Disclaimer: Nope, I'm still not Ron Moore, David Eick, or the Syfy Channel. They have the rights, but I have the fun. My thanks to jeebs83 for the prompt, and for organizing the first no_takebacks annual exchange.

No Remedy

There is no remedy for love.

Doc Cottle stood in the drizzling rain outside his patient's tent, dragging the warm grit of smoke into his lungs. The cigarette's burn faded quickly in New Caprica's sludge of an atmosphere. After his ritual four minutes, he dropped the stub and ducked back inside. Normally he wouldn't have excused himself to smoke, but Starbuck's lungs were already compromised – no need to add fuel to that fire. As expected, her husband was trying to wrestle her back under the covers of their rickety bed, and making a hash of it. His gentle pressure and murmured entreaties hardly registered with his wife, who was loudly insisting that she didn't need to rest.

"I can't believe you married a moron," Cottle told Sam casually, then turned to Starbuck and dug out an empty syringe from his kit. "Lie down or I'll sedate you," he bluffed tersely. She tried to outstare him, but a wave of bone-deep coughing soon crumpled her shoulders and forced her head down. Sam seized the moment and wrapped his arms around her, pushing her back against the pillows piled high at the head of their bed. She scowled but subsided, long hair plastered against her face and neck.

"At the risk of stating the obvious," Cottle said during a break in her wheezing, "you have pneumonia."

Her eyes narrowed, but before she could respond, Sam said simply, "How do we fix it?"

Cottle sighed. "The bad news is that I'm completely out of antibiotics. The good news is that, with continual bed rest, you have a chance of making it through this without meds."

She rolled her eyes and Sam looked ready to argue, but Cottle held up a hand.

"The best news is that you are a card I can definitely play to get my hands on the Pegasus stockpile. I've been looking for this opportunity for months. You're lucky I didn't think of infecting you myself."

Sam frowned, but had the good sense to read morbid humor as a hopeful sign. Kara, however, shook her head. Her skin pulled tight around her eyes, and the line of her mouth shifted from anger to something more wry and less honest.

"Sorry, Doc, but if you're dealing with Lee you'd better not pin your hopes on me."

"Hmph," he grunted, leaving it to his eyebrows to express his full sentiments.

"I'm serious," she insisted. "Mention my name and he'll lock up those meds and throw away the key."

"Hey, he wouldn't do that," Sam protested. "No way. We just gotta…"

"Stay out of it, Sam," Kara muttered. Cottle approached to run one last check on her fever, and she flinched away from him, irritated. "You leave Lee out of it, too. I'll be fine, I just need to take it slow for a few days and hack this crap out of my system."

"Thanks for your expert diagnosis," Cottle drawled. "Now lie back."

For once, she obeyed. Cottle sent her husband out to rustle up more reserves of clean water. Hydration would be vital over the next few hours. More importantly, he needed a minute alone with her to attempt to force some sense through her thick skull.

As soon as the tent flap fluttered closed behind Sam, he felt her overheated palm clamp around his wrist. "Doc…"

He stopped her right there. "Every time you open your mouth you're confirming my initial diagnosis of chronic stupidity, you know that? I don't know what I've ever done that could make you think I care about your pride, but listen up: I don't. I care about keeping you breathing, because that's my thankless job. And in case you've forgotten, it's his job, too."

Her grip tightened. "Lee doesn't owe me anything."

"You're a civvie now. He's military. Professionally speaking, he owes you everything from his best judgment to his dying breath."

It had been a low blow – he was tired of her nonsense – but he regretted it when he saw the look on her face. No one with a fever as intense as hers should be able to turn suddenly white. "Don't," she rasped. "Don't say that."

"I don't plan to ask him for either today," he relented. "Just for a few pills. Keep yourself warm and don't get out of bed till I get back." He packed up his limited supplies and turned to go.

"Please…" she tried again, sounding strained and stubborn as ever. "I don't want pity, I don't want help. Just give me a chance to beat this on my own. Okay?"

