Mourning ((RP for number_eight))

Four months ago (Gods, he thought, has it only been four months?), when Lee had moved into this cabin aboard Colonial One, he had looked at the small space and decided that while it wasn't the familiar locker he'd shared onboard the Galactica with Dee, it was a hell of a lot roomier than a even an officer's rack, so things couldn't be that bad. And although he had come to feel comfortable with the space, it had never become a home. It felt even less like one now.

Lee felt a hot, wet tear roll down his face and he wiped at it angrily. He couldn't count the number he'd shed in the last twelve hours, every one of them searing, every one of them painful. Part of him wondered if he was mourning more than just a person, he was mourning everything she had meant to him-- more importantly, the things she had given him.

Even when they weren't together, even when Lee knew she was furious with him, Dee had always been a kind of beacon of hope. Not just for him, but for everyone aboard the battlestar, his father especially. Her faith in Admiral Adama had been unwavering, and her belief that Lee was a good man meant for great things just as firm. She had believed when they had not.

And now she was dead, because she had lost that faith, and had those beliefs shattered. The wasted, blasted Earth had broken all of them, but Anastasia Dualla had had the furthest to fall.

Lee reached again for the bottle of ambrosia-- a gift from Colonel Tigh, of all people, who had handed it over without comment-- just as a knock sounded on the hatch of his quarters. He was confused for a moment until he remembered that someone from Galactica would be arriving with Dee's personal effects. Still gripping the half-empty bottle, knowing he would need its help, Lee rose and opened the hatch.