A/R REMIX: "As One"
Title: As One
Pairing: Adama/Roslin
Rating: T
Original fic: Things Bill Adama Knows
Original author:astreamofstars.
There was too much about Laura Roslin that William Adama did not know.
He didn’t know what her favourite colour was, if she loved or hated early mornings, if she preferred red or white wine. He didn’t know how she got the tiny white scar on her left hand, he didn’t know what other scars, beauty marks, or possibly even tattoos adorned her body.
He did know that he would give anything to see her against the backdrop of a sunrise.
He did know that she looked beautiful in red.
He did know that each time she grasped his hand, his breath caught.
He did know that having her in his arms after loving her in silence for so long was the most incredible feeling that he’d ever experienced.
She was reckless tonight, reckless and completely free. His heart skipped a beat each time she tugged on his sleeve and buried her giggles in the worn wool of his shoulder. Her lips were so close to the skin of his neck as she half giggled, half whispered semi-serious truths that she’d learned throughout her life.
He listened to her stories with hungry ears, wishing that he could devour every syllable, each consonant that escaped her perfectly soft lips and merge them with his own flesh. Wanting to be that close to her, needing to be surrounded by her in every way possible; it was a wonder how he hadn’t gone completely crazy in the last few weeks since the settlement, since she moved down to the surface of New Caprica.
Suddenly her giggles swallowed the rest of her words and she clutched his tunic even tighter in her balled fist.
“I think that’s enough for you tonight,” he chuckled, head nodding towards the half-consumed bottle of whisky and several stubbed-out joints. Her face grew serene and she nudged the tip of his nose with hers.
“I’ll never have enough,” she half-sighed, half-whispered before she brushed her lips against his in a reenactment of their first kiss. He kissed her in return, letting only scant millimeters remain between their lips when they parted.
“It’s getting late,” she said, voice suddenly clearer than it had been all night. “Will you come inside?” She gestured somewhat shyly towards her humble tent.
“Love to,” he said almost immediately.
Few words were exchanged for the rest of the evening
*
He passes the warm, wet cloth to her wordlessly. She uses it to hastily wipe her mouth and face while he bends down to flush the toilet. She feels her face burn hot with anger, bitterness, and embarrassment as the water splashes around the bowl. Two strong arms lift her from under her armpits and carry her towards the sink. The cup filled with water to rinse her mouth out also finds its way into her still trembling hand without her doing. Next comes the toothbrush, and a generous, perhaps indulgent, dollop of toothpaste. She’s quick and efficient in cleansing her mouth of the bitter and acidic taste.
“Let me.” One hand rests low on her back, grounding her, the other takes up a fresh cloth and caresses her face gently. She smiles, beautifully and gratefully at him and for a moment, he can pretend that they are back on New Caprica starring up at the open sky.
“Thank you.” The words aren’t necessary and he tells her so. He loves her; he told her once, and he knows that she can still recall the weight of his words.
There was so much more that he knows about her now.
He knows more about her than any living person.
He knows that along with the tiny scar on her left hand, she now had an angry red scar on her left breast. Her right arm is dotted with needle puncture marks, all cooling to a blue-black. Above her navel is a tiny beauty mark. He’s seen it only once, that night on New Caprica, but when it was finally bared to him he kissed it a dozen times. Her favourite colour is a mixture of a dark red and purple, a rich wine colour. She preferred not red wine nor white wine, but rosé wine; a pleasure that she would likely never get the chance to indulge in again.
He knows that she prefers to sleep on her stomach, and that she could be adorably grumpy in the morning.
He knows that he will never again be able to sleep without the warm slight weight of her body pressed against his. He knows that when she rests her head against his shoulder and places her hand over his heart, her touch is the only thing that keeps him grounded, keeps him sane.
He knows that with her, he is whole in a way that he never truly was with his ex-wife.
He knows that very soon, he’ll be a broken, old man once more.
**
There wasn’t a man she could read better than Bill Adama. He wore his bleeding heart on his sleeve, and he did it for her.
