#february prompts

Never say goodbye, always say I’ll see you later.  He had never lived like this before.  He had always been sure to say goodbye.  He never knew if he would see them again.  He had been the one in danger then.  It was him leaving.  He hadn’t said goodbye to Zak.  There had been no reason to.  He was training.  There had been no real danger.  There is always danger he had learned.  Always say goodbye.  I could be the last time you see the ones you love.

After the end of the world everything had changed.  It was her now, Madam President, Laura.  He was living in constant fear that every time he saw her it would be the last time.  Something would happen while he was away and he would never see her smile again.  They would call him to sick bay, but it would be too late.  She would already be gone.  If she would allow it he would never leave her side.  He knew better than to ask.  He knew what she would say.  She needed him to lead their people, take them home and hold everything together.  “Even when it’s falling apart” he would add.  “Even when I’m falling apart” he would keep to himself.  He always said “I’ll see you later.”  In my quarters, in sick bay, in CIC, in the wardroom, in the maze of halls.  I will see you.

“You will,” she would always reply, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.  She probably did.  It wouldn’t be the first time she could read his thoughts.  She was reassuring him.  Promising, as long as it was under her control, that he would be seeing her later.  In the maze of halls, in the wardroom, in CIC, in his quarters, she would do her best to make sure it wasn’t in sick bay.  He would see her.

In the darkness of his quarters when the day was done, she would tell him that even on her final day it wouldn’t be goodbye.  It may be a year, 10 or even 20, but she would see him later.  She would be one of those waiting for him on the shore, waiting for his ship to come sailing in, waiting with Zak, his mother and anyone else he had loved that had gone before him.  All waiting to welcome him to the rest of their immortal lives.

He’d simply smile.  He didn’t believe they would meet again, or he hadn’t in the past, she knew that.  Too many things had happened to make him doubt the existence of the gods or even the one God of the Cylons.  Now he wanted to believe for her.  He wanted to believe that after their last “I’ll see you later,” when she didn’t respond “You will,” he would just have to wait a little longer to see her again.  It might seem like forever until that day came, but when it did nothing would ever separate them again.

So he never says goodbye, always says I’ll see you later.

Love is a funny thing, she mused to herself.  It can be present for ages, simmering under the surface, taking different forms before showing itself truly.  In hindsight it had been that way for them, at least she believed that; he might never admit it.  It seemed he was incapable of that kind of love.  There had always been something there, but she always gave it some other name, he would never acknowledge its existence.  He was her partner in running the household, they worked very closely together; of course she would be concerned when something happened to him.  He was her friend, they had known each other for a very long time, lived in close quarters, understood what the other dealt with on a daily basis.  They would never, could never, be more.  One day she would retire or he would retire, he would die or she would die and life would have to go on.  Their warm friendship would be enough for the one left behind.

She was happy, enough.  He seemed happy, until that letter came and she found herself picking it out of his waste paper basket.  She shouldn’t have stuck her nose into his business, but he was upset.  She needed to know why and fix it if she was able.  He would forgive her in the end.  He always did.

He was angry.  Possibly more angry than she had ever seen him before.  It wasn’t fading as it usually did.  She was beginning to doubt she would be forgiven.  He may forgive Mrs. Crawley for her involvement, but she was sure she would be joining Mr. Grigg in the ranks of the unforgiven.  This may have been a mistake.

Then she found him searching through a box, for an old photograph of all things.  The look that crossed his face when he found it was one she had not witnessed from him before, from others, yes, but not him.  Love, real love, the remembrance of it at least.  Charles Carson had been in love and hurt deeply.  The way he said her name proved that.  Everything was beginning to make sense now.  And she was sad.  Sad that his heart had been broken and instead of allowing it to heal he had locked its pieces away, festering, preventing himself from loving anyone else.  She needed to help him heal.  Show him that love didn’t always hurt in the end.  She would have to push him again and hope that someday he would forgive her.

When he came to the railway station, appearing out of the smoke, she had been astonished.  She truly hadn’t expected him or the handshake she witnessed before the train pulled away.  The healing was begun and she was glad.  When he allowed her to walk back to The Abbey with him, she thought she might be forgiven.  Halfway through their silent walk, when he thanked her, she was sure she had been.

