Fic: Invincible
Title: Invincible
Author: icedteainthebag
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,929
Characters/Pairing: Roslin/Adama
Spoilers: Unfinished Business through The Tie That Binds
Gift Recipient: claraon
Her Wish Was: Dear Santa, can I please have a fic that features not!perfect A/R? I would like to see a relationship which has its ups and its down, its petty fights and learning curve, where sex doesn't always end in a perfectly synchronized climax. Cottle is always bonus points.
Author's Notes: Written for the 2009 adama_roslin Secret Santa gift exchange. Oh, claraon. I enjoyed your prompt a little too much. Hope you like your present.
Heaps of gratitude to tjonesy, larsfarm77 and somadanne for the amazing betas.
x x x x
Laura's a different person when she's not President.
Laura's a different person when she's cured.
He calls it cured. He knows he shouldn't, because she's not, but he can't help himself. "Cured" means he's believing in things he's not supposed to believe in. A miracle or Cylon technology--he's not sure which he'd rather attribute to the way she looks right now in that red dress, her eyes dancing, her smile infectious. But it's what allows him to think that the way her hand just moved across his back in passing, or the way she just glanced at him from behind her glass, is not just something she's doing because she wants to cross it off her list before she dies.
They wander barefoot, carelessly free, pleasantly high. They walk along the lake shore, its surface smooth as glass. He wants to wade into it and to pull her in laughing. He'd kiss her and she'd wrap her long legs around him and kiss him back, wet tendrils of her hair sticking to her neck.
He has so many thoughts he's been saving for so long. He saves them in volumes, tucked away for another time because the last thing he wants to do is rush. He wants to savor each sweet moment, every glance, every touch.
They sit thigh to thigh on a driftwood log, split and weathered and bleached with age, on the shore at sunset. She rests her head on his shoulder for the first time.
"There was a time I never thought I'd see this again," she murmurs. He turns his head to look at her--there's something elegant about the slope of her nose and irresistible about the slight part of her lips as she breathes in the summer air. She's watching the sun dip below the mountain range. It's a beautiful sight, but he can't take his eyes off the beauty so much closer to him.
He responds to her by slipping his arm around her waist. It seems like the right thing to do. The swell of her hip fits so perfectly into the palm of his hand. He feels her snuggle closer.
Darkness falls and she leads him to a tucked-away corner of sandbags and escapism. Somewhere, everyone else is celebrating. He can't hear it, can't see it. Their celebration is more subdued, and he likes it this way. She seems as happy as he is, their bodies pressed together as she talks about embracing life.
He thinks about leaving his ship for the first time. He could do it. He could do it for her. He falls asleep with her soft hair pressed firmly against his cheek.
They were like kids again, at play in the sand, until they built their castle too close to the edge of the water.
x x x x
The upheavals come, one after another, and there's no possibility of feeling settled ever again. They tried to settle. It didn't work, and now they're repeatedly paying for it.
This is his mindset, the one he can't shake. There's only one way he can escape.
The CIC is swarming with people. That doesn't keep Bill from raising the silver flask to his lips. There's something soothing about the way the liquor burns down his throat and radiates in his belly. Sometimes he mistakes that feeling, the glow inside, for hope.
He found out Laura was sick again when Lee outed her on the stand. They'd been disconnected since New Caprica, but this betrayal was on a level he never expected from her.
He betrayed her too, knowing the moment he cast the not guilty vote that it would shake her to her core. He hated the twinge of retribution he felt when she realized what he'd done, as she berated him, tears in her eyes. He did what he thought was right. Right, even though it wasn't what she had wanted him to do. Just like she did when she hid the resurgence of her cancer.
When he thinks about it, it's the way they function around each other. They do the right thing, even if it hurts; sometimes they force each other to do the right thing, and that usually hurts more.
He orders the jump to the Ionian nebula, like he'll be able to leave any of this behind. He feels the alcohol muted in his blood, a slow and steady flow that calms him, and takes another long draw off the flask. He wants to feel hope, if only for a moment.
They jump straight into the path of the Cylon fleet and are immediately crippled by a loss of power.
Laura looks sick. Gods, she's so sick.
Laura is dying again.
The upheavals come, one after another.
Somehow, amid the chaos, Kara Thrace is alive.
There's only one way he can escape.
x x x x
He's sitting on his couch, legs spread, his fourth tumbler of whiskey half-empty in his hand when Laura comes in unannounced. She's the only one allowed to do that, not even Saul, not even Lee. He pretends it's because she's the President. That used to be the reason.
She kicks off her shoes. Right now, she's not the President at all.
She doesn't look at him when she closes the hatch, merely walks to the service cart. She knows where to find what she wants, grabbing a bottle of amber liquid and pouring herself a tumbler full of it that she tosses back immediately. The glass rises and falls, and he catches her eyes. There's an intensity to her stare; she nearly killed Kara today. Laura Roslin attempted homicide. Two years ago, the look she is giving him would have curled his toes in his boots. But not now. Now, it could be the alcohol, or his rapidly waning sense of giving a frak, or the fact that since Kara returned his world's been turned upside down and he's convinced nothing can surprise him anymore, but he's not afraid of her.
There's so much she could be angry about, should be angry about. He can't do a damn thing about it.
He drinks. The bitter, heady liquid seems progressively less caustic as he consumes more. He needs warmth. He needs this.
She drinks. The tumbler's drained quickly. She pours another. His glass is empty. She doesn't offer him any; he didn't expect it anyway.
She shouldn't be doing this. She just had a diloxin treatment.
He's not about to tell her to stop.
She downs her drink entirely in two audible gulps, then sets the glass on the cart and walks up to him. She stops directly in front of him, but just out of reach. He sits, still and expectant.
