Fic: Your Rainbow Through the Shower
Title: Your Rainbow Through the Shower
Beta: alias424
Rating: k+
Spoilers: Through Season 2
Pairing: A/R
A/N: This is a two for one deal in that its the reward fic for the weekly Hiatus Survival Flail for First Time Laura Kisses Bill AND serves to meet the request from franglaisy which was: set during Final Cut (season 2) D'Anna films more than she bargined when leaving her video camera lying around. Which I took as a prompt that lead to:
She is sure that Billy thinks that the day she was so weak, so tired that it took Bill to lift her to her feet and Billy to lead her to her bed; on the day she would cease to call Bill Commander and start to call him Admiral (mostly this day, she still slips now and then - they laugh about it as he still answers to the title of old), that this was the first time her mouth had been in contact with Bill Adama's.
Billy is wrong.
It was the second.
It was the first time Bill had kissed her. But she had kissed him first. And only narrowly avoided having it broadcast to the entire fleet.
************************************************************
It has been less than a week since they have reunited the fleet, sealed a rift (between ships, between beliefs, between each other) and started forward. A reporter and her cameraman have been given reign to interview the Galactica crew - they are currently aboard Colonial One for words with her (new) marine guard. The Commander - Bill - had arrived with them. She thinks he’d no more let the Biers woman roam free on her ship than he would on his (she knows he has crew members watching their movements). He waits with her while the interviews take place.
He is calling her Laura more and more now. She likes how the deep rumble of his voice rolls the letters of her name, something about the way the R progresses from his throat causes her fingers to twitch (some pulse of pleasure shooting down to jolt the digits). She tries to ignore it.
He looks at her differently now, too. Something in the blue - some shade, some pattern, some light that glints there at her (because of her - it shoots a pulse to an entirely different destination). She tries to ignore that, too.
A wisp of hair catches across her cheek - she reaches to draw it back into place but doesn't catch it all on the first pass. His fingers beat her to the wayward strands, the pad of one swiping so gently across her face, along her cheekbone to the shell of her ear, tucking the hair away. His fingers do not withdraw immediately, they trace just behind her ear before curling around a lock of her hair, tugging gently, once, before his hand drops. (It is apt she thinks, that in this moment, as he looks at her with that boyish grin that tickles her stomach and makes her feel so very schoolgirlish, that he should choose to tell her he likes her via playground rules - boys always pull the pigtails of the girls they like)
“You look good... better, I mean. On Kobol....” He knows, she knows he does, about her cancer (she is in no hurry to hear the R of that word roll from his throat), but he hasn't asked and she isn't telling and life is unbelievably unfair.
“Not my best?” She tosses the words lightly, keeping them from the maudlin.
He catches the tone and passes it back. “I don't know - I think jeans should become a staple of the Presidential dress code.” He is grinning at her, and it is driving her the best kind of crazy (in the worst possible way - they shouldn't be doing this, they really shouldn't). She is the President. He is the Commander. And she is dying. And there's a nosey cameraman lurking somewhere on her ship.
She laughs to cover the girlish giggle, that schoolgirl feeling he is rousing in her, that really, at her age, she should be past. But then he smiles boyishly again and she gives herself a pass.
“You're looking good, too… after….” She implies for someone who's been recently shot. She means in general. They shouldn’t be doing this. Not now. Life is unfair. She takes a breath, unsure what she’s going to say next as she takes a step towards him.
"Bill...." His name tumbles from her mouth to land at her feet, and she stumbles over it to land against his chest.
His hands grasp her elbows to steady her, grinning down. "You didn't fall once climbing that hill-face but you can't make it across the room?"
She laughs. He can make her laugh. This isn't fair.
“You're a flirt, Bill Adama.”
“And you're not?”
She grins and looks away, coy in her movement. He is not wrong. They are both failing to say that they are not like this with anyone else. But the undertone is there in their silence and plays loudly. How had they gotten to this point so quickly? She corrects herself. Back to this point. They had already danced on it briefly before everything went to hell. She likes this version of them better.
They are entirely too close for the giddiness they're both feeling and toying with. And neither of them are letting go. She feels good this week though, and he feels good and....
This is a bad (good) idea. They can't (should) do this. It would be foolish (perfect).
Frak it, she thinks. She kisses him. It is not wild and crazed, not laced with hunger... but tinted with something else, something better, something she shouldn't consider while she's staring down a tunnel towards her death. His lips part beneath hers, and she takes advantage of this opening to slide her tongue out to meet his. (She is feeling decidedly unschoolgirlish now.)
