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misscamkiss your sorrows on my skin (you can't erase them)
by Camilla Sandman
Summary: Forget humanity. Just feel human, and kiss the sorrows on his skin until they're all hers too. [Adama/Roslin]
Rating: PG.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, just my words.
Author's Note: Set post-"Revelations" and thus spoilery like whoa. Extra special thanks to BFF![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lotus79 for beta-ing this more or less on the go - one of these days I promise to write you that Kara/Lee, babe.
II
If you know the sorrow of a friend, claim it as your own.
-Håvamål
II
Laura Roslin never really thought she'd see Earth. Oh, she had hope she would, and desire to, and a half promised to Bill it would be together they came there, but somewhere in the back of her mind, the prophecies had always lurked. She had trusted them, let them guide her and doom her too.
Laura Roslin never really thought she'd see Earth, and now; now she wishes she hadn't.
She isn't sure how long she's been sitting like this, back against a cold steel beam and wind against her skin, but it feels like an eternity until Bill sits down next to her. She knows it's him even without looking, and a moment later she feels his hand cover hers; the one she still has clutching cold, windswept earth of Earth.
This is all they've worked for. This. This is no Promised Land. This is a frakking joke, an echo of Caprica after the fall and even more painful.
She believed. She made Bill believe as she joined her strength with his, lost her heart to him and was given his, built a leadership on a lie that became a hope.
Earth.
Earth.
This is no Promised Land. This isn't Earth of their hopes. This isn't a safe haven. This is a rolling a hard six and seeing the house win. If the Gods are watching, they must be laughing. This is a frakking joke.
She can't cry. She's spent all her tears being happy, and now she feels bled out. She can't.
"I can't believe this," she says, and the racid bitterness in her voice surprises even her.
"I can't believe a lot of things today," he says, and his bitterness is no less than hers, but laced with more anger.
"Yeah."
She finally dares look at him, and for a moment wishes she hadn't. Her own sorrow mirrored in his eyes feels like another blow, and they're already down for the count.
"Bill," she says a bit helplessly. He presses his forehead to her chin, and she pushes the cap off him, lacing her fingers in his hair, not really caring her fingertips are still black from the soil.
"What have I done?" she murmurs, watching the horizon above his head, the ruins stretching up against the sky as if in some silent scream of protest. She understands them. She wants to scream herself, scream until there is no noise left in her and she's as empty as this planet.
This is what she's led them to. Where to lead now? Where to hope now? Where to?
"We," Bill corrects.
We, she thinks. Yes. Too late to be alone now. It's always been between them, even before there was love too. She can't claim this sorrow alone, he won't let her.
"We," she agrees.
When he tilts her face and kisses her, she isn't sure if it is a punishment or a comfort. She knows it's desperation at least, his nose bumping into hers hard and his fingers clutching at her jacket.
Forget humanity. Just feel human, and kiss the sorrows on his skin until they're all hers too. Saul. Her cancer. Earth. Oh, Earth.
His mouth is warm, but his cheek is cold as she touches it, and she opens his jacket enough to slip both hands in and warm them against the cloth of his uniform. It doesn't feel close enough, and she half wishes she could frak him here, on Earth's unpromising soil, release some emotions in sweat and skin and lose herself in the hum between their bodies.
But not now, she knows. For one, she can see D'Anna not too far away, watching lightning play in the distance and looking as desolate as everyone else. Almost like they're one people now by emotion rather than blood. For another, there are decisions to be made, books to be burned, futures to be crossed out and a new purpose to be found.
They did once.
"I don't know what to do," she whispers, and Bill kisses the corner of her mouth softly, lingering. He doesn't either, she thinks. They never had a plan beyond finding Earth. They never envisioned this, never considered what Earth might be beyond a concept and a carrot.
Failure of leadership. No. They all did this. Failure of humanity, then. Failure of Cylons. Failure of hope. So much will fall apart now, so much they've bound together with the promise of this planet.
She almost wishes there were survivors on this planet, so she could scream at them for doing this.
"I know," he says, and moves so that she's halfway across his lap, almost as if he's trying to shield her from this planet. "I love you."
"Me too," she says after a beat, and crooks her head under his chin. She can see Lee looking at them for a moment, then walking away and towards Kara.
There's still the family. Sharing sorrows, touching each other's grief. There's even the Caprica Six and Tigh, hands linked, looking so very human in their skins.
So much will fall apart, she thinks. But maybe not everything. Maybe not. Hopefully not.
Hope. Such a treacherous thing. It gave them this, and still she can't seem to let go. Not when they've come this far, not when Bill's pressing a kiss against her wrist and Earth's rain is kissing them both.
Hope. She can't erase it. She'll just have to grieve for it.
