Fic: Once Upon a Time There Was a Story that Began...
Title: Once Upon a Time There Was a Story that Began...
Rating: K+
Spoilers: Through Escape Velocity
Summary: When they write the history books-as they inevitably will-some will point to the dance, others the jail cell, and the more idiotic ones not until years past either of those.
They will all be wrong.
A/N: Two for one, once again, but who knows when I'll get the muse to sit still again. So... for misstaggart, who wanted Bill to find out about the cancer earlier in S1, and for bluelike, who wanted something of a continuation of the "I want you to know what I like" discussion. Which, yeah are two events that should happen years apart, but....
Once Upon a Time There Was a Story that Began…
Girls.
You don’t know a thing about them-should probably think of them as women, actually, which only emphasizes the point.
You don’t know a thing about girls. Women.
Well, put it this way (since you’ve got eternity, you might as well be nit-picky; it’s not like it can kill you): you know more about girls than you ever will about women-if only because you spent your fair share of time on the playground, can recognize a game of tag when you see one. And even the dorky kid with buck-teeth and glasses who didn’t have half a shot in hell (which wasn’t you-you’ve always had 20/20 vision) knew there was only ever one reason for that game with someone in a dress.
Maybe, just maybe, you’d get a chance to touch her. For less than a second. And it would be the most horribly wonderful, confusing less-than-a-second of your life until less than a second later.
The girl-glare. Patented, and with only two possible modes of response. Distance (a goofy, gap-toothed grin; a pulled face and waggling tongue) or tactility (a fistful of long, curly girly hair and yaaaank)-and no matter which you picked it would be wrong and stupid and would make even the butterflies fluttering in your stomach queasy.
None of that changes. (Not even the fact that it’s all still just another frakked up way to say love.)
Okay, so maybe they’ve had a little more class than that (or maybe decorum simply doesn’t allow it), but there has still been something decidedly kindergarten romance about their whole relationship-the tension of anything you can do I can do better (with a twist, of course, because the armies aren’t plastic, the people not simply paper dolls). Even in the beginning, there was always something to the Commander and President that was inherently more than Commander and President….
When they write the history books-as they inevitably will-some will point to the dance, others the jail cell, and the more idiotic ones not until years past either of those.
They will all be wrong.
Exhibit A (There Was a Story that Began…):
It had seemed like any other day after the apocalypse: girl frustrates boy; boy frustrates girl; and they share heated words over the wireless like it’s a task they’ve been assigned on some classroom sticker chart. The Commander had breezed past your mumbled explanation of the President’s busy schedule with a look that said he could kill you seventeen different ways with his bare hands (an expression you’d never seemed quite able to master in the mirror). There was no point in announcing his arrival when stomped through the curtain ahead of you, but protocol was protocol, not suggestion, and you tried anyway, breathless.
The President was somewhat annoyed, had raised an eyebrow, but wasn’t all that surprised to see him. She shrugged off the blanket she had pulled tight around her, anything like weakness and exhaustion and cancer obediently falling away with it. Her smooth tones flowed right over his quickly clipped anger, easily eroding its base with the way she had of letting perfect politeness weave through dignity and bolster her power.
It was subtle. It was quiet. She was pissed. He couldn’t have not known that.
“Are we really playing this game? You want to know every single frakking thing I sign my name to every day, I’m sure there’s more than enough time and paper to waste sending you a daily report. Billy-”
“I’m not talking-” His fist slammed onto the desk with enough force to send the pens you’re your teeth) clattering-you jumped about ten feet, heart racing; the President didn’t flinch. “-about signatures and frakking reports!”
“Then what are you talking about, Commander?”
The air pulsed in a way that had you damned sure they were either going to kill or frak each other within the next five seconds (and wondering which would be more awkward in the moment and then easier to explain to the press). But before the countdown had finished, the Commander took a step back and ran a hand over his face, all anger and energy having powered toward this final moment but screeching to a halt, the gesture scrubbing it away.
He continued slowly, quietly-that fleeting look of oh frak, how am I going to get out of this? a bit startling on him (one you were much more used to seeing on your own reflection). “If something were affecting my ability to lead the military….”
“Question my leadership abilities all you like, the fact of the matter remains that-”
“I know.” And then again, but in a tone so different, the words might as well have been. “I know.”