"No. I'll be back around 1600. Till then, keep drinking fluids and don't die."

Her hearty "Son of a bi…," broken by a round of coughing, followed him out of the tent.

Respiratory disease was a nightmare on battlestars. Contagion spread quickly through the circulated atmo systems; one case of tuberculosis or pneumonia could knock out an entire squadron, or disable four decks at a stroke. Cutting antibiotic supplies in an airtight environment was equivalent to cutting lifepods – it simply wasn't done. But Cottle had long ago decided that even the most basic safety precautions had to give way in the face of immediate need.

He couldn't stretch Galactica's supplies by reducing dosages. Partial treatments were worse than none; the last thing they needed were mutating viruses. The choice had been all or nothing, so he'd taken all – in his med center, there were literally no reserves left. Admiral Adama had signed off on the dwindling inventories day after day, and asked him no questions when they stopped entirely. It went against all his medical instincts, but who could afford foresight when people were dying in the persistent damp of that godsforsaken planet? It was like worrying about second-hand smoke – if any of his patients lived long enough for that to become a problem, he would count it as a personal victory.

Now he had Kara Thrace hacking her lungs out in a flimsy tent; it was finally time to bargain with the other Adama.

He hopped a shuttle to the Pegasus and arrived in the CIC unannounced. Though clearly irritated, Commander Adama couldn't even pretend he'd been busy. He ushered Cottle into his office with ill grace. Their professional relationship had been non-existent for months; the last time he'd been aboard, Cottle hadn't been shy about flashing the words 'clinical depression.' It hadn't gone over well. Adama had been too frakking functional to justify forcible intervention, though, so Cottle had grudgingly backed down. He was half-hoping today's bit of news might help him win that argument, if nothing else.

At the beginning of negotiations, however, it was best to aim high. "I need you to grant me unrestricted access to your antibiotic stores," he said. "We've got cases down there who can't afford to wait."

Adama scowled. "I signed away the reserves for all non-essential personnel six months ago. Anything more would be unconscionable."

"Anything less would be unconscionable," Cottle corrected. "It's raining, cold, and filthy on that planet and I've got at least a dozen civilians getting ready to drown in their own lungs. Like Kara Thrace, for example."

Commander Adama – in recent months a man of soft lines – turned sharp in the silence following Cottle's announcement. Tension coiled through the heaviness in his posture, pulling him upright. He was present in a way he hadn't been minutes before.

His tone, when he spoke, was modulated and furious. "And I have CAPs to maintain with a handful of pilots, each of whom spends eight hours a day in near-freezing temperatures. Their flight suits only shield them so much, and when their immune systems crash, they crash hard. Every single person down on that planet is depending on them to stay in their planes, to be prepared for the worst so that other people don't have to be. I can't sign away their meds. Not for her," he almost spat the word. "Not for anyone."

Cottle kept pushing. "We can't afford safety nets anymore, Commander. We have to keep people alive right now."

Adama clenched his jaw, struggling. "If we can't afford to think about the future, then what's the point of…" He waved a hand, but both words and anger trailed away in mid-gesture. He closed his eyes, forehead creased and mouth twisting.

Cottle watched him; it was always hard to tell what Adamas were thinking.

Marshaling his patience, Cottle managed to speak gently. "The point is, the Pegasus and its meds belong to you now. This is a choice between military and civilian need, and you aren't Admiral Cain. That should count for something."

Adama lifted his head, looking surprised. He met Cottle with a long, considering gaze. "Yeah," he answered finally. "It counts for something."

He walked to his desk, took a seat, and reached for a pen. "I'm granting you access to our reserves, for critical cases only. You'll have to coordinate with our med staff and keep inventory just as you would on Galactica."

"I need discretionary access for borderline cases as well," Cottle insisted. "I have to be ready for them to take a turn for the worse. That's Thrace's current status."

"I said critical cases, and I meant it. We can't waste a single dose on someone who can live without it." Adama continued writing and spoke calmly, without looking up. "And the next time you try using Kara Thrace to ply my sympathies, there'll be hell to pay."

