BSG fic: Free Association
Free Association
There are thousands of thoughts that flit through his head every day that (probably) have no business whatsoever being there.
Sometimes he thinks of all the places he wants to frak her.
There are the usual places: his rack, hers, the couch in his quarters…. And from there, imagination and tactical skills take over. Across his desk. That chair of hers aboard Colonial One. Up against the hatch-any hatch. In a stall in the crew’s head. In the cockpit of a Viper. On the tactical table in the CIC, strategy screwed (literally and figuratively) as scale models of Vipers and Raiders haphazardly break battle formation. And then, of course, the airlock.
He likes to think she’d find the last the most intriguing of all.
Men, he’s convinced, were created with minds that that were meant to wander. It’s the only explanation, because otherwise he really is going insane. Perhaps the Cylons have discovered a solution to this problem-or maybe their wiring is as flawed as biology (the frakkers obviously haven’t been able to solve everything). He should remember that-it could be a possible means to their destruction. A decoy with a smile that can soothe a roomful of corrupt politicians; a glare capable of withering just about anything in its path; legs that seem to go on forever, but have to come to an end somewhere in the shadows beneath those skirts….
Sleepless nights and loneliness have given him a lot of time to think-too much (and not enough). He prefers action-even when potentially dangerous. Not so much an issue when separated by rooms and hulls and ships and space, thank you, Madam Presidents and yes, sirs and proper procedure and protocol, but….
Here she is now, bent diligently over a stack of papers-furiously scribbling notes, her signature; tapping the pen against the desk in those few moments when her hand would have otherwise been still. No treatments, just blood work, two days in a row, and the slight break seems to have renewed her strength. Not that she’s ever let anyone see how she’s weakened-it’s only ever been a shadow, a flicker, but he’s seen it there (and worried, more than he’ll ever let on, more than even she seems to).
The pen taps, she sighs, and he reminds himself to keep breathing as he watches her-their nightly ritual.
As far as when, exactly, he started to see her this way-enmity transforming into grudging respect, admiration, friendship, and from there he didn’t even need to jump to-
“What?”
She’s watching him, the tilt of her chin as much of a question as the one she’s asked, but he can only shake his head in response, try (and fail) to avert his gaze. It’s just as well, because she gives him that smile in return: soft and sweet, no secrets.
Sometimes he thinks of that smile. Thinks of it until it’s all he can see whether his eyes are opened or closed: in the CIC on the DRADIS console, beside his own reflection in the mirror….
“Something on your mind, Bill?”
A loaded question. He shifts in his seat on the couch, transfers his drink to his other hand to buy some time in answering but ultimately opts for an evasive maneuver. “It’s getting late.”
“Is it?” Her forehead furrows as she frowns, twisting her arm to glance at her watch before beginning to gather up the papers scattered over the top of the desk. “I can-”
“No.” It must be a little too sharp, because she stills immediately, almost taken aback-but he’s not letting her go anywhere. “I meant for you.”
There’s that smile again, more amused this time. She leans back in her chair (his chair), elbows on the armrests and hands clasped in front of her, still fiddling with that pen. Sometimes he thinks of those hands. Squeezing his arm with reassurance. Rubbing up against his chest under the stars on New Caprica. Gripping his own so tightly as he helped her stand.
And the way her fingers kept running over and over that frakking pen…. It shouldn’t be so distracting.
“I didn’t realize I had a bedtime, Admiral.”
“Military protocol. Lights out at 2300-keeps the troops well-rested.” Returning her teasing is automatic, but there are still those dark circles underneath her eyes-this renewed burst of energy won’t last forever. “You’re working too hard.”
“The Quorum is arguing the Baltar issue, and it’s brought the Gemenese and Sagittarons to blows aboard the-”
“Barring black-ops maneuvers and an airlock, Gaius Baltar’s not a problem you can make disappear in a night.”