You hadn’t been able to see her face, but you were pretty sure of the expression, had seen the mask fall away at the destruction of the colonies, the Olympic Carrier, when she had admitted her illness to you on that quickly exhaled breath. And then there was the Commander, whose face you could see, knew enough to interpret pain and sadness and apology, but would probably never have the frame of reference to completely understand.
Then came the longest five seconds in the history of the worlds-or since them.
Fooouuurrrrr.
Threeeeeeee.
Twoooooooo.
When she stood, he quickly moved to help her, but she brushed him off, and you stepped in without missing a beat, easily letting it seem as though she was leading you rather than leaning on you. The Commander accepted this sequence of events for all of a moment before reaching out with more determination, brushing you aside and grabbing the President’s wrist. She stumbled, and he caught her here, too, his other hand darting out before you even had a chance to move. There was a strangely inherent softness to his actions that contrasted with his set-in-stone resolve; he refused to let her shake free from his grasp.
“Commander Adama.” Such ice dripping from this that had it been your name, it would have had you as far away as the ship allowed before she’d even finished the word. The Commander held his ground-and then gained irrevocably.
Two syllables. Never let it be said that the man wasn’t smooth under pressure (war and Cylons were one thing-but women?).
“Laura.” He still hadn’t let go of her; she had stopped trying to pull it away; you shouldn’t have been watching any of this and hadn’t realized it until that moment. “I’m-What can I do?”
Her laughter was bitter but light- a sound (understanding, realization, forgiveness) you’ll never forget. “Know any miracles?”
She had already turned to sink back into her chair (miracles something she still didn’t expect and he didn’t believe in), hadn’t seen the frown that creased his eyes at that moment but must have felt his hand slip from her wrist and press against her back to guide her. They continued talking, but it was hardly the conversation that mattered when he kept sneaking furtive glances that he thought she couldn’t see, and her knuckles whitened as she pressed her folded hands just a little bit tighter together each time, as if that would be enough to keep her from reaching out to him.
Sure, it was with popsicle sticks and non-toxic school glue that sticks better to fingers than so-called artwork, takes so long to dry that some pieces fall apart before they’ve really had a chance to come together-but here is where they’d started building that cabin. Flimsy, at first, but somehow it held-the grind of days and elastic minutes (each stretching, pulling tight, before snapping, sometimes painfully, into the next) managing to strengthen just that much more than it wore away.
It was enough. And things carried on around them.
A near-ending.
An actual ending.
A beginning of a different sort.
Wash, rinse, repeat. (Not necessarily to you or them or in that order.) Some of the stains remain.
Slowly, his tone became softer as he speaks not just to her but about her. Slowly, the small touches (longing glances and grins) became more frequent. Slowly, the game became part of politics, tripping up steps and shouts of you’re it sometimes heartfelt, but more to ward off suspicion since neither of them are really running anymore-it’s now anything you or I could do we can do better.
If all this time to think has had nothing else going for it, it’s at last made you almost philosophical (some girls probably would’ve found that a turn-on).
You would’ve thought that given the circumstances of your death, you’d be pining for your lost love or hunting down the main who stole her. It turns out that not all ghosts are so haunting or vindictive, which is a relief. You spent two years gladly playing the President’s shadow. Death doesn’t end that, just changes your perspective-rather than two steps behind, it’s as if you’re hovering in some corner above. Everything’s magnified, differently colored-black and white until that split-second before she comes into contact with it, when all the different hues burst in at the edges. You suppose that this is how he’s seen the world all along
Definitions have skewed a bit. But though many things have changed, others have stubbornly remained the same. They’re together (but not). You still don’t know a thing about women.
Exhibit B (Once upon a time):
The Admiral’s seated at one end of the couch-uniform dutifully still buttoned to the top, drink threatening to spill out of one hand, the other on the open book in his lap. His head rests against the leather-mouth slack, eyes closed-but tipped just enough to rest on the President’s beside him.
