"That Which Binds Us" - Adama/Roslin Fic
Title: That Which Binds Us
Pairing: Adama/Roslin
Rating: R for violence and sexiness
Word Count: 1, 163 words
Disclaimer: Not my characters or television show
A/N: Thanks to redrockcan and rococoms for their insight.
The night sky stretched out before them is almost as surreal as the reality of having him wrapped around her.
It doesn’t feel real at first, his hands on her hips, his lips at her throat, her legs curled around his hips; she’s afraid that the sky will swallow them whole. She’s afraid that he’ll disappear from her grasp, like the wispy streams of smoke they had exhaled into the air not an hour ago.
Her skin is warm, so very warm and alive against his; her breaths come in short pants, punctuating each movement and countermovement that they make. They are dancing, to an ancient beat that has, and will always exist. They are dancing, her body is pressed so close to his that she is not sure who is leading anymore.
They are dancing, the music between them grows louder and louder and Laura cries out as the world before them explodes.
They are dancing, and when the music softly concludes, he is still holding her close, chasing the beat with surreal kisses placed across her trembling body.
*
She wakes to the feeling of his fingertips against her back. As she stirs, his caresses become firmer, his arm snaking around her middle and pulling her flush against him.
“What are you doing?” she asks groggily, suppressing a moan as his moustache tickles the back of her neck.
“Playing connect the dots,” he responds, when she turns in his arms she notices the goofy, overly pleased grin on his face. He props his head on his bent arm and trails his fingers against the skin of her stomach, and she thinks that she can feel the faint echo of letters. “I couldn’t see you properly last night. You were hiding from me in the dark.”
He traces the freckles across her stomach as he did with the ones on her back and by the time he gets to her hips she’s lost her patience and straddles his hips.
“Are you just going to look?” Her tone suggests that just looking is not an option.
His kiss suggests that he’s more than happy to follow her orders.
*
The concrete is ice against her bare feet. The thin, bloodstained material of her garment does little to protect against the chill deep in her bones. Her breath is visible in the air and she can almost feel her bones poking through her skin.
They’ve had her for days now. (weeks?months?years?) She doesn’t know for sure how many sunrises have past, there are no windows, no doors; there is only concrete beneath her feet and dried blood on her clothes.
The hallow screams and grunts echo here, ricocheting off of the walls to play over again, again, again in her mind. She doesn’t know who they belong to, there are no windows or doors here (only pain, only death). Cavil comes to her, grabs her hand and places something in it. It’s wet and slippery, and it takes her only a moment to realize that he has placed an eye in her hand.
“You have blood on your hands, Laura Roslin,” he whispers before sealing her cell once again. She gently rolls the eye off of her hand and onto the floor; she wants to scream and throw it against the wall, cry and wallow in her disgust, but this belonged to someone once, and she will respect all human life.
Its unfocused gaze is somehow centered on her, and for the rest of her stay here (days?weeks?months?), she does not sleep.
When she is released, she is brought to Cottle’s infirmary, and her frail body is placed on a gurney next to Saul Tigh. When she sees the bloody bandage covering his face, she knows.
She knows who the muted grunts and screams belonged to. She knows whose blood she has on her hands.
*
He tries to recall the warm weight of her in his arms, the pale softness of her thighs, the roundness of her hips and breasts, the curve of her beautiful smile, the way her hands and lips felt on his body. He dreams of her each night, she soars above him against the backdrop of her beloved stars; she is always just out of reach. He dreams of her each night, but she always disappears right before he can kiss her, hold her, make love to her.
He dreams of her each night. He never sleeps anymore.
There is a photograph by his bed of the two of them from the decommissioning ceremony. They are cool and aloof with one another in the photograph, not even their hands are touching.
This is the only photograph that he has of her, and there is a look of utter contempt on his face. This is the only photograph that he has of her, and she has a forced, politician’s smile on her face. This is the only photograph that he has of her, and in it there is no proof that she is his, that he has loved her, that he is hers.
This is the only photograph that he has of her.
He has no tangible proof of his love, nothing, except his bleeding heart.
*
When Colonial One docks inside of Galactica, Laura lets out a shaky breath. I’m here, she thinks, I am safe now.
The crowd inside the hangar deck is dense but she spots him almost immediately. His hair is longer and greyer than the last time that she saw him; he’s aged, she wonders if she has as well.
There is something magnetic about them, something that has always drawn them together. She feels it pulling her through the crowd when her legs are too weak and too tired to do so. She feels it in his gaze, it burns a hole straight through to her heart. She thinks he feels it too, if the speed at which he is moving towards her is any indication.
They stop so close to each other that the tips of their boots are touching.
“You came back,” she says breathlessly. “About time.” Her attempt at a joke ends with a choked sob and he brushes away the errant tear on her face.
He places his hands on her upper arms, silently begging her permission to embrace her. Something in her snaps, and suddenly they’re yet another couple clutching each other in the middle of the crowd.
“Thank you,” she says into the wool of his tunic, “for believing in us, for rescuing us.”
“Thank you for staying alive,” he responds, holding her even closer.
He remembers now, how she feels in his arms, the curve of her lips, the feel of her hands as they clutch his body. They are dancing, the tune between them as somber as it has ever been, as joyful as it has ever been.
