prowler_pilot: (Plotbunny)
[personal profile] prowler_pilot
I was working on another fic but it was raining yesterday and it put me in a 'fall' mood. It's bad and makes no sense and it made me realize that I don't know how to write Elizabeth anymore, but at least I've broken the curse.

Title: It was a dark and stormy night
Fandom: BSG, SGA
Characters: Laura Roslin, Elizabeth Weir
Timeline: BSG – early season 4, SGA – season 2-3
Wordcount: around 1,000.

Elizabeth was not surprised to find her in the small common room they had set up on the top level of the tower. She was curled up on the sofa with her legs tucked underneath her and a bed cover draped around her shoulders like an afghan. Her pumps lay, discarded, on the floor beside the couch. She held a steaming mug in one hand, while the other supported her head as she watched the storm raging outside.

She did not seem to notice when Elizabeth stepped into the room and sank into one of the armchairs, leaving the book she had with her on the small coffee table. She took a sip of Athosian tea from her own mug, enjoying a moment of silence and relaxation after a long day spent in her office.

“That’s a pretty big storm.” She said, her eyes going from the other woman to the glass walls and the roaring sea beyond. She received no answer. Elizabeth brought the mug back to her lips with a self-conscious gesture and let her gaze drift back to the President of the Twelve colonies, sitting in stubborn silence a few meters from her. Roslin’s crew had flown back to the Galactica with a team of Earth technicians to supervise the repairs and upgrades on the ship. Her presence wasn’t required, and she had stayed behind on Atlantis.

“It doesn’t rain too often on Lantea, but when it does, it really pours.” A shiver ran through her, memories of the Genii attack still vivid in her mind. She shook them off; telling war stories was not how you made small talk with someone whose entire civilization has been wiped out by their enemies. As the echo of her voice died, the room returned silent but for the pattering of the rain against the panes and the waves crashing angrily over the lower sections of the city.

She almost missed the sigh coming from the sofa.

“I hated the rain on New Caprica. It leaked into the tents and soaked into my sweater and through my socks when I walked to the school in the morning. The air was so cold and humid that I had to spend the entire day in my wet clothes because they wouldn’t dry. Sometimes I used to think I would never feel dry again.”

The woman spoke in a low voice, and Elizabeth almost couldn’t hear her over the sounds of the rainstorm. It was almost as if she was talking to no one, lost in her own thoughts like so many of her crew, but then she wouldn’t have made the effort of using English. Roslin knew how much Elizabeth craved to learn about their civilization and their ordeal, but she wasn’t always in the mood to indulge her curiosity.

She was a formidable woman: sharp-witted, strong-willed and fearless in the pursuit of her goals, but her temper ran short beneath her poised, business-like exterior. Despite the years of training and field experience in diplomatic relations, Elizabeth still wasn’t sure of how to approach her when her office desk wasn’t between them. By now she knew how to address President Roslin; she had mastered all the steps of the little political dance they did at every official meeting. It was Laura Roslin the woman she could not yet grasp.

Elizabeth turned her head in her direction, signaling that she had her attention, but she didn’t speak. The older woman was still staring out the window, but she must have caught Elizabeth’s movement out of the corner of her eye, because she resumed her story.

“If it rained long enough, it would turn the soil into mud. I stopped cleaning my shoes after a while, it just wasn’t worth it. I can still hear it in my head, that squishy sound they made as I sank to my ankles into that stupid muck.” Anger seeped into her heavily accented voice, and her mouth twisted in a grimace of distaste. She drained the rest of the contents of her mug, and then perched it on the armrest of the sofa. With both of her hands free, she wrapped herself tighter into her makeshift afghan.

“I cursed myself, because the first time it rained on that frakking planet I welcomed it. I liked it. I had spent so much time holed up on Colonial One with no other noise than the hum of the ship’s engines and the smell of recycled air and stale sweat that when it started raining, that day, it felt like a gift from the gods.”

Lightning crackled across the night sky, giving them a brief view of the waves fighting the wind hundreds of meters below them. Elizabeth thought she saw Roslin’s lips curl in a wistful smile around the rim of her mug.

“This is…” she paused for a second, running her fingers through her short hair in a vain attempt to comb it backwards. It was growing back nicely after Carson had managed to reactivate the cylon cells in her body, but the rich auburn of the pictures she had seen was now peppered by streaks of grey. “…this is pleasant. It feels more like Caprica City.”

“Did it rain often there?” Elizabeth asked tentatively.

Roslin seemed to think about the answer for a second, then shook her head. “Not really. But I used to like rainy evenings in Caprica City, sitting in my chair with a drink and a good novel.” She reached over to pick up the book Elizabeth had left on the coffee table, and then frowned lightly as she tried to read the title. “Like you were planning to do tonight.” She thumbed through the book and then put it back on the table. “I prefer mystery novels though. That’s why I loved the rain, it added to the ambiance.”

Elizabeth made a quick mental survey of her library. “Would you like one? I have some classics with me that might interest you.”

“A mystery novel from Earth’s future.” Roslin finally looked intrigued, a playful smirk ghosting over her face.

Elizabeth’s eyebrows arched as a smile of her own found its way to her lips. “By one of the best mystery writers of the planet.”

“No less.” She said in mocking seriousness. An expression she must have picked up from McKay, no doubt.

Elizabeth stood up and nodded towards the door. “We can take the transporter straight to the quarters area, unless you prefer to walk.”

“I haven’t said yes yet.” Elizabeth’s spirits fell, but before she could think of something else to say, Roslin spoke again. “Does your offer include a refill on this?” A finger hooked through the handle, the President jiggled her empty mug at Elizabeth’s eye-level. Another smirk was playing at the corners of her lips.

“We can stop by the mess hall on our way to my quarters.” She conceded, picking up her own mug and the book.

“Perfect.” Roslin whispered, and slipped her feet into her shoes.
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April 2017


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