sleeping?”
“Actually, not too bad...considering,” Baltar mumbled evasively, gaze flicking to the silent guards. Then, he leaned forward again and seemed to come to some sort of decision. “Doc? What's the feeling out there? Is there any chance that... Will things...well, when the time comes, will things be fair?”
“I don't know,” Cottle said after a pause. “I'm a doctor, not a fortune-teller.”
“So, it's really that bad?” Baltar's voice was dull with resignation.
“I'm not paid to make idle speculations.”
Baltar paused, then looked away. “You always were an honest man. Brutally honest.”
Cottle coughed at the physicality of the word. “I just do as I'm asked.”
“Maybe the last of the brutally honest men,” Baltar reiterated, carefully drawing down the last of the cigarette before reluctantly stubbing the slim remnant into the ashtray. “How very poetic. How very apt.”
Reaching into his bag, Cottle withdrew a battered cigarette pack and tossed them to Baltar. “Doctor's orders...”
“Thanks,” Baltar responded, hunkering into his chair and slipping them furtively into his pocket, as if he was guilty of something.
Guilty... Cottle wasn't in the habit of making assumptions. Still, the word lingered in his mind, washed over him, tossing even the last of the brutally honest men in its endless ripples of association. Had Cottle been honest? He'd certainly been brutal, but had it been his choice? Had he ever really had a choice? Or was Baltar right, was it all about denial...?
Opposite him, Baltar shivered in the infirmary chill, drawing his slim arms about himself protectively, closing his eyes. Then Baltar's hand strayed to the crushed packet in his thin pants pocket, reassuring himself they were still there. As if he could anchor that slim comfort there, for ever. He almost looked content...
Cottle coughed, and wished he was somewhere other than here, where a throwaway gift of cigarettes became a substitute for some kind of humanity. When a crushed box of tobacco became a lifeline and an out of proportion comfort. Was that the sum total of what they had left, after all that running and dying? Was this endless blame and pathetic revenge what he'd obeyed orders for?
Cottle coughed again, stubbing out his own cigarette before rising to his feet, chair scraping on the metal floor. The movement made Baltar open his eyes, that dark enquiring gaze spearing through the veiling smoke.
“It's more than time I examined that wound, Doctor Baltar. When I last looked, I also happened to notice that you were not the only patient on my list.”
xx
end