She pulls open her jacket and slips it off, tossing it to a chair. Her expression changes. It sends a tingle down his spine. He doesn't rise from the couch and doesn't ask her what she's doing. These are actions he may have taken before, but things have changed.
She plucks each button of her dress shirt free, looking into his eyes even as the sides of it hang loosely, revealing a sliver of stomach and chest. She chews on her bottom lip as she nudges the fabric off her shoulders; she blinks, which reminds him his own eyes are burning. The shirt catches on her wrists until she frees each one with a gentle tug, letting it fall to the floor. He feels his heartbeat pick up and his breathing change slightly, fighting the urge to let his eyes wander over her body. He keeps looking up, even as her pants pool around her feet.
"Today, I almost died," she says, her head tilted to the side as she examines his lack of reaction. "Today, I almost took a life."
She's right. She almost died. He's numbed himself to that possibility, because there was a time, not too long ago, when he believed they were both invincible.
"Look at me." He stares at her. He feels hollowed out inside, transfixed by her words. "All of me," she emphasizes, stepping closer.
He obeys her with some relief, taking in her body from shoulder to knee, every inch between. She simply stands in front of him, in her bra and underwear, fabric worn so thin he can see everything it's meant to shield from his eyes.
Her skin is pale, but not the sickly translucency he's used to seeing under the sickbay lights. Soon that's all he'll see.
She used to glow. He remembers how the sunlight kissed her skin and hair under the New Caprican sky.
She made him believe in miracles then. It was a brief respite from the unsettled reality of nontheism. He fought this faith he had in her sometimes, as hard as he fought any other battle. Now he knows why.
"Do you want me, Bill?"
Her voice is soft. She has to already know his answer. He can't think of a day in the last year when he hasn't wanted her. He's craved the phantom sensation of her body pressed into his and lost himself thinking of the way she would writhe under him as she captured his body and his heart.
He sets his glass down on the side table. Leaning forward, he runs his hands up the backs of her thighs, so smooth under his palms, like he'd always imagined they would be. She seems unsteady when he kisses the soft swell of her belly, his lips grazing the bare skin below her navel. He holds her firmly by the hips. Her fingernails rake down the back of his scalp and dig into his neck, on the edge of pain. She gasps when he opens his mouth to her, pressing his teeth into the flesh he feels a growing need to claim.
She tugs on the back of his hair and he falls backward on the couch. She straddles his lap and keeps her body suspended above his, so achingly close. His thumbs press into the ridge of her hipbones, his fingers fanning the curves behind them. Their eyes lock and her face is shadowed by the frame of her hair.
She lowers her mouth to his, her breath soft. "You owe me this."
"I know." In so many ways, he knows she's right.
Her first kiss is soft, the second insistent as she parts his lips with her tongue. She tastes strong of liquor and it reminds him of what they had to do to get themselves to this point. But it doesn't keep him from pushing his mouth up into hers, their teeth grating before he relents. She hums into his mouth as she kisses him deeply, and that sound is what finally makes him hard. He's so frakked up but she's so beautiful. She probably hates him, hates the many things he's done to her, but she's so frakking beautiful.
She lowers herself onto his lap and he breaks the kiss at the sensation, letting out a slow breath. Panting, she begins a gentle rocking of her hips against his hardness. He groans and pushes his body up against her, heat and friction and alcohol making him dizzy.
She tugs his tanks over his head and leans in to bite his shoulder, hard enough to make him hiss at the sting. He feels her breasts graze his chest and he slides his hand between her legs, feeling her heat against his palm. He cups her, caressing the soft flesh through the thin fabric, making her moan into his skin. His other hand tangles in the back of her hair. He winds the tendrils through his fingers and pulls, hard enough to make her whimper, but he doesn't think she cares.
Teeth moving to his neck, she growls her demand, vulgar and detailed, her breath hot across his skin. She makes quick work of his belt buckle and zipper, knowing he won't stop her. This isn't the way it was supposed to happen. He should care, but he doesn't.
His hand wraps around his hard cock, and she lifts her head and tosses her hair behind her shoulder. She pulls aside her panties and he finds her wet, soft heat and a brief moment of realization--what the frak are we doing--swirls through his mind. He ignores it and enters her. Her body is hot and tight and unforgiving; she cries out sharply, her head tilted back. He thrusts up hard and she cries out again before she swallows the sound somewhere as deep inside of her as he aches to be.
Her body would slowly accept him, but they don't give it time, the angular thrust of her hips encouraging him to answer her with his own. She feels so good, so good wrapped around him, leaving scratches on his shoulders that burn his flesh. He mouths her breast through fabric and bites at her nipple, growling as she arches her back. His hand travels the bow of her spine as he repeats his assault on the other side. He feels her muscles tighten around him in response, her muted whimpers mingled with his ragged breaths.
Both of their heads jerk to the side at the buzzing of the wireless. His stomach twists and he squeezes his eyelids shut. Laura doesn't stop moving on him and she presses her palm against his cheek, the other hand firmly pushing down on his shoulder as if she's holding him in place. She turns his head to look him in the eyes. The wireless buzzes again.
"I have--"
"Don't."
He feels a curious anger swell inside of him. Her brow furrows. She doesn't get it.
"I have to."
"Don't."
He gently pushes up against her and rolls her over to sit on the couch beside him. He stands up, wincing as he stuffs himself inside his trousers and doesn't look back as he walks toward the phone.
"Bill, don't frakking do it."