They had started out not touching-distance carefully measured by decorum (which you’ve determined to be something like three lengths of we have certain responsibilities, a half dozen careful sirs and just as many Madam Presidents). They always start out not touching; make a point of it, even when alone. It bleeds into necessity-fingers brushing as papers are passed, his hand on her back to steady her-and the not eventually slips away. She had scooted closer, almost subtly, when he’d started to read, her head falling to his shoulder as she’d nodded off to sleep beside him, his giving in to gravity (and some subconscious yearning) not long after.
It’s been like this more and more with the Admiral and his secret wife lately, the two of them slowly drawing closer. (And yes, in your head, you’ve secretly married them sometime after she moved into his quarters. Only once or twice. It’s a beautiful secret ceremony: she wears white, he has his dress grays, and everything loyally fades to black just when it would start to get interesting-because these are, in effect, your pseudo-parents, and you don’t need to be scarred for the afterlife.)
“Billy!”
Well, that’s a switch. (And please let your mind be correct in thinking that wasn’t a distorted moan.)
The President’s eyes are open, staring straight into yours. She’s delighted, smiling, but doesn’t seem all that surprised to see you. You’re more shocked that she can, try not to make a show of checking the solidity of your suit jacket and fingers to see if anything’s changed. But her arms are around you-you can’t feel them, really, but there’s a stirring in the air-the hug fierce and strong, and you return it even while knowing your ghost-arms will be devoid of any pressure.
Her robed form remains sleeping on the Admiral’s shoulder; the President that now holds you at arm’s length-admiring with motherly approval and affection-glows with health and a physical strength that you never remember seeing, even after her miraculous recovery. Her suit’s familiar, her hair that long, coppery red from a few weeks before. Your cheeks might split from grinning-it doesn’t matter that none of it’s real.
“Billy,” she repeats softly, her fingers brushing your cheek, trailing up to ruffle through your hair. (That your own hands rise to fix it is automatic.) “Are you…? Or am I…?”
“No, Madam President.” You temper your smile to something hopefully less boyish, and even if ghosts can’t blush, you know your face has probably found a way to turn bright red. “Just visiting. I think.”
You don’t know what this is, really. Death didn’t exactly come with an instruction manual or a tour guide, but it’s not as if life did either.
“Good. Bill would never forgive me for making him sit through another funeral so soon.” Her tone’s light, but there’s effort behind it. “And don’t Madam President me. Please.”
“All right….” You’ll avoid names altogether, can’t seem to call her Laura (and are just a little bit afraid of slipping into mom).
That half-snore, half-sigh is the Admiral, still sleeping, and you try not to let your grin show while the President doesn’t bother to hide hers, emanating affection and familiarity. Her heels don’t make a sound as she moves the few steps toward the couch, taking a drink from the Admiral’s hand and setting it down, gently removing his glasses. It’s all very right and caring (and careful) and domestic, and the only step you can see coming next is her laying a quilt over him, tucking it under his chin as she presses her lips to his forehead.
But reality has a different plan, and it works just as well. He stirs, mumbles something that sounds very much like her name-the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth now almost sad, his glasses turning over and over in her fingers.
“He’d forgive you.” You don’t know why you’re whispering when they won’t be able to hear you. “He knows what you like, he just….”
“You’ve seen everything, haven’t you?”
It’s not really a question.
“No, I-”
“It’s all right, Billy. I suppose you’d know better than anyone that there’s been nothing to-”
The Admiral jerks out of sleep and settles back almost immediately-trying not to jostle her, yes, but there’s something else in his sleep-filled eyes as he glances at her beside him. When he turns his head, his lips brush the skin just at the edge of her scarf-he lets them stay there for a second, two, and even when he pulls away, it’s as though he’s hardly put any distance between them.
A soft humming sound-familiar, but now almost strained. The President has dipped her chin beside you, her elbow so… almost-solid under the hand you place there that for a moment it seems a trick of the light when she flickers, illusion shifting along with her form on the couch.
“There-There’s still time.”
“Thank you, Billy.” She presses her lips to your forehead, and you can feel them and not feel them all at once. “And I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t-”
But she’s already gone. Or returned-you’re a little fuzzy on the physics of all this.
“Hey,” the Admiral mumbles through a gentle smile, his voice low. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
The President presses closer to the warmth, his voice, as she blinks away sleep, and you see the split-second hesitation of the Admiral’s hand-lifting, pausing, back down, and up again. Finally, he makes a decision (or gives in to the inevitable), wraps his arm around her.