She risked their new balance when she sneaked into his pantry, once she was sure he had started the dinner service, and searched for the old photograph.  It didn’t take long.  It wasn’t prominently displayed, but she knew him well enough to know it would be within sight if he were to look up while working in his ledgers.  And there it was, partially obscured, leaning between his lamp and completed ledgers.  She could do better than that for him.

The silver frame she had found was simple, but had weight; he would be able to tell the quality once he had it in hand.  If pressed she would simply say it was his birthday soon, so he shouldn’t expect anything then.  Deflection was the cornerstone of their relationship.  Never let the other know how you truly feel.  Hide behind some witty comment or sarcastic retort.  She would let him come to terms with everything in his own time, just as she had been doing.  He would get there in the end.

Love was a funny thing, she still mused to herself.  She wasn’t sure what had happened to that old photograph of Alice.  One day the frame had gone missing from its usual place on his desk and she hadn’t wanted to press him.  He was free to decorate as he pleased.  Then, one morning, she noticed its return to the corner of his desk.  The old photograph replaced by a new.  Weddings were such happy occasions.

Dear Diary,

Does anyone even write in diaries anymore?  Or are they just not called diaries?  Since the last entry in this book is from 1945 and I found it while tidying boxes that have been in the garage since I came to the Blake household, I can assume it was no longer in my fashion or the Blake men had always had a talent for keeping me busy.

But I need someone to talk to now.  Someone who isn’t going to silently grind his teeth and attempt not to scowl at me across the dinner table like Matthew.  I know he isn’t angry with me, but with Lucien.  He has trouble sometimes directing his anger when the object of his ire isn’t present and there is no one else to take their place.  But his presence does help.  I’m not sure what I would do if I had been left alone in this house with no one to take care of.  I think it helps Matthew as well, thinking he is taking care of me when Lucien cannot.

Someone who isn’t going to send me constant looks of concern as we sit sipping our tea, trying to pretend there is nothing wrong like Alice.  Both of us missing the man who causes us so much exasperation, but unwilling to discuss it, fearful of what may happen if we say what we are really feeling.  Alice is angry as well, but better at hiding it than Matthew.  There was something about to happen before he left and now that he is gone it can’t.  They don’t speak of it, but I have been there before.  I know the signs.  She wants to be angry, speak to someone who would understand, but I can no longer be that person for her.

Someone who calls to tell me that he wishes he could come home, because I am his home now, wishes he could be there for me, but cannot like Charlie.  He is doing well, quickly rising in the ranks, keeping his eyes and ears open for any new information that he thinks I need to know.  It is unlikely that he will ever come back here for more than a visit.  That is something I am learning to live with, even though I make sure his room is ready in case he has need of it.  I am not his mother, but if I were to have another son it would be him- the boy my heart has claimed as my own.  Losing him had been hard, but the loss of Lucien soon after made it worse.

Someone who isn’t going to arrive with folders upon folders of leads and new information trying her best to treat this like just another story she is researching like Rose.  I am just another possible widow to pump for information.  I know it’s all a cover.  I can see it when her hand slightly shakes as she hands me some new information she has dug up or the slight crack in her voice when she asks a question she knows she should not.

Someone who isn’t 10,000 miles away like Mattie.  She writes to me often, more often than when Lucien was here, but then her letters were longer, full of the things she was learning and doing, the people she had met, the odd old doctor who remembered a young Lucien Blake.  Her letters are shorter now, no updates on how she is other than well, all worry for me, wishes that she were closer.  She’s not telling me something, she has important news, happy news.  I can almost feel how badly she wants to share, but she never does.  Part of me wants to force her hand, make her tell me to take my mind off of everything.  She thinks it will hurt me, knowing that she has found happiness when I have lost mine.

Someone who doesn’t spend their call trying to convince me that it will be better if I leave.  Convincing me that everything I am trying not to feel will not follow me on the journey to Adelaide like Christopher.  Come and see the baby, who is not a baby any longer, as if the small girl will be able to fill the large hole left in her Gram’s chest by her Dadoo.

I will admit it is a tempting offer, getting away, if only for a bit, would be good for me.  A little voice in the back of my head says ‘But what if he comes home and you’re not here?  What will he think?  That you gave up on him.’ every time I pull out my suitcase to begin to pack.  I would never be able to forgive myself if I were not here to welcome him home.