She leans forward and grips her pen more tightly for a moment, as if determined to prove him wrong-or maybe considering his suggestion. But suddenly the pen drops, clattering to the desk, and she’s removing her glasses, rubbing a hand over her eyes. The last glimmer of the President disappears-the responsibility, the work, all falling away (the suit, unfortunately, stays).
“He’d probably survive the frakking airlock.”
“A theory worth testing,” he offers, twirling the glass in his hand.
“If only it were that easy.”
It can be-he has the key (to more than just the airlock, he sometimes lets himself think). It’s in the little moments: when she meets his eyes across the room, brushes against him in the hallway, turns to him and grins like no one else is watching.
“Bill?”
It’s not the first time she’s said it-her tone makes that clear-and he starts to turn his head to look at her and realizes all he has to do is focus his eyes. She’s standing now, has taken a few steps away from the desk and her work. He doesn’t have an answer for her-fitting, as she hasn’t really asked a question. But the way she’s cocked her head, that bemused expression, the hand on her hip, all seem to be begging for something more than the soft smile he gives her and she readily returns.
“Come sit down,” he thinks he says-or at least it’s what he should have, though it sounded oddly more like c’mere: wistful, hopeful, with no pretense that getting her seated is all he’s after, just her.
She’s already moved by the time he’s spoken-out of his field of vision-and he has to physically hold back (muscles clenching tightly) to stop himself from tracking her every step. The air stirs behind him an instant before he feels her there, bending over the back of the couch. She reaches out, takes his drink (the bones in her wrist jut out more than he remembers, and either tiredness has blurred his vision or her hand’s trembling), and he can hear the soft swish as she swallows, handing him back the empty glass.
He holds it up to the light, tipping his head back to drain that last drop that never actually unclings from the bottom and makes its way up the side. He licks his lips anyway as he brings the glass down-the alcohol hadn’t been what he was after. She’s not touching him, but he knows she’s still there. The DRADIS map in his head hasn’t shown any other contact for some time, and even the labels have changed: Secretary of Education, building and bolded to President of the Twelve Colonies, until eventually all titles had fallen away. Bill sits, stock-still; Laura waits behind him.
Sometimes he thinks he should play the gentleman, let her have the first move. But then….
When he turns his head, she’s closer than he expected-or at least that’s what he’ll try to tell himself afterward, knowing it’s a blatant lie. The tip of his nose grazes her cheek-which both of them must have expected since neither seem to find the contact shocking enough to react-and his mouth brushes against her chin.
Stop.
Capture the moment-it’s one that should last forever and won’t (they never do).
Now….
Break preconceptions-work with what you have.
It doesn’t take much maneuvering to angle his head-when, for some reason, awkwardness does not enter into the equation-and his mouth presses harder against her, lips parting and tongue darting out to slide kisses along her chin and jaw.
One. Two. Three, and… there.
It must be a custom somewhere, he tries to rationalize (or had been, before the apocalypse)-some obscure island or sect where important leaders greet each other with open-mouthed kisses in the most convenient locations. An interesting conversation-starter, a way to break barriers (and seal agreements), to….
But this is all requiring too much thinking. He needs to breathe. Now, before he forgets to remember and the body surrenders to lack of oxygen. And she hasn’t moved-either a very good sign or a very bad one, but he can’t get a reading on what he can’t see. He’s not used to this: the lack of control and maps and radar and plans of action.
He pulls back, just enough so he can see her, and her still-trembling hand is swiftly approaching his head-a fact that might have frightened him a few years back, when her smacking him and him (probably) deserving it were both distinct possibilities. But her palm is cool on the back of his neck as she tugs him right where she wants him-his lips on hers, hard, a hum of satisfaction thrumming deep in her throat and reverberating into his.
He can’t help but smile, should’ve known that Laura Roslin’s not afraid to go after what she wants-and is damned used to getting it. He’s not about to disappoint her.