He loved her completely, far deeper and truer than anyone else who had claimed to before him. She had felt the love in his eyes long before he had crafted his love in the form of words. He believed in her. He respected her. He was a morning person, she was not; his 0400 alarms drove her insane. He was a very tactile man, when they were behind closed doors; very little time was spent without his hands connecting with her body in some way.
He was stubborn, set in his ways, and a real pain in the ass about how he liked his bathroom - head - kept.
There isn’t a single part about him that Laura isn’t madly in love with.
He looks good today, damn good in his dress uniform. She tells him so and loves the way his gaze softens and makes him look slightly bashful. She tugs on the edge of his sleeve possessively, the look in her eyes practically screaming mine.
“I would be happy to model them at home for you,” he promises, his voice delightfully rough.
She smiles sadly; this gurney would be her physical home for the rest of her life.
“I’m going to hold you to that,” she says instead with a wink.
The joint passed between them is like an old joke, a throwback to when they were once young, and carefree. They met as middle aged, stubborn, single-minded individuals, and thus they’ve never been young to each other’s eyes.
But young at heart? Oh, how young and beautiful Laura had felt that one night under the New Caprican stars with Bill wrapped around her. How wonderfully simplistic life had felt for a few fleeting moments. This is the man that I adore; my lover. They were all that had mattered that evening.
As the burdens of politics lessen, as her pseudo-step son takes over her role as leader, she is coming to realize that they are all that matter in these, her final moments. She knows, with blinding clarity, that she wants the last moments of her life to be spent with him, just him.
She knows that her heart will take his with her as she crosses over into the next life. It won’t stand to be parted with him. She knows that she will leave behind a broken, lost man. (How her own heart had shattered into a million splinters when she believed him to be dead. How luxurious and welcoming death had seemed in that moment.)
She knows her heart is selfish. Then again, so is his own. They’ve joined, irrevocably, and cannot ever be separated. They’ve joined against the stubborn wishes of their owners, against the common sense that permeated their minds. They’ve joined so completely, that their bodies are envious, longing to become physically whole in the same way.
Together as one, they’ll leave this world.
This is what Laura Roslin knows.
Pairing: Adama/Roslin
Rating: T
Original fic: Things Bill Adama Knows
Original author:astreamofstars.
There was too much about Laura Roslin that William Adama did not know.
He didn’t know what her favourite colour was, if she loved or hated early mornings, if she preferred red or white wine. He didn’t know how she got the tiny white scar on her left hand, he didn’t know what other scars, beauty marks, or possibly even tattoos adorned her body.
He did know that he would give anything to see her against the backdrop of a sunrise.
He did know that she looked beautiful in red.
He did know that each time she grasped his hand, his breath caught.
He did know that having her in his arms after loving her in silence for so long was the most incredible feeling that he’d ever experienced.
She was reckless tonight, reckless and completely free. His heart skipped a beat each time she tugged on his sleeve and buried her giggles in the worn wool of his shoulder. Her lips were so close to the skin of his neck as she half giggled, half whispered semi-serious truths that she’d learned throughout her life.
He listened to her stories with hungry ears, wishing that he could devour every syllable, each consonant that escaped her perfectly soft lips and merge them with his own flesh. Wanting to be that close to her, needing to be surrounded by her in every way possible; it was a wonder how he hadn’t gone completely crazy in the last few weeks since the settlement, since she moved down to the surface of New Caprica.
Suddenly her giggles swallowed the rest of her words and she clutched his tunic even tighter in her balled fist.
“I think that’s enough for you tonight,” he chuckled, head nodding towards the half-consumed bottle of whisky and several stubbed-out joints. Her face grew serene and she nudged the tip of his nose with hers.
“I’ll never have enough,” she half-sighed, half-whispered before she brushed her lips against his in a reenactment of their first kiss. He kissed her in return, letting only scant millimeters remain between their lips when they parted.
“It’s getting late,” she said, voice suddenly clearer than it had been all night. “Will you come inside?” She gestured somewhat shyly towards her humble tent.
“Love to,” he said almost immediately.