It has been 4 months.  I try not to lose hope.  He could walk through the front door at any moment.  Matthew gently reminds me that every day he is gone the less likely he is to return.  He doesn’t say it, but I hear him adding ‘alive’ to his statement.  A policeman, Matthew, Charlie, Danny, Bill or one that I don’t know is just as likely to walk through the front door with the news that Lucien is never coming home.  At least it won’t be a telegram this time.

Dear Diary, I hope I can come to you when there is no one else I can speak to.  When I would turn to Lucien, but I can’t now.  I may never be able to again.

His fist few into Mr. Murray’s jaw before he realized what was happening.  The crack and moan that quickly followed the impact startled him back into reality.  He looked up into the shocked faces surrounding him, he was sure they were mirrors of his own.  There was no movement save for Mr. Murray falling into the nearest chair, cradling his head.  Even Carson couldn’t move, his fist was still clenched, now hanging from his side, ready to strike again if need be.

He wasn’t a violent man.  It had been decades since he had been forced to use physical means.  He didn’t know what had come over him.  One minute he had entered the servants hall to deliver the afternoon post, the next found that post on the floor at his feet.  He had heard Mrs. Hughes name and several statements that should have never been linked to her, let alone any other woman of quality and his instincts had taken over.

He heard her steps making their way down the hall, probably drawn by the unnatural quiet that had fallen.  He felt the room tense in anticipation of her arrival.  When she found out what had happened she wouldn’t be appreciative.

As she turned into the doorway, he heard her exclaim:

“Whatever is going on in here?”

He didn’t dare look in her direction or attempt to make eye contact.  She could read him far too well.  He could feel her eyes on him, pausing on her survey of the room.  Her intake of breath informed him when she finally fell upon Mr. Murray slumped in the chair.

“Mr. Murray, what happened?”

Mr. Murray looked up and caught his eye, clearly receiving the message that he should not tell the truth and make himself scarce as quickly as possible.

“Nothing at all Mrs. Hughes.  I was feeling a little under the weather and your staff was kind enough to let me sit down before I made my way back into town.  I’m feeling much better now, so I’ll be on my way.”

Mr. Murray quickly pushed his chair back from the table and turned away from Mrs. Hughes and made his way out of the servants hall before she could see his face.  The hall stayed silent until they heard the back door slam shut.  There was a moment of silence before Mrs. Hughes spoke.

“Mr. Carson,” she started, her eyes falling to the post scattered at her feet.  “Could I have a word, please?”

It may have sounded like a question but it in no way was.  She finally made eye contact with him, then slowly turned and left the hall.  He listened to her retreating footsteps, too many for his pantry, just enough for her sitting room.  That was where he was to report.

He quickly waved at Thomas to pick up the post and wordlessly asked him to deal with it.  He tried to find a stride that was neither too fast, showing he was hurrying and possibly hiding something, nor too slow, showing he had no respect for her request.

The door to her sitting room was ajar, he let himself in and closed the door behind him.  She was sitting at her desk, her back to him, writing in one of her ledgers.  She knew he was there.  It was in his best interest to wait.  A minute passed before she capped and laid down her pen.

“Would you like to tell me what was really going on or would you like me to guess?”  she asked, slowly turning in her chair to look at him pointedly.

It wouldn’t hurt to try the lie again, he convinced himself.

“Mr. Murray was feeling poorly, he nearly needed a short rest before he headed back into the village.”  It sounded convincing enough to him.

“Mr. Carson,” the look that accompanied the chastising tone clearly showed him she didn’t believe a word of it.  “I wasn’t born yesterday.  Mr. Murray was clearly cradling his jaw and had quite the mark starting to form as he rushed passed me.”

“You noticed that?”

“I did.  I also noticed that your right hand is clutched in a rather tight fist and has been for some time is its color is any indication.”

He looked down and noticed that even now his fist was still clenched, sporting red and white blotches.  If he wasn’t mistaken there was some purple starting to appear as well.  He unclenched his fist slowly anticipating the pain he knew would come.  Trying to mask his wince he returned his eyes to hers.

“The truth?”  She asked.

“The truth.”  He started.  “The truth.”  Then paused again.