His hands, which had been holding her elbows, tug once to pull her closer before slipping to her hips, the curve of her waist, as her own wind around his neck. She knows she isn't being fair to him. This isn't fair. But she's dying. And that's not fair either.
Her mind is entertaining thoughts that it shouldn’t. They could be something, have something. If she, if they, had time. They don't. Not in the long-term, not even now as she hears a sound that distracts her attention. (She thinks it must have been loud because he has really stolen her attention - with his mouth, with his hands grasping her hips lightly, with his presence. This isn't fair.)
Oh. Frak.
The cameraman. Peering with his camera through the curtain that should have been closed over but wasn’t. Frak.
Bill has released her and stalked over to the cameraman. (Bell, she thinks, his name is Bell. He should be frakking wearing one.)
“Give me the tape.” Bill’s voice cuts through her thoughts.
“You don't think the fleet has a right to know that the government's in bed with the military?” Bell is trying to sound cocky, like he has the upper hand, and maybe he does, but he doesn't know how to wield it. She can already tell that this won’t be a problem they can’t solve.
And we weren't in bed. She tries to shut her mind off before she hits the yet. And fails.
“What about freedom of the press?”
“You'll be feeling all the freedom you can handle when she tosses you out an airlock. The tape. Now.” The timbre of his voice has a gradation of humour that she knows only she can hear. She bites back a snicker. This should not be funny. She stresses the not to herself in hopes it will take. (It does - barely.)
“D'Anna won't be happy about this.” Bell is already defeated. He hands over the tape without much fuss.
“Ms Biers is not going to hear about this.” Bill is glaring at him with such force that she’s surprised Bell doesn’t fall over. He does, though, register the gravity of Bill’s seriousness.
“Ms Biers is not going to hear about this,” he echoes back. “Ma'am. Commander.” He makes a hasty retreat.
Bill turns back to her, a wry grin on his face. She resists the urge to simply start kissing him again (resisting is not simple).
Instead she says, “I shouldn't have....”
“We.”
She almost rolls her eyes. “We shouldn't have….”
“Probably not.” He throws her a crooked smile that she snatches and puts on her own mouth (neither of them really think that). “I should go, escort that man and Biers back to Galactica.”
She nods, not speaking, worried her mouth might say (or do) something it shouldn’t (again).
“You really do look good, Laura.”
He is gone before she can respond. Flirt.
She is almost wistful, but she's not one for melancholy.
Even when life isn't fair.
Beta: alias424
Rating: k+
Spoilers: Through Season 2
Pairing: A/R
A/N: This is a two for one deal in that its the reward fic for the weekly Hiatus Survival Flail for First Time Laura Kisses Bill AND serves to meet the request from franglaisy which was: set during Final Cut (season 2) D'Anna films more than she bargined when leaving her video camera lying around. Which I took as a prompt that lead to:
She is sure that Billy thinks that the day she was so weak, so tired that it took Bill to lift her to her feet and Billy to lead her to her bed; on the day she would cease to call Bill Commander and start to call him Admiral (mostly this day, she still slips now and then - they laugh about it as he still answers to the title of old), that this was the first time her mouth had been in contact with Bill Adama's.
Billy is wrong.
It was the second.
It was the first time Bill had kissed her. But she had kissed him first. And only narrowly avoided having it broadcast to the entire fleet.
************************************************************
It has been less than a week since they have reunited the fleet, sealed a rift (between ships, between beliefs, between each other) and started forward. A reporter and her cameraman have been given reign to interview the Galactica crew - they are currently aboard Colonial One for words with her (new) marine guard. The Commander - Bill - had arrived with them. She thinks he’d no more let the Biers woman roam free on her ship than he would on his (she knows he has crew members watching their movements). He waits with her while the interviews take place.
He is calling her Laura more and more now. She likes how the deep rumble of his voice rolls the letters of her name, something about the way the R progresses from his throat causes her fingers to twitch (some pulse of pleasure shooting down to jolt the digits). She tries to ignore it.
He looks at her differently now, too. Something in the blue - some shade, some pattern, some light that glints there at her (because of her - it shoots a pulse to an entirely different destination). She tries to ignore that, too.
A wisp of hair catches across her cheek - she reaches to draw it back into place but doesn't catch it all on the first pass. His fingers beat her to the wayward strands, the pad of one swiping so gently across her face, along her cheekbone to the shell of her ear, tucking the hair away. His fingers do not withdraw immediately, they trace just behind her ear before curling around a lock of her hair, tugging gently, once, before his hand drops. (It is apt she thinks, that in this moment, as he looks at her with that boyish grin that tickles her stomach and makes her feel so very schoolgirlish, that he should choose to tell her he likes her via playground rules - boys always pull the pigtails of the girls they like)
“You look good... better, I mean. On Kobol....” He knows, she knows he does, about her cancer (she is in no hurry to hear the R of that word roll from his throat), but he hasn't asked and she isn't telling and life is unbelievably unfair.
