Summary: Lee in CIC at the end of Episode 13. I needed to write this, or else he would continue to haunt me. This was originally written back back when the episode aired in England. I decided to post it now to share.

The title is for Albanioni's Adagio, which is what the music at the end of the episode made me think of, and what I've been writing to. Given what happens, the title makes sense to me.

Rating: R for language and violence. None of which I contrived. Blame the scriptwriters. But also thank them and give them credit for giving us Adama and his son.

And consider yourself warned: go get a box of kleenex.


"A man takes responsibility for his actions."

My father told me that, seven weeks ago. And shortly after that, he told me I had to pick a side. So, I made a decision and picked both sides. Playing the middle ground hoping to serve both sides. After this span of time, I thought I'd succeeded, somehow made a peace between two people who each he or she was completely correct.

I was wrong. Lords, was I wrong. How many people are going pay for my choices?

When they hauled my frakkin' ass back on board the Galactica, I knew full well I was going to end up in the brig. Hell, Tigh was right -- I committed mutiny. Not exactly the thing you expect out of the commander's son, but dammit, someone had to stop this insanity. Roslin was wrong, we all know she's wrong, and I could kill her for putting Kara in the position she did But what would we have done if they had started shooting? When would the bloodshed have ended? Who would have ended up in charge?

We would have ended up being no better than the Cylons. So, I can take responsibility for this, and I will. Only I figured that responsibility would end up being a stint in the brig before a court martial and subsequent spacing. Apparently, I'm wrong again. I guess Kara isn't the only one with that talent anymore.

So, I'm stuck here in CIC, waiting for my father to reappear. Gaeta's told me he went to personally witness Roslin being placed in the brig. Which won't solve anything, but try telling my father that. This whole thing is rapidly turning into a mess beyond all redemption, and I'm stuck here on the bridge, waiting to face the brunt of my father's anger. I suppose I could pray that he'd understand and forgive me, but if that were true, then he wouldn't be down in the brig locking up the president of the frakkin' colonies.

There's a flurry of footsteps, and Valerii walks onto the bridge. There was a lot of chatter in CIC about the bombing they'd pulled off, and the destruction of the basestar. That's what we should be worrying about -- that, and rescuing the people stuck on Kobol. The look of triumph on Boomer's face -- and the other pilot, Racetrack -- Gods, they look thrilled. I know I would be.

Suddenly there's another flurry of footsteps, that I can hear but not see. I don't have to see them to know who's coming. Dad's always walked that way, a clipped military precision with a certain amount of rumble that sounds with every step. As he walks into the room, we lock eyes. Just for a moment or two. Enough to see the anger on his face.

And the betrayal. Gods, the betrayal, and the hurt. He doesn't understand this, and he doesn't want to.

Then he moves past me without saying a word. I should have expected the "I have no son" routine. With just a second's worth of reflection, I can feel the slightly cynical smile touch my face as I look down. Seven weeks of work to believe he could really be my father again -- and that I could be his son. All undone in the space of a few minutes.

Instead of saying anything to me, he walks over to the two Raptor pilots.

"Conratulations, to both of you. You carried out a very difficult and dangerous mission, and you did it despite any personal misgivings you may or may not had. And for that, I'm very proud."

My teeth are literally grinding. Those words aren't meant for Valerii and Racetrack. They're meant for me. It figures he wouldn't say it to my face, but let me witness it by example. Some things never change.

"Thank you." He reaches out and takes Racetrack's hand in a firm grip. The look on her face say she'll remember this forever.

And then I see the gun, and time comes to a stop. Racetrack doesn't see it, my father doesn't see it. And I cannot react. Boomer's fingers are on the gun. An eternity of time, and I can't stop her raising the gun and firing into my father's chest.

I can't move, not fast enough. No where near fast enough. I scream, and no one seems to hear my voice. Not Tigh, not Valerii, not the guards. Not my father. Gods helps me, if I can just get to her, get across the Draedus console and tackle her. Get between her and my father. She can shoot me, I don't care. But not my father.

Time is at a crawl. Even as I push away from the guards, I can see her take aim, and fire a second time. My father is lifted into the air this time, up onto the console in some parody of slow motion. I'm moving, but I can't get there in time to catch him.

And then I'm there, my arms around his head, pleading with him to stay with me, to hold on. I want him to hear my voice, to know his son is there. Not the CAG who defied orders and tried to stop a coup. No, his son, the one who's somehow learned to respect him and work with him again over the past 51 days.

Who has learned to love him again.

"Someone get a doctor...get some help!"

Time. There isn't time anymore. First it moved too slow, and now it moves too fast. His eyes...Lords, his eyes are closed and his head is deadweight in my arms. I grab tighter, hold tighter, talk and cajole, beg him to stay with us. All I can feel is the weight, and see the spreading blood, the pool that is turning the console into a garrish display of red. I hold on to him, and shiver as a chill runs down my spine.

And I think about choices. About Kara going after the arrow, and her choice of bedmates. Of Zak getting into the Viper that day, and crashing. Of my father's inability to talk, and the two years that passed. And of the decision to pull my sidearm and stop the Marines.

"You've made your choice."

Who will pay for our choices? And has our time finally run out?