If he wasn't so drunk he might have listened to her.
x x x x
They don't talk about what happened. This isn't surprising for them. He accepts it like it's the most normal thing in the world, a drunken half-frak with the President of the Twelve Colonies that ended prematurely when he was called to the CIC. He was in no condition to go up there. Laura knew it as she stared at him getting dressed. Still in her underwear on the couch, she sat with her legs crossed, her gaze searing him as he tried to forget that he was choosing his professional obligations over his personal ones. Again.
He left her there. It's her home for now, no matter how broken it is.
Lee's party is an excuse to get wasted and to pretend he didn't just knock Kara around in the brig. He never was a good father. He toasts to his son's retirement with far too many drinks. He knows he'll never be able to retire. He'll never be anyone other than who he is right now. The thought drives him back to his quarters to sprawl across his couch, the couch on which he tried, and failed, to frak the woman now sleeping comfortably in his rack.
He passes out shivering, despite the warmth of a blanket. The first thing he does when he wakes up is start drinking again, still in his uniform. The liquor wets his dry throat. His stomach tries to object. It should know better by now.
And then they have their talk, the talk in which they shoot venom from their mouths and daggers from their eyes and sink their teeth into each other. They fight about Kara, and Laura tries to weasel in talk about her death and tells him that he can't accept it and that he's so "buckled up inside." It's the last thing he wants to hear, so he shuts her up, finally, the only way he knows how. Words have always hurt her the most.
And then he leaves again. Leaving is fail-safe. It's always worked before.
He arrives back at his quarters at the end of the day and it takes him three drinks before he realizes she's moved out. Her pill bottles weren't on the counter in the head, which led him to the desk where her files were missing, which led him to stalk to the closet, where he found six empty hangers next to his dress grays.
He stares at the space he'd cleared for her.
You can stay in the room, but get out of my head.
He feels sick at first, realization swirling in his gut, mixing with the alcohol and coursing through his bloodstream. She's gone.
No, she's not gone. She's just left you.
A wave of indignation hits him then. He told her she could stay. She wasn't supposed to leave. If she wasn't being such a frakking bitch this never would have happened. He never would have said those things to her. It was the way she looked at him so disrespectfully, the way she used her words to cut him down.
He slams the closet door and stares at the hatch. He could go down to the guest quarters right now and raise hell with her. After everything he's done for her, this is what she does. He gave up his bed for her. He gave up his space. He let her in again. He knew he shouldn't have, but he did, under the guise of being helpful, of watching over her while she was suffering through those godsdamned treatments. He's angry at himself that he'd let her hurt him as badly as he's hurting now.
He drinks more and thinks about the way she talked at him, acid dripping from her words, refusing to believe in the one hope he was so desperately trying to grasp.
He drinks more and thinks about the way her voice lulled him to sleep under the moonlight, the first peace he'd found in years.
He drinks more and thinks about her standing before him, offering her body, and how willingly he took it until...
He throws the empty tumbler at the hatch. The splintered shattering of glass is muted in his fuzzy head.
It crunches under his boots when he leaves.
No one's going anywhere.
The Marines let him pass through her hatch. He walks in unannounced. She always does it to him. He doesn't owe her the courtesy.
At first he wonders if she's there, but then he hears the head door open. Laura freezes the moment she sees him in the middle of the room. He's surprised he can stand up so straight. He doesn't want to admit to himself how hard it is to make out her expression through his bleary eyes.
"You come down here for a fight," she says, her voice low, "you can walk right back out."
He stares at her as intently as his altered vision allows. "You shouldn't have left like that."
She snorts. It puts him on edge. It always does. She's gotten into the habit of making this sound when she thinks he's full of shit. It only infuriates him more. "Didn't seem like you wanted me around anymore, Bill."
"I don't." He feels a lump in his throat just saying it. "I'm tired of your bullshit."
"Must be why you're here," she retorts. He watches her walk closer and feels his body sway before he catches himself. "Maybe you can't handle me telling you what you need to hear. Maybe it's easier to hate me than to admit you're going to lose me." She stands directly in front of him, her hand on her hip, and his simmering anger is ebbing quickly by the hurt he sees in her eyes.
"I don't hate you."
It would be so much easier if he could. She's right, but he can't hate her. He never could.
Her body's too close. He's sure she can smell the alcohol on his breath, and for the first time he feels ashamed about coming to her in this state. He must look like a frakkin' idiot. A frakkin' drunk idiot.
"Then you need to admit you're going to lose me," she says softly.
He doesn't remember reaching out, but he's touching her cheek. It feels cool against his palm. She leans into it heavily, but doesn't look away from him. His heartbeat pounds in his head. "I can't."
It's all he can manage, but there's something in those two words that changes her expression just as quickly as her mouth unexpectedly meets his. He draws a deep breath through his nose as her tongue enters his mouth, unrestrained. Her fingers pluck at his uniform buttons, every movement more frantic than the last. His fingers are clumsy as he grasps at the bottom of her shirt, yanking it up, breaking their kiss only to pull it over her head and toss it away. Their kisses are deep, one after another, gasping for breath before diving into each other again. Her fingernails scrape the skin of his chest under his tanks as she pushes him toward her rack.
This has happened before.
"We can't do this," he manages, even as his fingers hook in the waistband of her pants.
"I'm so frakking tired of hearing that," she hisses. He tugs her pants and underwear down her legs and she kicks them aside. She provides him the same courtesy, unbuckling his belt, undoing his trousers, probably because she knows it'd take him too long to do it himself. The backs of his legs hit her rack and he nearly falls backward, his feet tangled in his pants, but she pushes him down instead. He lands on his ass and looks up and she's already got her bra off. The sight of her completely naked in front of him nearly sobers him up. His eyes scan her body slowly, every curve, line and shadow. She barely gives him time to enjoy it.
"Lie down," she insists, pushing at his shoulder.