Twenty (ten, five) years ago-when neither of them would’ve felt or even remembered it in the morning-he would have pulled her over the back of the couch and onto him without a second thought. But he is much older, and she is-
She is so alive in this moment that it’s all too easy to forget. And he concentrates all his efforts on tenderness instead, on memorizing grooves and gasps and contours as thoroughly as if he expects a test in the morning (or never to have the chance to study them again). But when he tries for slower, gentler, she only pulls more insistently against him-urgency and aching and please don’t try to….
He doesn’t let her finish (though she hasn’t really said a word), twisting his body so that he can surge up against her, bringing a hand to her cheek. She’s trying to forget what he doesn’t want to remember: the method makes it almost too easy.
This, he thinks, is….
But why the frak is he still thinking?
Sometimes-during a rare moment when sensation outdoes logic, and… hell, it doesn’t matter what else happens. Sometimes, he doesn’t think at all.
“Hmm?” he asks, eventually, because she’s said something, and though he’s heard all the letters, the way they also vibrated against his lips prevents them from making any sense. “What?”
“It’s late,” she repeats, hand sliding around to cup his cheek before she releases her hold on him and braces herself against the couch, breathless and beautiful.
He hums in agreement, leaning back to stare up at the ceiling-and through that, the vast blackness of space. Much too late. They should have done this the first second he laid eyes on her. But that’s not what she means, he knows this time just as he had known before. “So?”
“So….”
It’s only fitting (and definitely something to behold) when he blinks open his eyes and finds hers only inches away-then her nose, mouth, chin, and….
She’s kissing him again-almost upside-down, and the angle’s like nothing he’s ever felt on or above any of the worlds. It’s only a second, maybe two, but he keeps his eyes closed as she moves away, to pull and twist and stretch the time like taffy, savoring each second so the flavor lasts and lasts past the point when-
Maybe we should just enjoy this.
I am.
No, I mean….
“Yes.”
It’s absolute, final, the answer to everything except….
“I didn’t ask-”
“You didn’t have to.”
He has enough presence of mind (somehow) to spring forward and offer a steady hand when she stumbles over his feet (or her own) as she rounds the couch to stand before him. He stares up at her, moves to get up, but her hands are on his shoulders, pushing him back down.
He waits.
He wants.
“I know what you’re thinking, Bill,” she continues, just to say something, he thinks, and that voice will probably do him in before the Cylons have a chance to. All the different pitches and intensities: soft and yielding, authoritative, demanding.
“Do you, Laura?”
“Mmm. But the question-is whether or not the President has the authority to keep the Admiral…” A slight pause, and he knows the emphasis is coming. “… up past his bedtime.”
“It’s not a question of authority.”
“No? Then what would you call it?”
Her knee brushes his, an inexplicable warmth radiating from the point of contact. Sometimes he thinks of all the places he wants to touch her: those he’s already reached for and brushed up against, all he hasn’t yet had a chance to explore.
“It’s a question of-” Tactics and logistics-speed and angles and horizontal (and vertical) surfaces. Intensity and feeling and…. “-It isn’t a question.”
She nods, almost too serious, holds his gaze for all of two seconds-and then she just laughs: the sound loud and vibrant and alive, all that pent-up emotion rising to the surface and spilling over, hitting every musical note on the scale.
Grinning, he reaches out for her hand, tugs her, still-laughing, down beside him. “I’m beginning to think you only keep me around for your own personal amusement.”
“That,” she manages to gasp out, “and other reasons.”
He’ll always remember that helpless little gesture of dismissal, surrender-the way she tried to contain the fit of giggles, seemed to maintain composure… and then the sudden jolt of her pulling on his arm, nearly bowling him over, the heat of her breath and the laughter seeping through his jacket as she buried her face in his arm. But that had been out in the open, while ushered through halls and trying to contain it. Now it’s only….
“Laura-”
“Bill.” The giggles stop as suddenly as they came, but the laughter edging into her voice, the corners of her eyes, keep the sound silently alive. And he’s leaning in already, knows what she wants-always has. “Less thought. More-Mmmm….”