“And I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“Long day. We were all up early. How are you feeling?”
She doesn’t respond right away, and he pulls back as much as he can-to look at her, to make sure he hasn’t gotten closer than she wants. But she snuggles closer, sighing. They tend to say more without saying anything at all, and you still have a hard enough time with their actual words-the way they lace them with double and triple meanings-let alone this voiceless language. (Though you sense that this is a bit more than that simple something between the right boy and the right girl, you’ve come to terms with the fact that you will never know a thing about woman.)
“It’s… not like you’ll have to worry about flowers, Bill.”
“I know.”
“I know,” she echoes after silence has played a few chords. She’s the one holding on to him now, a hand coming to rest on his chest so he can’t pull away.
The Admiral clears his throat. Twice. “For the record, I would’ve gotten you wildflowers. For the bedside table here, in Life Station.” (Which is to say, they’re talking about it, this thing that hangs between them, but they aren’t talking about it.) “Brighten it up a little, give the schoolkids something to do.”
“Some girls,” she yawns; he pulls her closer, “would find that cheap and lazy.”
“They’d bring back more weeds and roots than anything,” he agrees. “You’d like it.”
Her smile-there are no words for it. Colors, yes. And light. But nothing that will ever be pinned down.
“Mmm. I would.” As she tilts her head, seeing his lazy grin seems something of a trigger, lifting her hands towards it to- “Oh….”
She’s holding his glasses.
“Don’t remember taking those off.”
His confusion is a frown that she catches by pressing both hands to his cheeks, her mouth over his-just there, just touching, as gentle as that first time. The Admiral reaches for-no, as strange as it is to say, if you’re going to get this right: Bill reaches for Laura. It should be your cue to turn away (dead or not, you’re only human).
Cloth rustles. Somebody’s breath catches on the other’s hum. The sounds clash softly, collect light and glow brighter as….
Space parents. Scarring. (Do they even have therapy in the afterlife?) It’s because some strange part of you wants to watch that it’s a relief when your vision begins to pop around the edges, darkness pushing its way in.
Your chapter’s ended. Theirs begins again.
Rating: K+
Spoilers: Through Escape Velocity
Summary: When they write the history books-as they inevitably will-some will point to the dance, others the jail cell, and the more idiotic ones not until years past either of those.
They will all be wrong.
A/N: Two for one, once again, but who knows when I'll get the muse to sit still again. So... for misstaggart, who wanted Bill to find out about the cancer earlier in S1, and for bluelike, who wanted something of a continuation of the "I want you to know what I like" discussion. Which, yeah are two events that should happen years apart, but....
Once Upon a Time There Was a Story that Began…
Girls.
You don’t know a thing about them-should probably think of them as women, actually, which only emphasizes the point.
You don’t know a thing about girls. Women.
Well, put it this way (since you’ve got eternity, you might as well be nit-picky; it’s not like it can kill you): you know more about girls than you ever will about women-if only because you spent your fair share of time on the playground, can recognize a game of tag when you see one. And even the dorky kid with buck-teeth and glasses who didn’t have half a shot in hell (which wasn’t you-you’ve always had 20/20 vision) knew there was only ever one reason for that game with someone in a dress.
Maybe, just maybe, you’d get a chance to touch her. For less than a second. And it would be the most horribly wonderful, confusing less-than-a-second of your life until less than a second later.
The girl-glare. Patented, and with only two possible modes of response. Distance (a goofy, gap-toothed grin; a pulled face and waggling tongue) or tactility (a fistful of long, curly girly hair and yaaaank)-and no matter which you picked it would be wrong and stupid and would make even the butterflies fluttering in your stomach queasy.
None of that changes. (Not even the fact that it’s all still just another frakked up way to say love.)
Okay, so maybe they’ve had a little more class than that (or maybe decorum simply doesn’t allow it), but there has still been something decidedly kindergarten romance about their whole relationship-the tension of anything you can do I can do better (with a twist, of course, because the armies aren’t plastic, the people not simply paper dolls). Even in the beginning, there was always something to the Commander and President that was inherently more than Commander and President….