Not the greatest of ideas, he knows, as he struggles with the tangle of clothing and boots at his feet. He frees himself with a grunt and lies back. The room immediately begins to spin, a nearly nauseating vertigo. He's floating. This has to be a dream. He feels her tugging on his boxers and he finally realizes he needs to lift his hips to help her out, so he does, blinking repeatedly to try to clear his vision.
She slides in beside him and covers his body halfway with hers. Her skin is cool and clammy and their tongues tangle. She should be warm, but she's cold. She should be healthy, but she's sick. He brings his hand up to pull her head closer, their kiss deepening. She feels so good. He's never been kissed the way she kisses him. It nearly takes his breath away.
He feels her hand slide down his chest and grasp at his cock. He's soft and she squeezes him. The sensation is dull--good, but not as good as it should be. She pulls her mouth away from his and presses it against his neck, her teeth snagging skin as she circles him with her fingers and strokes upward. Her thigh slips over his and she rubs herself against his leg with a soft sigh. He starts to feel her through the numb tingling of his body. She's heated and wet for him.
She works harder at his pliant flesh, pulling him insistently, grasping more firmly. Her hips roll against him as she moans softly in his ear. "Come on," she whispers. "I know you want me. Gods, I've wanted you for so long."
He does want her. Hearing her say it makes him want her more. He jerks upward against her hand, his breathing uneven. He tries to concentrate on the sensation of her fist wrapped tightly around him. The room is spinning, even when he closes his eyes and feels her tongue whirl around his ear and hears the soft moans she makes to encourage him.
His humiliation stirs slowly, but it grows out of the realization that he's still lifeless in her hand.
"Gods damn it, Bill," she suddenly cries out in frustration. She lets go of him.
"Frak," he growls through gritted teeth, his cheeks hot. He's going to puke if he stays lying down much longer. He grasps at the rumpled blanket against the bulkhead and yanks it over his groin.
She rolls over and sits up on the side of the rack. His eyes drift over to gaze warily at her ashen skin, the refined ridges of her shoulder blades, the accentuated curve of her spine, before he shuts them.
He'll shut it out.
"You know why this is happening."
Her voice is low; he recognizes the warning within. It's become all too familiar to him. He'll shut that out too. If he doesn't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist.
He never used to live this way.
"Because whenever this happens, we're always drunk," he says, frustrated. He struggles to sit up and places his hand on her lower back. She stands up and puts some distance between them, turning around with her arms folded over her chest.
"No, you're always drunk," she spits. "You can't even get it up, you're so frakking wasted."
The silence is deafening. He feels his chest tighten along with his throat. Her hand covers her mouth and she looks like she's going to cry.
"This is a problem, Bill." Her voice is higher and it cracks when she says his name. She takes a sharp, deep breath and coughs immediately. He hates that sound. He hates what it means to them now--it's the cancer claiming her body, interrupting their conversation with the sound of the irrevocable damage it's causing inside of her. Wiping her cheek, she shifts her eyes away from him. "I don't have time to waste. We don't. Don't you realize that?"
He fishes for his boxers and turns in the rack, stepping into them as he stands, his legs wobbly. He pulls them up, reminded again of his lack of response, and doesn't want to look at her. He puts on his pants and looks for his tanks. They're right in front of her and she looks at him, then looks down before kicking the mess of clothing toward his feet.
"I'm tired of asking you questions that you never answer." She walks over to her discarded clothes and begins to dress.
"I don't have any answers, Laura." He pulls his tanks on, watching as she tugs up her pants.
"I need you to lie to me, then." She yanks her shirt over her head. She begins to run her fingers through her hair but suddenly stops, frozen. Her hand drops as her eyelids flutter shut. She breathes several times and her shoulders slump forward. It's an unusual posture for her; she's unsettled by something and he aches to touch her.
"Lie to me. At least pretend you've accepted that I'm going to die," she murmurs, her eyes still closed.
He walks up to her and slips his arms around her waist cautiously, waiting for her to jerk away, but she doesn't. She leans into him and presses her cheek against his chest. Pulling her closer, he kisses the top of her head.
"We can't do this anymore," he says against her hair. "Not like this."
"I've got another diloxin treatment next week," she whispers. "I'm just going to get sicker. There are so many things I want..."
She falters and he pulls back. She looks up and he presses his lips against hers. He feels her rigid body slowly slacken against him as he breathes her breath. It stills him. He feels calm, if only for a moment.
"We'll find the time," he says. She nods, her eyes full of expectation. "We're going to be fine."
Lie to me.
x x x x
He enters sickbay, clutching the worn cover of the book so tightly his fingers hurt. Cottle notices him immediately and regards him much like he's spotted a suspected Cylon agent.
"Which bed?" he asks. His stomach is churning and he feels a little on edge, but at least his head is clear. Cottle walks up to him, his brow furrowed.
"You gonna behave?"
He's suddenly self-conscious. It's amazing how the doctor has the ability to knock anybody down a few notches with so few words. "What?"
"About thirty seconds from now, she's gonna feel like hell," Cottle says quietly. "I don't need you coming in here and making her feel even worse."
Bill raises his eyebrows. "I'm only armed with a book, you know."
Cottle's not amused. He's protective of her and always has been. "You leave all the emotional bullshit outside the door and be a man to her right now."
He feels a lump forming in his throat and he nods, eyeing the curtains, wondering where she is and what he'll see when he enters.
"Bed Four. Keep it down and I won't watch the clock."
He walks past Cottle and slowly pushes aside the curtain surrounding Bed Four. He takes a quiet breath when he sees Laura wince.
He'll sit next to her. He'll read Love and Bullets. He'll watch the poison drip into her body and he won't show her how much it pains him to do so.
There's only one way he can escape.
