How Could You Believe Me When I Said I Loved You When You Know I've Been a Liar All My Life
Most of the entries for this week at ar_drabbles are Bill-centric, so I thought I'd try something a little different. bsg_aussiegirl, there's not an ounce of RCT here.
It was more than a rule, it was a truism: Men lie.
Her father had vowed in sickness and in health, but when Mother got sick he collapsed in useless tears and left Laura with the day to day caring.
Sean Ellison swore it wasn't the thrill of dating his former teacher -- right up to the moment he called her "Miss Roslin" in bed.
Richard Adar. She could write a book on the lies of Richard Adar. She didn't even count the big lies that she knew were lies when he was lying them -- how much he needed her, how he couldn't live without her, that she was the love of his life. It was the little lies that cut: that she was indispensable to his work, that she was the most effective member of his cabinet, that he respected and trusted her.
There wasn't even any point in thinking about Gaius Baltar or Tom Zarek.
Or Bill Adama. Bill "I know the way to Earth" Adama. Bill "I'll respect the office of the Presidency" Adama. Bill "It's not personal (until it is)" Adama. Bill "I've let you get too close (why are you so far away?)" Adama.
Men lie. Their every word is untruth.
She enjoyed sex in general and sex with Bill specifically. The man could use his hands, his mouth, his -- there wasn't any part of his body Bill couldn't use to astonishing effect. Hades, the man did things with his knees she thought might be physically impossible -- and immensely pleasurable.
But he was a man, so he wanted to talk. Tried to say all those things men thought women wanted to hear. Whenever he did she'd distract him with a scratch, a lick, a squeeze, a rub, a moan, a whisper of his name. She started to amass a vast arsenal of ways to shut Bill Adama up, and only wished they were of any use in public.
The one thing he never tried to say was "I love you."
As long as he didn’t say it, she knew that it was true.
It was more than a rule, it was a truism: Men lie.
Her father had vowed in sickness and in health, but when Mother got sick he collapsed in useless tears and left Laura with the day to day caring.
Sean Ellison swore it wasn't the thrill of dating his former teacher -- right up to the moment he called her "Miss Roslin" in bed.
Richard Adar. She could write a book on the lies of Richard Adar. She didn't even count the big lies that she knew were lies when he was lying them -- how much he needed her, how he couldn't live without her, that she was the love of his life. It was the little lies that cut: that she was indispensable to his work, that she was the most effective member of his cabinet, that he respected and trusted her.
There wasn't even any point in thinking about Gaius Baltar or Tom Zarek.
Or Bill Adama. Bill "I know the way to Earth" Adama. Bill "I'll respect the office of the Presidency" Adama. Bill "It's not personal (until it is)" Adama. Bill "I've let you get too close (why are you so far away?)" Adama.
Men lie. Their every word is untruth.
She enjoyed sex in general and sex with Bill specifically. The man could use his hands, his mouth, his -- there wasn't any part of his body Bill couldn't use to astonishing effect. Hades, the man did things with his knees she thought might be physically impossible -- and immensely pleasurable.
But he was a man, so he wanted to talk. Tried to say all those things men thought women wanted to hear. Whenever he did she'd distract him with a scratch, a lick, a squeeze, a rub, a moan, a whisper of his name. She started to amass a vast arsenal of ways to shut Bill Adama up, and only wished they were of any use in public.
The one thing he never tried to say was "I love you."
As long as he didn’t say it, she knew that it was true.