They are dancing, and he makes a silent vow to never let her go.
Pairing: Adama/Roslin
Rating: R for violence and sexiness
Word Count: 1, 163 words
Disclaimer: Not my characters or television show
A/N: Thanks to redrockcan and rococoms for their insight.
The night sky stretched out before them is almost as surreal as the reality of having him wrapped around her.
It doesn’t feel real at first, his hands on her hips, his lips at her throat, her legs curled around his hips; she’s afraid that the sky will swallow them whole. She’s afraid that he’ll disappear from her grasp, like the wispy streams of smoke they had exhaled into the air not an hour ago.
Her skin is warm, so very warm and alive against his; her breaths come in short pants, punctuating each movement and countermovement that they make. They are dancing, to an ancient beat that has, and will always exist. They are dancing, her body is pressed so close to his that she is not sure who is leading anymore.
They are dancing, the music between them grows louder and louder and Laura cries out as the world before them explodes.
They are dancing, and when the music softly concludes, he is still holding her close, chasing the beat with surreal kisses placed across her trembling body.
*
She wakes to the feeling of his fingertips against her back. As she stirs, his caresses become firmer, his arm snaking around her middle and pulling her flush against him.
“What are you doing?” she asks groggily, suppressing a moan as his moustache tickles the back of her neck.
“Playing connect the dots,” he responds, when she turns in his arms she notices the goofy, overly pleased grin on his face. He props his head on his bent arm and trails his fingers against the skin of her stomach, and she thinks that she can feel the faint echo of letters. “I couldn’t see you properly last night. You were hiding from me in the dark.”
He traces the freckles across her stomach as he did with the ones on her back and by the time he gets to her hips she’s lost her patience and straddles his hips.
“Are you just going to look?” Her tone suggests that just looking is not an option.
His kiss suggests that he’s more than happy to follow her orders.
*
The concrete is ice against her bare feet. The thin, bloodstained material of her garment does little to protect against the chill deep in her bones. Her breath is visible in the air and she can almost feel her bones poking through her skin.
They’ve had her for days now. (weeks?months?years?) She doesn’t know for sure how many sunrises have past, there are no windows, no doors; there is only concrete beneath her feet and dried blood on her clothes.
The hallow screams and grunts echo here, ricocheting off of the walls to play over again, again, again in her mind. She doesn’t know who they belong to, there are no windows or doors here (only pain, only death). Cavil comes to her, grabs her hand and places something in it. It’s wet and slippery, and it takes her only a moment to realize that he has placed an eye in her hand.
“You have blood on your hands, Laura Roslin,” he whispers before sealing her cell once again. She gently rolls the eye off of her hand and onto the floor; she wants to scream and throw it against the wall, cry and wallow in her disgust, but this belonged to someone once, and she will respect all human life.
Its unfocused gaze is somehow centered on her, and for the rest of her stay here (days?weeks?months?), she does not sleep.
When she is released, she is brought to Cottle’s infirmary, and her frail body is placed on a gurney next to Saul Tigh. When she sees the bloody bandage covering his face, she knows.
She knows who the muted grunts and screams belonged to. She knows whose blood she has on her hands.
*
He tries to recall the warm weight of her in his arms, the pale softness of her thighs, the roundness of her hips and breasts, the curve of her beautiful smile, the way her hands and lips felt on his body. He dreams of her each night, she soars above him against the backdrop of her beloved stars; she is always just out of reach. He dreams of her each night, but she always disappears right before he can kiss her, hold her, make love to her.
He dreams of her each night. He never sleeps anymore.
There is a photograph by his bed of the two of them from the decommissioning ceremony. They are cool and aloof with one another in the photograph, not even their hands are touching.
This is the only photograph that he has of her, and there is a look of utter contempt on his face. This is the only photograph that he has of her, and she has a forced, politician’s smile on her face. This is the only photograph that he has of her, and in it there is no proof that she is his, that he has loved her, that he is hers.
This is the only photograph that he has of her.
He has no tangible proof of his love, nothing, except his bleeding heart.
*
When Colonial One docks inside of Galactica, Laura lets out a shaky breath. I’m here, she thinks, I am safe now.
The crowd inside the hangar deck is dense but she spots him almost immediately. His hair is longer and greyer than the last time that she saw him; he’s aged, she wonders if she has as well.
There is something magnetic about them, something that has always drawn them together. She feels it pulling her through the crowd when her legs are too weak and too tired to do so. She feels it in his gaze, it burns a hole straight through to her heart. She thinks he feels it too, if the speed at which he is moving towards her is any indication.
They stop so close to each other that the tips of their boots are touching.
“You came back,” she says breathlessly. “About time.” Her attempt at a joke ends with a choked sob and he brushes away the errant tear on her face.
He places his hands on her upper arms, silently begging her permission to embrace her. Something in her snaps, and suddenly they’re yet another couple clutching each other in the middle of the crowd.
“Thank you,” she says into the wool of his tunic, “for believing in us, for rescuing us.”
“Thank you for staying alive,” he responds, holding her even closer.
He remembers now, how she feels in his arms, the curve of her lips, the feel of her hands as they clutch his body. They are dancing, the tune between them as somber as it has ever been, as joyful as it has ever been.
They are dancing, and he makes a silent vow to never let her go.