- end -
Author: icedteainthebag
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,929
Characters/Pairing: Roslin/Adama
Spoilers: Unfinished Business through The Tie That Binds
Gift Recipient: claraon
Her Wish Was: Dear Santa, can I please have a fic that features not!perfect A/R? I would like to see a relationship which has its ups and its down, its petty fights and learning curve, where sex doesn't always end in a perfectly synchronized climax. Cottle is always bonus points.
Author's Notes: Written for the 2009 adama_roslin Secret Santa gift exchange. Oh, claraon. I enjoyed your prompt a little too much. Hope you like your present.
Heaps of gratitude to tjonesy, larsfarm77 and somadanne for the amazing betas.
x x x x
Laura's a different person when she's not President.
Laura's a different person when she's cured.
He calls it cured. He knows he shouldn't, because she's not, but he can't help himself. "Cured" means he's believing in things he's not supposed to believe in. A miracle or Cylon technology--he's not sure which he'd rather attribute to the way she looks right now in that red dress, her eyes dancing, her smile infectious. But it's what allows him to think that the way her hand just moved across his back in passing, or the way she just glanced at him from behind her glass, is not just something she's doing because she wants to cross it off her list before she dies.
They wander barefoot, carelessly free, pleasantly high. They walk along the lake shore, its surface smooth as glass. He wants to wade into it and to pull her in laughing. He'd kiss her and she'd wrap her long legs around him and kiss him back, wet tendrils of her hair sticking to her neck.
He has so many thoughts he's been saving for so long. He saves them in volumes, tucked away for another time because the last thing he wants to do is rush. He wants to savor each sweet moment, every glance, every touch.
They sit thigh to thigh on a driftwood log, split and weathered and bleached with age, on the shore at sunset. She rests her head on his shoulder for the first time.
"There was a time I never thought I'd see this again," she murmurs. He turns his head to look at her--there's something elegant about the slope of her nose and irresistible about the slight part of her lips as she breathes in the summer air. She's watching the sun dip below the mountain range. It's a beautiful sight, but he can't take his eyes off the beauty so much closer to him.
He responds to her by slipping his arm around her waist. It seems like the right thing to do. The swell of her hip fits so perfectly into the palm of his hand. He feels her snuggle closer.
Darkness falls and she leads him to a tucked-away corner of sandbags and escapism. Somewhere, everyone else is celebrating. He can't hear it, can't see it. Their celebration is more subdued, and he likes it this way. She seems as happy as he is, their bodies pressed together as she talks about embracing life.
He thinks about leaving his ship for the first time. He could do it. He could do it for her. He falls asleep with her soft hair pressed firmly against his cheek.
They were like kids again, at play in the sand, until they built their castle too close to the edge of the water.
x x x x
The upheavals come, one after another, and there's no possibility of feeling settled ever again. They tried to settle. It didn't work, and now they're repeatedly paying for it.
This is his mindset, the one he can't shake. There's only one way he can escape.
The CIC is swarming with people. That doesn't keep Bill from raising the silver flask to his lips. There's something soothing about the way the liquor burns down his throat and radiates in his belly. Sometimes he mistakes that feeling, the glow inside, for hope.
He found out Laura was sick again when Lee outed her on the stand. They'd been disconnected since New Caprica, but this betrayal was on a level he never expected from her.
He betrayed her too, knowing the moment he cast the not guilty vote that it would shake her to her core. He hated the twinge of retribution he felt when she realized what he'd done, as she berated him, tears in her eyes. He did what he thought was right. Right, even though it wasn't what she had wanted him to do. Just like she did when she hid the resurgence of her cancer.
When he thinks about it, it's the way they function around each other. They do the right thing, even if it hurts; sometimes they force each other to do the right thing, and that usually hurts more.
He orders the jump to the Ionian nebula, like he'll be able to leave any of this behind. He feels the alcohol muted in his blood, a slow and steady flow that calms him, and takes another long draw off the flask. He wants to feel hope, if only for a moment.
They jump straight into the path of the Cylon fleet and are immediately crippled by a loss of power.
Laura looks sick. Gods, she's so sick.
Laura is dying again.
The upheavals come, one after another.
Somehow, amid the chaos, Kara Thrace is alive.
There's only one way he can escape.
x x x x
He's sitting on his couch, legs spread, his fourth tumbler of whiskey half-empty in his hand when Laura comes in unannounced. She's the only one allowed to do that, not even Saul, not even Lee. He pretends it's because she's the President. That used to be the reason.
She kicks off her shoes. Right now, she's not the President at all.
She doesn't look at him when she closes the hatch, merely walks to the service cart. She knows where to find what she wants, grabbing a bottle of amber liquid and pouring herself a tumbler full of it that she tosses back immediately. The glass rises and falls, and he catches her eyes. There's an intensity to her stare; she nearly killed Kara today. Laura Roslin attempted homicide. Two years ago, the look she is giving him would have curled his toes in his boots. But not now. Now, it could be the alcohol, or his rapidly waning sense of giving a frak, or the fact that since Kara returned his world's been turned upside down and he's convinced nothing can surprise him anymore, but he's not afraid of her.
There's so much she could be angry about, should be angry about. He can't do a damn thing about it.
He drinks. The bitter, heady liquid seems progressively less caustic as he consumes more. He needs warmth. He needs this.
She drinks. The tumbler's drained quickly. She pours another. His glass is empty. She doesn't offer him any; he didn't expect it anyway.
She shouldn't be doing this. She just had a diloxin treatment.
He's not about to tell her to stop.
She downs her drink entirely in two audible gulps, then sets the glass on the cart and walks up to him. She stops directly in front of him, but just out of reach. He sits, still and expectant.