Few words were exchanged for the rest of the evening
*
He passes the warm, wet cloth to her wordlessly. She uses it to hastily wipe her mouth and face while he bends down to flush the toilet. She feels her face burn hot with anger, bitterness, and embarrassment as the water splashes around the bowl. Two strong arms lift her from under her armpits and carry her towards the sink. The cup filled with water to rinse her mouth out also finds its way into her still trembling hand without her doing. Next comes the toothbrush, and a generous, perhaps indulgent, dollop of toothpaste. She’s quick and efficient in cleansing her mouth of the bitter and acidic taste.
“Let me.” One hand rests low on her back, grounding her, the other takes up a fresh cloth and caresses her face gently. She smiles, beautifully and gratefully at him and for a moment, he can pretend that they are back on New Caprica starring up at the open sky.
“Thank you.” The words aren’t necessary and he tells her so. He loves her; he told her once, and he knows that she can still recall the weight of his words.
There was so much more that he knows about her now.
He knows more about her than any living person.
He knows that along with the tiny scar on her left hand, she now had an angry red scar on her left breast. Her right arm is dotted with needle puncture marks, all cooling to a blue-black. Above her navel is a tiny beauty mark. He’s seen it only once, that night on New Caprica, but when it was finally bared to him he kissed it a dozen times. Her favourite colour is a mixture of a dark red and purple, a rich wine colour. She preferred not red wine nor white wine, but rosé wine; a pleasure that she would likely never get the chance to indulge in again.
He knows that she prefers to sleep on her stomach, and that she could be adorably grumpy in the morning.
He knows that he will never again be able to sleep without the warm slight weight of her body pressed against his. He knows that when she rests her head against his shoulder and places her hand over his heart, her touch is the only thing that keeps him grounded, keeps him sane.
He knows that with her, he is whole in a way that he never truly was with his ex-wife.
He knows that very soon, he’ll be a broken, old man once more.
**
There wasn’t a man she could read better than Bill Adama. He wore his bleeding heart on his sleeve, and he did it for her.
He loved her completely, far deeper and truer than anyone else who had claimed to before him. She had felt the love in his eyes long before he had crafted his love in the form of words. He believed in her. He respected her. He was a morning person, she was not; his 0400 alarms drove her insane. He was a very tactile man, when they were behind closed doors; very little time was spent without his hands connecting with her body in some way.
He was stubborn, set in his ways, and a real pain in the ass about how he liked his bathroom - head - kept.
There isn’t a single part about him that Laura isn’t madly in love with.
He looks good today, damn good in his dress uniform. She tells him so and loves the way his gaze softens and makes him look slightly bashful. She tugs on the edge of his sleeve possessively, the look in her eyes practically screaming mine.
“I would be happy to model them at home for you,” he promises, his voice delightfully rough.
She smiles sadly; this gurney would be her physical home for the rest of her life.
“I’m going to hold you to that,” she says instead with a wink.
The joint passed between them is like an old joke, a throwback to when they were once young, and carefree. They met as middle aged, stubborn, single-minded individuals, and thus they’ve never been young to each other’s eyes.
But young at heart? Oh, how young and beautiful Laura had felt that one night under the New Caprican stars with Bill wrapped around her. How wonderfully simplistic life had felt for a few fleeting moments. This is the man that I adore; my lover. They were all that had mattered that evening.
As the burdens of politics lessen, as her pseudo-step son takes over her role as leader, she is coming to realize that they are all that matter in these, her final moments. She knows, with blinding clarity, that she wants the last moments of her life to be spent with him, just him.
She knows that her heart will take his with her as she crosses over into the next life. It won’t stand to be parted with him. She knows that she will leave behind a broken, lost man. (How her own heart had shattered into a million splinters when she believed him to be dead. How luxurious and welcoming death had seemed in that moment.)
She knows her heart is selfish. Then again, so is his own. They’ve joined, irrevocably, and cannot ever be separated. They’ve joined against the stubborn wishes of their owners, against the common sense that permeated their minds. They’ve joined so completely, that their bodies are envious, longing to become physically whole in the same way.
Together as one, they’ll leave this world.
This is what Laura Roslin knows.