“Mr. Carson, come sit down.”  She waved him to the chair closest to her.

He hesitated for a moment, then crossed to take the seat.  When she reached out and took his injured hand in hers, it was the last thing that he had expected.  She turned it over several times before she spoke.

“Would you like to know what I believe happened?”  She asked rhetorically.  She had yet to make eye contact with him since he had sat down, keeping her eyes instead on their hands.  “Heading to the servants hall to distribute the afternoon post, you heard raised voices.  Upon entering you found Mr. Murray making some rather unflattering and disparaging comments about a member of this household.  I can only imagine what he could have been saying about Lady Mary that would cause you to strike him.”

“It was you.”  He tried to whisper.

“What was me?”  She questioned.

“The things he was saying.  They weren’t about Lady Mary.  They were about you.”

Her head shot up.  “What could he possibly have been saying about me that would cause you to strike him?”

He took a deep breath.  “Needless to say, such statements should not be repeated, but you may take my word that he deserved what he got and more.”

His eyes were focused on the wall behind her shoulder; he could feel her staring at him.  He didn’t want to see her look of disappointment.

“Well,” she nearly huffed, “I’ll not press you further, but trust that you were justified in your actions.”

“Thank you Mrs. Hughes.”  He ventured to make eye contact again.  She wasn’t pleased, he had expected that.  There was something else though, just in her eyes.  It might have been appreciation or, maybe, something else entirely.  She gave him a small smile, unexpectedly, before turning her attention back to his hand.

“Now, how are you going to serve dinner with this hand?  His Lordship is sure to notice.”

Who are you?  Where did you come from?  These questions were a constant in that first year.  If they didn’t pass her lips every day, she was, at bear minimum, thinking them.  Stewing, trying to use her investigators mind to determine the answers for herself.  She had a few leads, but his five passports in five different names from five different countries gave her endless threads to follow.

The people from his past who popped into their lives from time to time were of no help either.  They were just as mysterious, with multiple names themselves, protecting their secrets as well as his.  Daniel, Felicia, all of the others were of no help, only gave her more threads to follow.

When Murphy and Bernice left her she still wondered- Who was he?  Where did he come from?  But the questions were no longer her constant companions.  She was filled with worry instead.  Would they be able to make this work?  The two of them, when she didn’t even know his real name.  He was there though.  That was more than could be said for the others.  The questions only flared now.  Came upon her when she was scared.  Scared that he was getting too close to her, to being the Remington Steele she had imagined.  The perfect man and partner.

She had said things.  He had said things.  They both had said things that she wished they had never said.  Now they were both asking- Who are you?  Where did you come from?  Both searching for answers, separately.  He wouldn’t be back without answers for her.  She was beginning to think she didn’t need answers, she just needed him, Remington Steele.  Follow the leads, she told herself, and you’ll find him.  He may have found his own answers.

It seemed every time they thought they had found the answers to- Who are you?  Where did you come from?  They found that it was just more lies.  Ireland was all they seemed to know for sure.  His mother had died.  In childbirth, not long after, just a few years ago?  They couldn’t be sure.  A father was found, then lost in the same day.  He had the wrong color eyes.  She no longer cared, but he did now.  He wanted to be able to give her something other than the Remington Steele lie.

They were forced to marry.  Again they said things to each other, did things to each other.  She couldn’t believe that- Who are you?  Where did you come from?  Had come to this.  They may have found his father, under their noses the whole time, hidden by lies upon lies.  They would never know for sure.  He was dead and buried.  In Russia, completing his final con.  A castle and a title, a gift from a father who was not to be but claimed him in the stead of his own lost son.

Now he is Lord Remington Steele, The Earl of Claridge.  Not the answer she had expected when she had asked: Who are you? all those times, but neither had she expected to become Lady Laura Holt-Steele, Countess of Claridge.

A simple phrase, said in passing.  It was amazing she had heard it at all.  There was so much going on around them, his face buried in some report, she had already turned to go, but it stopped her in her tracks.  She turned back to him, hoping her face remained neutral.  His head was still down, he seemed completely unaware of what he had just said.  She took a quick survey of those around him, but they too had their heads buried in their work.

“Bill?”