She pulls open her jacket and slips it off, tossing it to a chair. Her expression changes. It sends a tingle down his spine. He doesn't rise from the couch and doesn't ask her what she's doing. These are actions he may have taken before, but things have changed.
She plucks each button of her dress shirt free, looking into his eyes even as the sides of it hang loosely, revealing a sliver of stomach and chest. She chews on her bottom lip as she nudges the fabric off her shoulders; she blinks, which reminds him his own eyes are burning. The shirt catches on her wrists until she frees each one with a gentle tug, letting it fall to the floor. He feels his heartbeat pick up and his breathing change slightly, fighting the urge to let his eyes wander over her body. He keeps looking up, even as her pants pool around her feet.
"Today, I almost died," she says, her head tilted to the side as she examines his lack of reaction. "Today, I almost took a life."
She's right. She almost died. He's numbed himself to that possibility, because there was a time, not too long ago, when he believed they were both invincible.
"Look at me." He stares at her. He feels hollowed out inside, transfixed by her words. "All of me," she emphasizes, stepping closer.
He obeys her with some relief, taking in her body from shoulder to knee, every inch between. She simply stands in front of him, in her bra and underwear, fabric worn so thin he can see everything it's meant to shield from his eyes.
Her skin is pale, but not the sickly translucency he's used to seeing under the sickbay lights. Soon that's all he'll see.
She used to glow. He remembers how the sunlight kissed her skin and hair under the New Caprican sky.
She made him believe in miracles then. It was a brief respite from the unsettled reality of nontheism. He fought this faith he had in her sometimes, as hard as he fought any other battle. Now he knows why.
"Do you want me, Bill?"
Her voice is soft. She has to already know his answer. He can't think of a day in the last year when he hasn't wanted her. He's craved the phantom sensation of her body pressed into his and lost himself thinking of the way she would writhe under him as she captured his body and his heart.
He sets his glass down on the side table. Leaning forward, he runs his hands up the backs of her thighs, so smooth under his palms, like he'd always imagined they would be. She seems unsteady when he kisses the soft swell of her belly, his lips grazing the bare skin below her navel. He holds her firmly by the hips. Her fingernails rake down the back of his scalp and dig into his neck, on the edge of pain. She gasps when he opens his mouth to her, pressing his teeth into the flesh he feels a growing need to claim.
She tugs on the back of his hair and he falls backward on the couch. She straddles his lap and keeps her body suspended above his, so achingly close. His thumbs press into the ridge of her hipbones, his fingers fanning the curves behind them. Their eyes lock and her face is shadowed by the frame of her hair.
She lowers her mouth to his, her breath soft. "You owe me this."
"I know." In so many ways, he knows she's right.
Her first kiss is soft, the second insistent as she parts his lips with her tongue. She tastes strong of liquor and it reminds him of what they had to do to get themselves to this point. But it doesn't keep him from pushing his mouth up into hers, their teeth grating before he relents. She hums into his mouth as she kisses him deeply, and that sound is what finally makes him hard. He's so frakked up but she's so beautiful. She probably hates him, hates the many things he's done to her, but she's so frakking beautiful.
She lowers herself onto his lap and he breaks the kiss at the sensation, letting out a slow breath. Panting, she begins a gentle rocking of her hips against his hardness. He groans and pushes his body up against her, heat and friction and alcohol making him dizzy.
She tugs his tanks over his head and leans in to bite his shoulder, hard enough to make him hiss at the sting. He feels her breasts graze his chest and he slides his hand between her legs, feeling her heat against his palm. He cups her, caressing the soft flesh through the thin fabric, making her moan into his skin. His other hand tangles in the back of her hair. He winds the tendrils through his fingers and pulls, hard enough to make her whimper, but he doesn't think she cares.
Teeth moving to his neck, she growls her demand, vulgar and detailed, her breath hot across his skin. She makes quick work of his belt buckle and zipper, knowing he won't stop her. This isn't the way it was supposed to happen. He should care, but he doesn't.
His hand wraps around his hard cock, and she lifts her head and tosses her hair behind her shoulder. She pulls aside her panties and he finds her wet, soft heat and a brief moment of realization--what the frak are we doing--swirls through his mind. He ignores it and enters her. Her body is hot and tight and unforgiving; she cries out sharply, her head tilted back. He thrusts up hard and she cries out again before she swallows the sound somewhere as deep inside of her as he aches to be.
Her body would slowly accept him, but they don't give it time, the angular thrust of her hips encouraging him to answer her with his own. She feels so good, so good wrapped around him, leaving scratches on his shoulders that burn his flesh. He mouths her breast through fabric and bites at her nipple, growling as she arches her back. His hand travels the bow of her spine as he repeats his assault on the other side. He feels her muscles tighten around him in response, her muted whimpers mingled with his ragged breaths.
Both of their heads jerk to the side at the buzzing of the wireless. His stomach twists and he squeezes his eyelids shut. Laura doesn't stop moving on him and she presses her palm against his cheek, the other hand firmly pushing down on his shoulder as if she's holding him in place. She turns his head to look him in the eyes. The wireless buzzes again.
"I have--"
"Don't."
He feels a curious anger swell inside of him. Her brow furrows. She doesn't get it.
"I have to."
"Don't."
He gently pushes up against her and rolls her over to sit on the couch beside him. He stands up, wincing as he stuffs himself inside his trousers and doesn't look back as he walks toward the phone.
"Bill, don't frakking do it."
If he wasn't so drunk he might have listened to her.
x x x x
They don't talk about what happened. This isn't surprising for them. He accepts it like it's the most normal thing in the world, a drunken half-frak with the President of the Twelve Colonies that ended prematurely when he was called to the CIC. He was in no condition to go up there. Laura knew it as she stared at him getting dressed. Still in her underwear on the couch, she sat with her legs crossed, her gaze searing him as he tried to forget that he was choosing his professional obligations over his personal ones. Again.
