A/N: Yet another take in the 'stages-of-grief' type of snapshot project I intend to carry out. A glimpse of Lee Adama treading into waters of rage in the aftermath of Dee's demise, this time. Could be considered a companion piece to 'Taught by Thirst', but is well off as a stand-alone too.
Featuring Chief Tyrol. Set sometime before the events in 'A Disquiet Follows My Soul', season 4.
Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot-points, inherent to the show, belong to me.
But one acquaintance*
The trickiest part was – he couldn't hate her. Ever. The one thing that would incessantly make losing her virtually unbearable, on a good day. Starting way back from when she wasn't even his enough to lose, yet. That each and every time he'd come close to being angry at her would ultimately come down to self-inflicted rage over her being right, or justified, or upset, or leaving, didn't help matters either. He remembered it being simpler back in the day. When Zack died, he'd just hate his father till it hurt more than it hurt to endure the loss. When Kara perished, he'd retreat into hating his rank, for having to pull a dutiful CAG and goading her back into the cockpit, and his father, for persistently pushing him into being something that had effectively cost them both Zack and Kara so far.
What was there to hate that time around? Irradiated Earth could've seemed the most apparent culprit if it weren't so frakking pointless to hate the extinct civilization for having paid the price for her life millennia before it was ever conceived. Hating Laura Roslin or Kara, to boot, for bringing them all to the Promised wasteland, would've done for the time being, were it not his own self to champion the mission on Kobol once, to pry the Tomb of Athena open. Wishing he'd been clueless in astronomy and never recognized the Gods damned Lagoon Nebula did little to help ease his muted turmoil.
The Admiral was originally the one to even bring Earth up – no more than a forged up myth to offer a fighting chance of getting through, of getting somewhere, back then – but since he found his father bawling on the floor, vulnerable and bereft, like a frightened child, he honestly didn't believe he'd have it in him to hate the Old Man again. So, it figured, he might as well take up Gaeta's cue and settle for hating himself. At least that wouldn't be anything he wasn't used to. He'd perfected the technique over the years. The choke-hold of self-loathing never failed to come handy.
Until it did. He could wish with all his might the newfound inability to wallow in flagellation to be the aftermath of escalating megalomania, the taste of power triggered, if he didn't know better. If she didn't know better. She was proud and meant it. And much to his own astonishment, he intended to keep it that way even if it killed him, which from the way he felt, as of lately, might not be such an unwelcome alternative, after all. Incidentally, any occasion he'd exercised self-hatred before, infallibly rendered her less than thrilled, let alone proud. So that one was obviously a no-go, then on. And since he'd already figured out he was unable to conjure a single scrap of disdain directed at her, at her smile and grace, nor at her aptitude to read him quite literally from beyond the grave, deadlocked he was into what pain didn't quite come close to describing. No escape. No solace. The story of his life.
***
"Did it help?" – He couldn't be certain to have intended it spelled out loud.
Former 'Chief' Tyrol (he had to wonder if it was supposed to be former 'Galen Tyrol' too) was staring at him quizzically from across the office. There was no doubt hearing out firsthand what the Cylons had to offer in terms of boosting up Colonial FTL technology was of paramount priority, but he still couldn't keep his mind from wandering astray. Chief would know, wouldn't he? Cylon or not, Tyrol would be savvy in matters of surviving the hour-to-hour torture of having missed the clues, of having held back on explicit care and undemanding affection, of having had and lost. Unless, of course, Galen's people actually came up with a way to turn that particular anguish off. Which, judging from the way Tigh still reacted whenever Ellen's name was brought up, they apparently hadn't.
"Did what help? I don't think I know what you mean."
Tyrol was on the defensive, immediately, he noticed, a common stance with former Chief lately. Being an outed Cylon having to deal with the one person hell-bent on having airlocked you mere days earlier would fuel a Hades of a paranoia, it figured.
"The things you said about Cally the other day. That she wasn't the one you wanted, to begin with. Does it hurt less?" – He could see Tyrol's expression cloud even as he spoke, and, more likely than not, he was already way beyond the line with that, but he had to know.
"No."
Chief's reply was nothing, if not earnest, and deep down he was all too aware it ought to be taken at face value, but he just couldn't let the issue slide that easily. Not that time. His ultimate fighting chance to figure a way out of the chilly hollow, desolation carved, was at stake.
"C'mon Chief! You didn't mean it the first time around. You wanted to be with Sharon, but had to settle for whoever was available…"
His head connected with the wall, ensuing a blunt thud, sooner than he managed to get the message across. Galen's face, inches away from his own in a heartbeat, contorted into something too closely resembling insanity for him to consider fighting back full force at the moment.
"You don't know the first thing about my wife!" – Chief's hand burrowed tighter into his throat, effectively aborting his grunt.
Truth be told, he needed that. Corporal pain. Craved the physical reminder how to experience anything other than the frigid pull of duty, getting him through the days so far. The shadow left Tyrol's countenance as quickly as it was evoked, replaced by what he could've taken for wary understanding, were the edge of the frown, he was forced to witness, less bitter.
"Sorry, Apollo. I can't help you." – Much to his disappointment, Chief's fist unclenched, midway to his jaw, as the fierce grip on his collar was released.
That was just it, he mused, panting hungrily for air. None of it could be helped. The demolished Colonies. Earth. Devastation. Dee. He didn't hesitate to venture an educated guess the ma… Cy… Tyrol's stare, fixed vacantly on the bulkhead over his shoulder, was as devoid of hope as his own.
*Pain has but one Acquaintance
And that is Death –
Each one unto the other
Society enough.