Cottle lost patience. "I don't care about your emotional problems, sir, anymore than I care about hers. She needs medicine."

Adama's expression tightened, but he made no response. Once he finished his paperwork, he stood up and handed Cottle the requisite forms. Bristling, Cottle prepared to continue their argument, but Adama raised a hand. "Wait here," he said, and left.

Cottle stood fuming for ten minutes, managing to smoke three cigarettes within that time and scattering their ashes in strategically unpleasant places. Adama returned with an emergency med kit in hand, its cover emblazoned with the insignia of the Battlestar Atlantia.

"Here," he said, handing it to Cottle. "These aren't Pegasus meds, they're mine. With these, you may use your discretion."

Cottle blinked; he hadn't expected Adama to offer personal rather than professional help to his patient. He lifted the unexpected stockpile, practically untouched if he could judge by its weight, and asked the first question that sprang to mind. "What possessed you to bring a personal issue emergency kit to the Galactica decommissioning ceremony?"

Adama almost smiled. "Between Starbuck and my father, and the things I planned to say to both, I thought it was only realistic to come prepared for a punch to the face."

Sobering, he added, "It includes non-standard prescriptions. It'll have a better chance of working for her."

Cottle frowned. "What do you mean?"

Adama's eyes shifted slightly to the left, focusing on the neutral space behind Cottle's shoulder. "She was sick a lot when she was growing up," he said quietly. "Didn't see many doctors. She snuck meds from her school infirmaries when things got really bad. She's probably had partial doses of most of the major prescriptions; who knows how much resistance she's built up by now."

"It would have been nice if any of that had made it into her medical files," Cottle huffed accusingly. "I can't do my job if I'm working blind."

"Take it up with her, Doc," Adama answered flatly. "Ask her to share. See how that works out for you."

They walked to the door and turned into the corridor. Just before Cottle branched away to head back to the hangar deck, Adama touched his arm. Pulling a single sheet from his pocket, he considered it for a minute, and then handed it to Cottle. It was labeled simply, 'Thrace.' He must have stolen a moment to write it when he went to fetch the med kit.

Cottle rolled his eyes, but tucked the message into the pocket of his lab coat.

After he'd liberated a decent stash of antibiotics from the nest of vipers known as the Pegasus nursing staff, he settled into the back of another Raptor and returned to New Caprica. On the way, he pulled out Adama's letter and flipped it open. He felt no guilt; invading privacy was integral to his profession, and he'd sworn to do no harm. If the message was just an excuse to vent bitterness, he would not be delivering it – end of story. He scanned over the neat, dark scrawl. Then he read it again, puzzled. It was just a single sentence, and it didn't seem to mean anything. Irritated, he shoved the paper back into his pocket. It didn't seem obviously hurtful, so he'd leave it to his patient to decipher.

He made his rounds and returned to her tent at 1600, as promised. She was sitting alone, her feet dangling over the side of the bed, expression divided between boredom and resentment. He pulled out Adama's Atlantia kit, and knew by her sudden stillness that he'd gotten her attention.

"You're more of an idiot than I thought," Cottle told her conversationally. "Next time I ask for a medical history, tell me the truth or I'll have to interrogate all your exes."

She seemed unsure what part of his statement to contest first, but eventually muttered, "Lee's not…"

"I asked you no questions, so tell me no lies." Cottle uncapped the meds. "He sent a note, by the way. Don't you dare try and send any answer back through me. I wash my hands of you."

Cottle read fear in the flex of her hands, but he handed over the message when she reached for it.

He poured her a glass of water, watching out of the corner of his eye. She traced a finger over her name as Adama had addressed it – not Kara, not Starbuck, but not Anders either. Thrace. The boy had always had an instinct for compromise, and the corner of her mouth curled slightly. Cottle lingered over his medicine bottles while she steeled herself to read the rest. With a grimace, she flipped the paper open.

'Do I have to smack you in the mouth, Lieutenant?'

She stared at the words, and couldn't breathe.