He left her there. It's her home for now, no matter how broken it is.
Lee's party is an excuse to get wasted and to pretend he didn't just knock Kara around in the brig. He never was a good father. He toasts to his son's retirement with far too many drinks. He knows he'll never be able to retire. He'll never be anyone other than who he is right now. The thought drives him back to his quarters to sprawl across his couch, the couch on which he tried, and failed, to frak the woman now sleeping comfortably in his rack.
He passes out shivering, despite the warmth of a blanket. The first thing he does when he wakes up is start drinking again, still in his uniform. The liquor wets his dry throat. His stomach tries to object. It should know better by now.
And then they have their talk, the talk in which they shoot venom from their mouths and daggers from their eyes and sink their teeth into each other. They fight about Kara, and Laura tries to weasel in talk about her death and tells him that he can't accept it and that he's so "buckled up inside." It's the last thing he wants to hear, so he shuts her up, finally, the only way he knows how. Words have always hurt her the most.
And then he leaves again. Leaving is fail-safe. It's always worked before.
He arrives back at his quarters at the end of the day and it takes him three drinks before he realizes she's moved out. Her pill bottles weren't on the counter in the head, which led him to the desk where her files were missing, which led him to stalk to the closet, where he found six empty hangers next to his dress grays.
He stares at the space he'd cleared for her.
You can stay in the room, but get out of my head.
He feels sick at first, realization swirling in his gut, mixing with the alcohol and coursing through his bloodstream. She's gone.
No, she's not gone. She's just left you.
A wave of indignation hits him then. He told her she could stay. She wasn't supposed to leave. If she wasn't being such a frakking bitch this never would have happened. He never would have said those things to her. It was the way she looked at him so disrespectfully, the way she used her words to cut him down.
He slams the closet door and stares at the hatch. He could go down to the guest quarters right now and raise hell with her. After everything he's done for her, this is what she does. He gave up his bed for her. He gave up his space. He let her in again. He knew he shouldn't have, but he did, under the guise of being helpful, of watching over her while she was suffering through those godsdamned treatments. He's angry at himself that he'd let her hurt him as badly as he's hurting now.
He drinks more and thinks about the way she talked at him, acid dripping from her words, refusing to believe in the one hope he was so desperately trying to grasp.
He drinks more and thinks about the way her voice lulled him to sleep under the moonlight, the first peace he'd found in years.
He drinks more and thinks about her standing before him, offering her body, and how willingly he took it until...
He throws the empty tumbler at the hatch. The splintered shattering of glass is muted in his fuzzy head.
It crunches under his boots when he leaves.
No one's going anywhere.
The Marines let him pass through her hatch. He walks in unannounced. She always does it to him. He doesn't owe her the courtesy.
At first he wonders if she's there, but then he hears the head door open. Laura freezes the moment she sees him in the middle of the room. He's surprised he can stand up so straight. He doesn't want to admit to himself how hard it is to make out her expression through his bleary eyes.
"You come down here for a fight," she says, her voice low, "you can walk right back out."
He stares at her as intently as his altered vision allows. "You shouldn't have left like that."
She snorts. It puts him on edge. It always does. She's gotten into the habit of making this sound when she thinks he's full of shit. It only infuriates him more. "Didn't seem like you wanted me around anymore, Bill."
"I don't." He feels a lump in his throat just saying it. "I'm tired of your bullshit."
"Must be why you're here," she retorts. He watches her walk closer and feels his body sway before he catches himself. "Maybe you can't handle me telling you what you need to hear. Maybe it's easier to hate me than to admit you're going to lose me." She stands directly in front of him, her hand on her hip, and his simmering anger is ebbing quickly by the hurt he sees in her eyes.
"I don't hate you."
It would be so much easier if he could. She's right, but he can't hate her. He never could.
Her body's too close. He's sure she can smell the alcohol on his breath, and for the first time he feels ashamed about coming to her in this state. He must look like a frakkin' idiot. A frakkin' drunk idiot.
"Then you need to admit you're going to lose me," she says softly.
He doesn't remember reaching out, but he's touching her cheek. It feels cool against his palm. She leans into it heavily, but doesn't look away from him. His heartbeat pounds in his head. "I can't."
It's all he can manage, but there's something in those two words that changes her expression just as quickly as her mouth unexpectedly meets his. He draws a deep breath through his nose as her tongue enters his mouth, unrestrained. Her fingers pluck at his uniform buttons, every movement more frantic than the last. His fingers are clumsy as he grasps at the bottom of her shirt, yanking it up, breaking their kiss only to pull it over her head and toss it away. Their kisses are deep, one after another, gasping for breath before diving into each other again. Her fingernails scrape the skin of his chest under his tanks as she pushes him toward her rack.
This has happened before.
"We can't do this," he manages, even as his fingers hook in the waistband of her pants.
"I'm so frakking tired of hearing that," she hisses. He tugs her pants and underwear down her legs and she kicks them aside. She provides him the same courtesy, unbuckling his belt, undoing his trousers, probably because she knows it'd take him too long to do it himself. The backs of his legs hit her rack and he nearly falls backward, his feet tangled in his pants, but she pushes him down instead. He lands on his ass and looks up and she's already got her bra off. The sight of her completely naked in front of him nearly sobers him up. His eyes scan her body slowly, every curve, line and shadow. She barely gives him time to enjoy it.
"Lie down," she insists, pushing at his shoulder.
