(TM) 238. Freudian Slip
Freudian Slip
"You know, I am so busy I hardly ever make it down to this end of the ship, and now I'm going to be living here for gods know how long until they repair the bulkheads."
"If the quarters become cramped, you're always welcome in one of my beds."
The moment that last word fell from my lips, I felt the wince starting. When Laura's head pulled up and I caught her widening eyes in my peripheral vision, I felt a heat on the back of my neck that thankfully didn't spread to my face.
Admirals aren't allowed to blush, after all.
After my belated and probably unnecessary mutter of "In a manner of speaking," my wince turned into a wry smile at my slip. I'd said beds. Not racks or bunks, the military terms I normally would have used. Beds. Only a tiny change, but I knew Laura would notice.
Her expression's shift from surprise to a grin with more than a touch of a smirk to it confirmed that she had indeed picked up on the slight nuance in the (really) perfectly innocent offer. Had we been alone, she might have gotten in some subtle, Roslinesque little dig, but of course we weren't. Her staffers circulated around us, setting up Laura's interim office so that business as usual could continue while Colonial One underwent repairs to the damage caused by the Raptor impact.
Business as usual ... Just as Laura asked about the cause of the accident, I mulled over the fact that not one of the people within hearing distance of my telling remark had done a double take. There were no scandalized looks, not even an arched eyebrow or a knowing snicker. Everyone acted as if it were perfectly normal for the Fleet Admiral to invite the Colonial President to "his" bed.
Damn. And here I thought I'd been so careful.
Muse: Admiral William Adama
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica '03
Word count: 260 (not including direct quotes)
"You know, I am so busy I hardly ever make it down to this end of the ship, and now I'm going to be living here for gods know how long until they repair the bulkheads."
"If the quarters become cramped, you're always welcome in one of my beds."
The moment that last word fell from my lips, I felt the wince starting. When Laura's head pulled up and I caught her widening eyes in my peripheral vision, I felt a heat on the back of my neck that thankfully didn't spread to my face.
Admirals aren't allowed to blush, after all.
After my belated and probably unnecessary mutter of "In a manner of speaking," my wince turned into a wry smile at my slip. I'd said beds. Not racks or bunks, the military terms I normally would have used. Beds. Only a tiny change, but I knew Laura would notice.
Her expression's shift from surprise to a grin with more than a touch of a smirk to it confirmed that she had indeed picked up on the slight nuance in the (really) perfectly innocent offer. Had we been alone, she might have gotten in some subtle, Roslinesque little dig, but of course we weren't. Her staffers circulated around us, setting up Laura's interim office so that business as usual could continue while Colonial One underwent repairs to the damage caused by the Raptor impact.
Business as usual ... Just as Laura asked about the cause of the accident, I mulled over the fact that not one of the people within hearing distance of my telling remark had done a double take. There were no scandalized looks, not even an arched eyebrow or a knowing snicker. Everyone acted as if it were perfectly normal for the Fleet Admiral to invite the Colonial President to "his" bed.
Damn. And here I thought I'd been so careful.
Muse: Admiral William Adama
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica '03
Word count: 260 (not including direct quotes)