“Yeah?”  He replied, briefly raising his head to make eye contact; his face betraying nothing.

Maybe she had imagined it.  There had been times lately when she had had difficulty determining what was real and what was only in her head.  She shook her head, trying to clear it.

“Nothing.  I’ll see you later.”  She wave him back to his work.

“Yeah, okay.”  He simply replied, though there was a confused look that passed over his face as he spoke.  She could feel his eyes following her out the hatch and could practically see him shaking his head at her.

For the rest of the day it was on her mind.  Not front and center, but hanging there just around the edges, waiting for a quiet moment to remind her.  It wasn’t that she believed that those words could never come out of Bill Adama’s mouth, far from it.  She was sure he had probably said that at some point in the last few months, but when they were alone, Bill and Laura, not The Admiral and The President in the middle of the CIC.  

The Admiral and The President tried to carry on as if nothing were wrong, nothing had changed.  They pretended that she wasn’t dying with no hope of survival this time.  Bill and Laura knew it was only a matter of time, her treatment could only extend her life so far.  There would be a point when she would no longer be able to function.  They were making the most of the time they had left.

Meetings done for the day and nothing else to keep her mind active, she mused as she made her way to his cabin instead of the small room that she had been given onboard when Cottle had insisted on keeping her close for medical reasons.  “Remember your nap” It echoed in her head as she made her way through his darkened cabin.  She did try to make time to a least rest every afternoon.  Most of the time she ended up on the couch with a few reports to keep her company.  Her eyes never really closed.  It helped to be able to put her feet up and let a few of her cares fall to the wayside for a few minutes.

Today was a day to indulge though.  She bypassed the couched she usually curled into the corner of and made her way straight to the rack.  If he was going to remind her to take her nap, she was going to take full advantage and take a real one today.  He wouldn’t be home for a bit yet if everything went well.  A little time for herself before their ‘dinner meeting’; just another of his excuse to keep an eye on her and make sure she was eating.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she heard the hatch open and close carefully, as it could never be done quietly.  He was moving about the cabin, maybe in search of her or maybe on his way to his desk to complete the never ending reports they were presented with.  She was loath to open her eyes, now that they had been closed, to find out.  He was getting closer, the volume of his shuffling increasing, then she felt the mattress by her hip sag and a familiar hand wrap around her calf.

“Took a real nap today?  A thumb started to wander.

She reached out and took hold of his wrist before slowly opening her eyes.

“I figured I should make the time today, since it was so important to you.”

The question was written on his face, there was no need to speak it aloud.

“Since you felt the need to remind me to take my nap in the middle of the CIC this morning in front of everyone, I wanted to be in bed when you got home.”

His face still showed his confusion.  She could see him trying to remember everything that had happened that morning, going over each moment of their conversation and still coming up with nothing.

“It was just as I was about to leave.  I’m sure you had no idea what you were saying.  You were very preoccupied.”  Her own thumb started to wander.

He started to speak, but she cut him off, knowing an apology was on its way.

“It’s okay.  I’m sure no one heard.  I wasn’t sure I really did.”  She slid her hand up to his bicep and gave a little tug.  “Come.  I’m sure The Admiral could use a nap too.  Dinner can wait.”

For a minute she was sure he was going to refuse.  Then she felt a tap on her knee, a silent request to make room for him behind her.  It was always a tight squeeze with them both, but once he had settled and drawn her back to his chest, she let out a deep sigh of contentment.  She felt lips pressed to the back of her head.

“Just for a few minutes.”  He rumbled behind her.  “Dinner is important and there is still work to be done unfortunately.”

“Just enjoy it Bill.  I know I am.”

To help February, the longest and coldest month ever, go by a little faster and to get my creative juices flowing again, I’m going to attempt a daily writing prompt challenge.

I found a February prompt list already created and made three slight changes (prompts I knew I would never be able to write, even without a time limit) from other prompt lists I had hanging around.  I’ve given myself a 1000 word minimum and all my waking hours to achieve my goal with at least a hand written draft before bed.

Completed work to be posted the following day and depending on quality to AO3 in the near future.

Multiple pairings will appear, but I won’t try to keep the numbers even amongst them.  Whoever speaks to me each morning will be my muse for the day.

Hopefully February will go quickly and this whole experiment will have gone well.