Not the greatest of ideas, he knows, as he struggles with the tangle of clothing and boots at his feet. He frees himself with a grunt and lies back. The room immediately begins to spin, a nearly nauseating vertigo. He's floating. This has to be a dream. He feels her tugging on his boxers and he finally realizes he needs to lift his hips to help her out, so he does, blinking repeatedly to try to clear his vision.
She slides in beside him and covers his body halfway with hers. Her skin is cool and clammy and their tongues tangle. She should be warm, but she's cold. She should be healthy, but she's sick. He brings his hand up to pull her head closer, their kiss deepening. She feels so good. He's never been kissed the way she kisses him. It nearly takes his breath away.
He feels her hand slide down his chest and grasp at his cock. He's soft and she squeezes him. The sensation is dull--good, but not as good as it should be. She pulls her mouth away from his and presses it against his neck, her teeth snagging skin as she circles him with her fingers and strokes upward. Her thigh slips over his and she rubs herself against his leg with a soft sigh. He starts to feel her through the numb tingling of his body. She's heated and wet for him.
She works harder at his pliant flesh, pulling him insistently, grasping more firmly. Her hips roll against him as she moans softly in his ear. "Come on," she whispers. "I know you want me. Gods, I've wanted you for so long."
He does want her. Hearing her say it makes him want her more. He jerks upward against her hand, his breathing uneven. He tries to concentrate on the sensation of her fist wrapped tightly around him. The room is spinning, even when he closes his eyes and feels her tongue whirl around his ear and hears the soft moans she makes to encourage him.
His humiliation stirs slowly, but it grows out of the realization that he's still lifeless in her hand.
"Gods damn it, Bill," she suddenly cries out in frustration. She lets go of him.
"Frak," he growls through gritted teeth, his cheeks hot. He's going to puke if he stays lying down much longer. He grasps at the rumpled blanket against the bulkhead and yanks it over his groin.
She rolls over and sits up on the side of the rack. His eyes drift over to gaze warily at her ashen skin, the refined ridges of her shoulder blades, the accentuated curve of her spine, before he shuts them.
He'll shut it out.
"You know why this is happening."
Her voice is low; he recognizes the warning within. It's become all too familiar to him. He'll shut that out too. If he doesn't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist.
He never used to live this way.
"Because whenever this happens, we're always drunk," he says, frustrated. He struggles to sit up and places his hand on her lower back. She stands up and puts some distance between them, turning around with her arms folded over her chest.
"No, you're always drunk," she spits. "You can't even get it up, you're so frakking wasted."
The silence is deafening. He feels his chest tighten along with his throat. Her hand covers her mouth and she looks like she's going to cry.
"This is a problem, Bill." Her voice is higher and it cracks when she says his name. She takes a sharp, deep breath and coughs immediately. He hates that sound. He hates what it means to them now--it's the cancer claiming her body, interrupting their conversation with the sound of the irrevocable damage it's causing inside of her. Wiping her cheek, she shifts her eyes away from him. "I don't have time to waste. We don't. Don't you realize that?"
He fishes for his boxers and turns in the rack, stepping into them as he stands, his legs wobbly. He pulls them up, reminded again of his lack of response, and doesn't want to look at her. He puts on his pants and looks for his tanks. They're right in front of her and she looks at him, then looks down before kicking the mess of clothing toward his feet.
"I'm tired of asking you questions that you never answer." She walks over to her discarded clothes and begins to dress.
"I don't have any answers, Laura." He pulls his tanks on, watching as she tugs up her pants.
"I need you to lie to me, then." She yanks her shirt over her head. She begins to run her fingers through her hair but suddenly stops, frozen. Her hand drops as her eyelids flutter shut. She breathes several times and her shoulders slump forward. It's an unusual posture for her; she's unsettled by something and he aches to touch her.
"Lie to me. At least pretend you've accepted that I'm going to die," she murmurs, her eyes still closed.
He walks up to her and slips his arms around her waist cautiously, waiting for her to jerk away, but she doesn't. She leans into him and presses her cheek against his chest. Pulling her closer, he kisses the top of her head.
"We can't do this anymore," he says against her hair. "Not like this."
"I've got another diloxin treatment next week," she whispers. "I'm just going to get sicker. There are so many things I want..."
She falters and he pulls back. She looks up and he presses his lips against hers. He feels her rigid body slowly slacken against him as he breathes her breath. It stills him. He feels calm, if only for a moment.
"We'll find the time," he says. She nods, her eyes full of expectation. "We're going to be fine."
Lie to me.
x x x x
He enters sickbay, clutching the worn cover of the book so tightly his fingers hurt. Cottle notices him immediately and regards him much like he's spotted a suspected Cylon agent.
"Which bed?" he asks. His stomach is churning and he feels a little on edge, but at least his head is clear. Cottle walks up to him, his brow furrowed.
"You gonna behave?"
He's suddenly self-conscious. It's amazing how the doctor has the ability to knock anybody down a few notches with so few words. "What?"
"About thirty seconds from now, she's gonna feel like hell," Cottle says quietly. "I don't need you coming in here and making her feel even worse."
Bill raises his eyebrows. "I'm only armed with a book, you know."
Cottle's not amused. He's protective of her and always has been. "You leave all the emotional bullshit outside the door and be a man to her right now."
He feels a lump forming in his throat and he nods, eyeing the curtains, wondering where she is and what he'll see when he enters.
"Bed Four. Keep it down and I won't watch the clock."
He walks past Cottle and slowly pushes aside the curtain surrounding Bed Four. He takes a quiet breath when he sees Laura wince.
He'll sit next to her. He'll read Love and Bullets. He'll watch the poison drip into her body and he won't show her how much it pains him to do so.
There's only one way he can escape.
- end -