Disclaimer: "Battlestar Galactica," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Ron Moore, David Eick, SciFi, R&D TV, Sky TV, and USA Cable Entertainment LLC. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with "Battlestar Galactica," SciFi, or any representatives of the actors whose characters are involved.
Author’s Notes: I wrote this in a couple of hours. It's a short little ficlet that may or may not be accurate but a bunny slammed me in the face, so it got written. I do not own BSG
When I found your body I was distraught. I managed to call the sickbay and they came to take you to Life Station. The doctors tried to save your life, but it was worthless. There was no pulse. It was too late. You were gone.
The doctor said you wouldn’t live. That it didn’t matter if you woke up, you would never be able to function like you once did, but Fisk wanted to keep you on life support. So the doctors fixed up your forehead with cosmetic surgery and hooked you up to machines that sustained your life. It wouldn’t make a difference.
I wondered if you had ever given Fisk the same speech you had given to me. I can still hear your voice so clearly in my mind. “Sometimes we have to leave people behind so that we can go on. So that we can continue to fight.” I knew you wouldn’t want to exist like this. You wouldn’t want to be the burden for the ship to carry, no matter how much your officers respected you.
I can say that none of us wanted to see you die. Yet we let you exist on machines that pumped air through your lungs for two days. They were the hardest days that the crew had experienced since the attack. You merely existed. Feeding them false hope that you would open your eyes and miraculously be healed from all brain damage. There were several ceremonies though out those two days, sending thoughts and prayers to the Lords of Kobol.
Then Adama ordered the doctors to let you go.
The next day was your funeral. You were given a soldier’s burial with full military honors. I regret that we weren’t able to find the Cylon that shot you and it weighed heavily on my mind during the service. Colonel Fisk and Captain Thrace spoke. Their words were empty and hollow.
None of them could have known you as I did. There’s a loop in my mind that plays various clips of our brief life together. The way your lips felt against mine. The way your skin felt, the way your fingers ran through my hair. I can feel myself chasing a ghost. I would give anything to be there when she shot you, to comfort you in your last conscious moments.
That won’t happen.
Colonel Fisk took command. Your office was populated with chairs. Your pictures and your weapons removed. It is unlike the place I am familiar with. When entering Fisk’s office he asks me to take a seat. I tell him no and that I am very comfortable standing, five minutes later he puts me on kitchen duty.
No commander of the Pegasus has even come close to matching you. You lived and breathe your command. Fisk was a black market sell-out and Garner was a micro-manager. Lee Adama is an outsider. He made me his first officer, if only to show that he respects you, but I wish it had been you that had given me my insignia. That it was you I was serving under.
When I found out someone had to stay behind and detonate the nuclear warhead I was relieved. I wanted off of the Pegasus. I never saw myself belonging on a crew of a battlestar anyway. When the nuke went off, I was relieved. I was free. I didn’t want to serve under anyone but you and you alone.
My Admiral, my love.
You were the one that lead that led the ship to Galactica and you alone deserved the command.