Pain is the Junior Party
By just a Second's right –
Death tenderly assists Him
And then absconds from Sight.
Featuring Chief Tyrol. Set sometime before the events in 'A Disquiet Follows My Soul', season 4.
Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot-points, inherent to the show, belong to me.
But one acquaintance*
The trickiest part was – he couldn't hate her. Ever. The one thing that would incessantly make losing her virtually unbearable, on a good day. Starting way back from when she wasn't even his enough to lose, yet. That each and every time he'd come close to being angry at her would ultimately come down to self-inflicted rage over her being right, or justified, or upset, or leaving, didn't help matters either. He remembered it being simpler back in the day. When Zack died, he'd just hate his father till it hurt more than it hurt to endure the loss. When Kara perished, he'd retreat into hating his rank, for having to pull a dutiful CAG and goading her back into the cockpit, and his father, for persistently pushing him into being something that had effectively cost them both Zack and Kara so far.
What was there to hate that time around? Irradiated Earth could've seemed the most apparent culprit if it weren't so frakking pointless to hate the extinct civilization for having paid the price for her life millennia before it was ever conceived. Hating Laura Roslin or Kara, to boot, for bringing them all to the Promised wasteland, would've done for the time being, were it not his own self to champion the mission on Kobol once, to pry the Tomb of Athena open. Wishing he'd been clueless in astronomy and never recognized the Gods damned Lagoon Nebula did little to help ease his muted turmoil.
The Admiral was originally the one to even bring Earth up – no more than a forged up myth to offer a fighting chance of getting through, of getting somewhere, back then – but since he found his father bawling on the floor, vulnerable and bereft, like a frightened child, he honestly didn't believe he'd have it in him to hate the Old Man again. So, it figured, he might as well take up Gaeta's cue and settle for hating himself. At least that wouldn't be anything he wasn't used to. He'd perfected the technique over the years. The choke-hold of self-loathing never failed to come handy.
Until it did. He could wish with all his might the newfound inability to wallow in flagellation to be the aftermath of escalating megalomania, the taste of power triggered, if he didn't know better. If she didn't know better. She was proud and meant it. And much to his own astonishment, he intended to keep it that way even if it killed him, which from the way he felt, as of lately, might not be such an unwelcome alternative, after all. Incidentally, any occasion he'd exercised self-hatred before, infallibly rendered her less than thrilled, let alone proud. So that one was obviously a no-go, then on. And since he'd already figured out he was unable to conjure a single scrap of disdain directed at her, at her smile and grace, nor at her aptitude to read him quite literally from beyond the grave, deadlocked he was into what pain didn't quite come close to describing. No escape. No solace. The story of his life.
***
"Did it help?" – He couldn't be certain to have intended it spelled out loud.
Former 'Chief' Tyrol (he had to wonder if it was supposed to be former 'Galen Tyrol' too) was staring at him quizzically from across the office. There was no doubt hearing out firsthand what the Cylons had to offer in terms of boosting up Colonial FTL technology was of paramount priority, but he still couldn't keep his mind from wandering astray. Chief would know, wouldn't he? Cylon or not, Tyrol would be savvy in matters of surviving the hour-to-hour torture of having missed the clues, of having held back on explicit care and undemanding affection, of having had and lost. Unless, of course, Galen's people actually came up with a way to turn that particular anguish off. Which, judging from the way Tigh still reacted whenever Ellen's name was brought up, they apparently hadn't.
"Did what help? I don't think I know what you mean."
Tyrol was on the defensive, immediately, he noticed, a common stance with former Chief lately. Being an outed Cylon having to deal with the one person hell-bent on having airlocked you mere days earlier would fuel a Hades of a paranoia, it figured.
"The things you said about Cally the other day. That she wasn't the one you wanted, to begin with. Does it hurt less?" – He could see Tyrol's expression cloud even as he spoke, and, more likely than not, he was already way beyond the line with that, but he had to know.
"No."
Chief's reply was nothing, if not earnest, and deep down he was all too aware it ought to be taken at face value, but he just couldn't let the issue slide that easily. Not that time. His ultimate fighting chance to figure a way out of the chilly hollow, desolation carved, was at stake.
"C'mon Chief! You didn't mean it the first time around. You wanted to be with Sharon, but had to settle for whoever was available…"
His head connected with the wall, ensuing a blunt thud, sooner than he managed to get the message across. Galen's face, inches away from his own in a heartbeat, contorted into something too closely resembling insanity for him to consider fighting back full force at the moment.
"You don't know the first thing about my wife!" – Chief's hand burrowed tighter into his throat, effectively aborting his grunt.
Truth be told, he needed that. Corporal pain. Craved the physical reminder how to experience anything other than the frigid pull of duty, getting him through the days so far. The shadow left Tyrol's countenance as quickly as it was evoked, replaced by what he could've taken for wary understanding, were the edge of the frown, he was forced to witness, less bitter.
"Sorry, Apollo. I can't help you." – Much to his disappointment, Chief's fist unclenched, midway to his jaw, as the fierce grip on his collar was released.
That was just it, he mused, panting hungrily for air. None of it could be helped. The demolished Colonies. Earth. Devastation. Dee. He didn't hesitate to venture an educated guess the ma… Cy… Tyrol's stare, fixed vacantly on the bulkhead over his shoulder, was as devoid of hope as his own.
*Pain has but one Acquaintance
And that is Death –
Each one unto the other
Society enough.
Pain is the Junior Party
By just a Second's right –
Death tenderly assists Him
And then absconds from Sight.