When they write the history books-as they inevitably will-some will point to the dance, others the jail cell, and the more idiotic ones not until years past either of those.
They will all be wrong.
Exhibit A (There Was a Story that Began…):
It had seemed like any other day after the apocalypse: girl frustrates boy; boy frustrates girl; and they share heated words over the wireless like it’s a task they’ve been assigned on some classroom sticker chart. The Commander had breezed past your mumbled explanation of the President’s busy schedule with a look that said he could kill you seventeen different ways with his bare hands (an expression you’d never seemed quite able to master in the mirror). There was no point in announcing his arrival when stomped through the curtain ahead of you, but protocol was protocol, not suggestion, and you tried anyway, breathless.
The President was somewhat annoyed, had raised an eyebrow, but wasn’t all that surprised to see him. She shrugged off the blanket she had pulled tight around her, anything like weakness and exhaustion and cancer obediently falling away with it. Her smooth tones flowed right over his quickly clipped anger, easily eroding its base with the way she had of letting perfect politeness weave through dignity and bolster her power.
It was subtle. It was quiet. She was pissed. He couldn’t have not known that.
“Are we really playing this game? You want to know every single frakking thing I sign my name to every day, I’m sure there’s more than enough time and paper to waste sending you a daily report. Billy-”
“I’m not talking-” His fist slammed onto the desk with enough force to send the pens you’re your teeth) clattering-you jumped about ten feet, heart racing; the President didn’t flinch. “-about signatures and frakking reports!”
“Then what are you talking about, Commander?”
The air pulsed in a way that had you damned sure they were either going to kill or frak each other within the next five seconds (and wondering which would be more awkward in the moment and then easier to explain to the press). But before the countdown had finished, the Commander took a step back and ran a hand over his face, all anger and energy having powered toward this final moment but screeching to a halt, the gesture scrubbing it away.
He continued slowly, quietly-that fleeting look of oh frak, how am I going to get out of this? a bit startling on him (one you were much more used to seeing on your own reflection). “If something were affecting my ability to lead the military….”
“Question my leadership abilities all you like, the fact of the matter remains that-”
“I know.” And then again, but in a tone so different, the words might as well have been. “I know.”
You hadn’t been able to see her face, but you were pretty sure of the expression, had seen the mask fall away at the destruction of the colonies, the Olympic Carrier, when she had admitted her illness to you on that quickly exhaled breath. And then there was the Commander, whose face you could see, knew enough to interpret pain and sadness and apology, but would probably never have the frame of reference to completely understand.
Then came the longest five seconds in the history of the worlds-or since them.
Fooouuurrrrr.
Threeeeeeee.
Twoooooooo.
When she stood, he quickly moved to help her, but she brushed him off, and you stepped in without missing a beat, easily letting it seem as though she was leading you rather than leaning on you. The Commander accepted this sequence of events for all of a moment before reaching out with more determination, brushing you aside and grabbing the President’s wrist. She stumbled, and he caught her here, too, his other hand darting out before you even had a chance to move. There was a strangely inherent softness to his actions that contrasted with his set-in-stone resolve; he refused to let her shake free from his grasp.
“Commander Adama.” Such ice dripping from this that had it been your name, it would have had you as far away as the ship allowed before she’d even finished the word. The Commander held his ground-and then gained irrevocably.
Two syllables. Never let it be said that the man wasn’t smooth under pressure (war and Cylons were one thing-but women?).
“Laura.” He still hadn’t let go of her; she had stopped trying to pull it away; you shouldn’t have been watching any of this and hadn’t realized it until that moment. “I’m-What can I do?”
Her laughter was bitter but light- a sound (understanding, realization, forgiveness) you’ll never forget. “Know any miracles?”
She had already turned to sink back into her chair (miracles something she still didn’t expect and he didn’t believe in), hadn’t seen the frown that creased his eyes at that moment but must have felt his hand slip from her wrist and press against her back to guide her. They continued talking, but it was hardly the conversation that mattered when he kept sneaking furtive glances that he thought she couldn’t see, and her knuckles whitened as she pressed her folded hands just a little bit tighter together each time, as if that would be enough to keep her from reaching out to him.