“Not my best?” She tosses the words lightly, keeping them from the maudlin.
He catches the tone and passes it back. “I don't know - I think jeans should become a staple of the Presidential dress code.” He is grinning at her, and it is driving her the best kind of crazy (in the worst possible way - they shouldn't be doing this, they really shouldn't). She is the President. He is the Commander. And she is dying. And there's a nosey cameraman lurking somewhere on her ship.
She laughs to cover the girlish giggle, that schoolgirl feeling he is rousing in her, that really, at her age, she should be past. But then he smiles boyishly again and she gives herself a pass.
“You're looking good, too… after….” She implies for someone who's been recently shot. She means in general. They shouldn’t be doing this. Not now. Life is unfair. She takes a breath, unsure what she’s going to say next as she takes a step towards him.
"Bill...." His name tumbles from her mouth to land at her feet, and she stumbles over it to land against his chest.
His hands grasp her elbows to steady her, grinning down. "You didn't fall once climbing that hill-face but you can't make it across the room?"
She laughs. He can make her laugh. This isn't fair.
“You're a flirt, Bill Adama.”
“And you're not?”
She grins and looks away, coy in her movement. He is not wrong. They are both failing to say that they are not like this with anyone else. But the undertone is there in their silence and plays loudly. How had they gotten to this point so quickly? She corrects herself. Back to this point. They had already danced on it briefly before everything went to hell. She likes this version of them better.
They are entirely too close for the giddiness they're both feeling and toying with. And neither of them are letting go. She feels good this week though, and he feels good and....
This is a bad (good) idea. They can't (should) do this. It would be foolish (perfect).
Frak it, she thinks. She kisses him. It is not wild and crazed, not laced with hunger... but tinted with something else, something better, something she shouldn't consider while she's staring down a tunnel towards her death. His lips part beneath hers, and she takes advantage of this opening to slide her tongue out to meet his. (She is feeling decidedly unschoolgirlish now.)
His hands, which had been holding her elbows, tug once to pull her closer before slipping to her hips, the curve of her waist, as her own wind around his neck. She knows she isn't being fair to him. This isn't fair. But she's dying. And that's not fair either.
Her mind is entertaining thoughts that it shouldn’t. They could be something, have something. If she, if they, had time. They don't. Not in the long-term, not even now as she hears a sound that distracts her attention. (She thinks it must have been loud because he has really stolen her attention - with his mouth, with his hands grasping her hips lightly, with his presence. This isn't fair.)
Oh. Frak.
The cameraman. Peering with his camera through the curtain that should have been closed over but wasn’t. Frak.
Bill has released her and stalked over to the cameraman. (Bell, she thinks, his name is Bell. He should be frakking wearing one.)
“Give me the tape.” Bill’s voice cuts through her thoughts.
“You don't think the fleet has a right to know that the government's in bed with the military?” Bell is trying to sound cocky, like he has the upper hand, and maybe he does, but he doesn't know how to wield it. She can already tell that this won’t be a problem they can’t solve.
And we weren't in bed. She tries to shut her mind off before she hits the yet. And fails.
“What about freedom of the press?”
“You'll be feeling all the freedom you can handle when she tosses you out an airlock. The tape. Now.” The timbre of his voice has a gradation of humour that she knows only she can hear. She bites back a snicker. This should not be funny. She stresses the not to herself in hopes it will take. (It does - barely.)
“D'Anna won't be happy about this.” Bell is already defeated. He hands over the tape without much fuss.
“Ms Biers is not going to hear about this.” Bill is glaring at him with such force that she’s surprised Bell doesn’t fall over. He does, though, register the gravity of Bill’s seriousness.
“Ms Biers is not going to hear about this,” he echoes back. “Ma'am. Commander.” He makes a hasty retreat.
Bill turns back to her, a wry grin on his face. She resists the urge to simply start kissing him again (resisting is not simple).
Instead she says, “I shouldn't have....”
“We.”
She almost rolls her eyes. “We shouldn't have….”
“Probably not.” He throws her a crooked smile that she snatches and puts on her own mouth (neither of them really think that). “I should go, escort that man and Biers back to Galactica.”
She nods, not speaking, worried her mouth might say (or do) something it shouldn’t (again).
“You really do look good, Laura.”
He is gone before she can respond. Flirt.
She is almost wistful, but she's not one for melancholy.
Even when life isn't fair.