They always seem to have to.
FIN
by Camilla Sandman
Summary: Forget humanity. Just feel human, and kiss the sorrows on his skin until they're all hers too. [Adama/Roslin]
Rating: PG.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, just my words.
Author's Note: Set post-"Revelations" and thus spoilery like whoa. Extra special thanks to BFF
lotus79 for beta-ing this more or less on the go - one of these days I promise to write you that Kara/Lee, babe.II
If you know the sorrow of a friend, claim it as your own.
-Håvamål
II
Laura Roslin never really thought she'd see Earth. Oh, she had hope she would, and desire to, and a half promised to Bill it would be together they came there, but somewhere in the back of her mind, the prophecies had always lurked. She had trusted them, let them guide her and doom her too.
Laura Roslin never really thought she'd see Earth, and now; now she wishes she hadn't.
She isn't sure how long she's been sitting like this, back against a cold steel beam and wind against her skin, but it feels like an eternity until Bill sits down next to her. She knows it's him even without looking, and a moment later she feels his hand cover hers; the one she still has clutching cold, windswept earth of Earth.
This is all they've worked for. This. This is no Promised Land. This is a frakking joke, an echo of Caprica after the fall and even more painful.
She believed. She made Bill believe as she joined her strength with his, lost her heart to him and was given his, built a leadership on a lie that became a hope.
Earth.
Earth.
This is no Promised Land. This isn't Earth of their hopes. This isn't a safe haven. This is a rolling a hard six and seeing the house win. If the Gods are watching, they must be laughing. This is a frakking joke.
She can't cry. She's spent all her tears being happy, and now she feels bled out. She can't.
"I can't believe this," she says, and the racid bitterness in her voice surprises even her.
"I can't believe a lot of things today," he says, and his bitterness is no less than hers, but laced with more anger.
"Yeah."
She finally dares look at him, and for a moment wishes she hadn't. Her own sorrow mirrored in his eyes feels like another blow, and they're already down for the count.
"Bill," she says a bit helplessly. He presses his forehead to her chin, and she pushes the cap off him, lacing her fingers in his hair, not really caring her fingertips are still black from the soil.
"What have I done?" she murmurs, watching the horizon above his head, the ruins stretching up against the sky as if in some silent scream of protest. She understands them. She wants to scream herself, scream until there is no noise left in her and she's as empty as this planet.
This is what she's led them to. Where to lead now? Where to hope now? Where to?
"We," Bill corrects.
We, she thinks. Yes. Too late to be alone now. It's always been between them, even before there was love too. She can't claim this sorrow alone, he won't let her.
"We," she agrees.
When he tilts her face and kisses her, she isn't sure if it is a punishment or a comfort. She knows it's desperation at least, his nose bumping into hers hard and his fingers clutching at her jacket.
Forget humanity. Just feel human, and kiss the sorrows on his skin until they're all hers too. Saul. Her cancer. Earth. Oh, Earth.
His mouth is warm, but his cheek is cold as she touches it, and she opens his jacket enough to slip both hands in and warm them against the cloth of his uniform. It doesn't feel close enough, and she half wishes she could frak him here, on Earth's unpromising soil, release some emotions in sweat and skin and lose herself in the hum between their bodies.
But not now, she knows. For one, she can see D'Anna not too far away, watching lightning play in the distance and looking as desolate as everyone else. Almost like they're one people now by emotion rather than blood. For another, there are decisions to be made, books to be burned, futures to be crossed out and a new purpose to be found.
They did once.
"I don't know what to do," she whispers, and Bill kisses the corner of her mouth softly, lingering. He doesn't either, she thinks. They never had a plan beyond finding Earth. They never envisioned this, never considered what Earth might be beyond a concept and a carrot.
Failure of leadership. No. They all did this. Failure of humanity, then. Failure of Cylons. Failure of hope. So much will fall apart now, so much they've bound together with the promise of this planet.
She almost wishes there were survivors on this planet, so she could scream at them for doing this.
"I know," he says, and moves so that she's halfway across his lap, almost as if he's trying to shield her from this planet. "I love you."
"Me too," she says after a beat, and crooks her head under his chin. She can see Lee looking at them for a moment, then walking away and towards Kara.
There's still the family. Sharing sorrows, touching each other's grief. There's even the Caprica Six and Tigh, hands linked, looking so very human in their skins.
So much will fall apart, she thinks. But maybe not everything. Maybe not. Hopefully not.
Hope. Such a treacherous thing. It gave them this, and still she can't seem to let go. Not when they've come this far, not when Bill's pressing a kiss against her wrist and Earth's rain is kissing them both.
Hope. She can't erase it. She'll just have to grieve for it.
They always seem to have to.
FIN