Sure, it was with popsicle sticks and non-toxic school glue that sticks better to fingers than so-called artwork, takes so long to dry that some pieces fall apart before they’ve really had a chance to come together-but here is where they’d started building that cabin. Flimsy, at first, but somehow it held-the grind of days and elastic minutes (each stretching, pulling tight, before snapping, sometimes painfully, into the next) managing to strengthen just that much more than it wore away.
It was enough. And things carried on around them.
A near-ending.
An actual ending.
A beginning of a different sort.
Wash, rinse, repeat. (Not necessarily to you or them or in that order.) Some of the stains remain.
Slowly, his tone became softer as he speaks not just to her but about her. Slowly, the small touches (longing glances and grins) became more frequent. Slowly, the game became part of politics, tripping up steps and shouts of you’re it sometimes heartfelt, but more to ward off suspicion since neither of them are really running anymore-it’s now anything you or I could do we can do better.
If all this time to think has had nothing else going for it, it’s at last made you almost philosophical (some girls probably would’ve found that a turn-on).
You would’ve thought that given the circumstances of your death, you’d be pining for your lost love or hunting down the main who stole her. It turns out that not all ghosts are so haunting or vindictive, which is a relief. You spent two years gladly playing the President’s shadow. Death doesn’t end that, just changes your perspective-rather than two steps behind, it’s as if you’re hovering in some corner above. Everything’s magnified, differently colored-black and white until that split-second before she comes into contact with it, when all the different hues burst in at the edges. You suppose that this is how he’s seen the world all along
Definitions have skewed a bit. But though many things have changed, others have stubbornly remained the same. They’re together (but not). You still don’t know a thing about women.
Exhibit B (Once upon a time):
The Admiral’s seated at one end of the couch-uniform dutifully still buttoned to the top, drink threatening to spill out of one hand, the other on the open book in his lap. His head rests against the leather-mouth slack, eyes closed-but tipped just enough to rest on the President’s beside him.
They had started out not touching-distance carefully measured by decorum (which you’ve determined to be something like three lengths of we have certain responsibilities, a half dozen careful sirs and just as many Madam Presidents). They always start out not touching; make a point of it, even when alone. It bleeds into necessity-fingers brushing as papers are passed, his hand on her back to steady her-and the not eventually slips away. She had scooted closer, almost subtly, when he’d started to read, her head falling to his shoulder as she’d nodded off to sleep beside him, his giving in to gravity (and some subconscious yearning) not long after.
It’s been like this more and more with the Admiral and his secret wife lately, the two of them slowly drawing closer. (And yes, in your head, you’ve secretly married them sometime after she moved into his quarters. Only once or twice. It’s a beautiful secret ceremony: she wears white, he has his dress grays, and everything loyally fades to black just when it would start to get interesting-because these are, in effect, your pseudo-parents, and you don’t need to be scarred for the afterlife.)
“Billy!”
Well, that’s a switch. (And please let your mind be correct in thinking that wasn’t a distorted moan.)
The President’s eyes are open, staring straight into yours. She’s delighted, smiling, but doesn’t seem all that surprised to see you. You’re more shocked that she can, try not to make a show of checking the solidity of your suit jacket and fingers to see if anything’s changed. But her arms are around you-you can’t feel them, really, but there’s a stirring in the air-the hug fierce and strong, and you return it even while knowing your ghost-arms will be devoid of any pressure.
Her robed form remains sleeping on the Admiral’s shoulder; the President that now holds you at arm’s length-admiring with motherly approval and affection-glows with health and a physical strength that you never remember seeing, even after her miraculous recovery. Her suit’s familiar, her hair that long, coppery red from a few weeks before. Your cheeks might split from grinning-it doesn’t matter that none of it’s real.
“Billy,” she repeats softly, her fingers brushing your cheek, trailing up to ruffle through your hair. (That your own hands rise to fix it is automatic.) “Are you…? Or am I…?”
“No, Madam President.” You temper your smile to something hopefully less boyish, and even if ghosts can’t blush, you know your face has probably found a way to turn bright red. “Just visiting. I think.”
You don’t know what this is, really. Death didn’t exactly come with an instruction manual or a tour guide, but it’s not as if life did either.
“Good. Bill would never forgive me for making him sit through another funeral so soon.” Her tone’s light, but there’s effort behind it. “And don’t Madam President me. Please.”
“All right….” You’ll avoid names altogether, can’t seem to call her Laura (and are just a little bit afraid of slipping into mom).
That half-snore, half-sigh is the Admiral, still sleeping, and you try not to let your grin show while the President doesn’t bother to hide hers, emanating affection and familiarity. Her heels don’t make a sound as she moves the few steps toward the couch, taking a drink from the Admiral’s hand and setting it down, gently removing his glasses. It’s all very right and caring (and careful) and domestic, and the only step you can see coming next is her laying a quilt over him, tucking it under his chin as she presses her lips to his forehead.
But reality has a different plan, and it works just as well. He stirs, mumbles something that sounds very much like her name-the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth now almost sad, his glasses turning over and over in her fingers.
“He’d forgive you.” You don’t know why you’re whispering when they won’t be able to hear you. “He knows what you like, he just….”
“You’ve seen everything, haven’t you?”
It’s not really a question.
“No, I-”
“It’s all right, Billy. I suppose you’d know better than anyone that there’s been nothing to-”
The Admiral jerks out of sleep and settles back almost immediately-trying not to jostle her, yes, but there’s something else in his sleep-filled eyes as he glances at her beside him. When he turns his head, his lips brush the skin just at the edge of her scarf-he lets them stay there for a second, two, and even when he pulls away, it’s as though he’s hardly put any distance between them.
A soft humming sound-familiar, but now almost strained. The President has dipped her chin beside you, her elbow so… almost-solid under the hand you place there that for a moment it seems a trick of the light when she flickers, illusion shifting along with her form on the couch.
“There-There’s still time.”
“Thank you, Billy.” She presses her lips to your forehead, and you can feel them and not feel them all at once. “And I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t-”
But she’s already gone. Or returned-you’re a little fuzzy on the physics of all this.
“Hey,” the Admiral mumbles through a gentle smile, his voice low. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
The President presses closer to the warmth, his voice, as she blinks away sleep, and you see the split-second hesitation of the Admiral’s hand-lifting, pausing, back down, and up again. Finally, he makes a decision (or gives in to the inevitable), wraps his arm around her.
“And I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“Long day. We were all up early. How are you feeling?”
She doesn’t respond right away, and he pulls back as much as he can-to look at her, to make sure he hasn’t gotten closer than she wants. But she snuggles closer, sighing. They tend to say more without saying anything at all, and you still have a hard enough time with their actual words-the way they lace them with double and triple meanings-let alone this voiceless language. (Though you sense that this is a bit more than that simple something between the right boy and the right girl, you’ve come to terms with the fact that you will never know a thing about woman.)
“It’s… not like you’ll have to worry about flowers, Bill.”
“I know.”
“I know,” she echoes after silence has played a few chords. She’s the one holding on to him now, a hand coming to rest on his chest so he can’t pull away.
The Admiral clears his throat. Twice. “For the record, I would’ve gotten you wildflowers. For the bedside table here, in Life Station.” (Which is to say, they’re talking about it, this thing that hangs between them, but they aren’t talking about it.) “Brighten it up a little, give the schoolkids something to do.”
“Some girls,” she yawns; he pulls her closer, “would find that cheap and lazy.”
“They’d bring back more weeds and roots than anything,” he agrees. “You’d like it.”
Her smile-there are no words for it. Colors, yes. And light. But nothing that will ever be pinned down.
“Mmm. I would.” As she tilts her head, seeing his lazy grin seems something of a trigger, lifting her hands towards it to- “Oh….”
She’s holding his glasses.
“Don’t remember taking those off.”
His confusion is a frown that she catches by pressing both hands to his cheeks, her mouth over his-just there, just touching, as gentle as that first time. The Admiral reaches for-no, as strange as it is to say, if you’re going to get this right: Bill reaches for Laura. It should be your cue to turn away (dead or not, you’re only human).
Cloth rustles. Somebody’s breath catches on the other’s hum. The sounds clash softly, collect light and glow brighter as….
Space parents. Scarring. (Do they even have therapy in the afterlife?) It’s because some strange part of you wants to watch that it’s a relief when your vision begins to pop around the edges, darkness pushing its way in.
Your chapter’s ended. Theirs begins again.