Painted Lady (1/14)
Title: Painted Lady (1/14)
Author: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 3,326
Rating: MA
Pairing: Roslin/Adama
Spoilers: S2, Final Cut through LDYB II
Summary: We survived the end of worlds and we still can't tell people how we really feel.
Notes: Thanks to our amazing betas somadanne and larsfarm77, both for their invaluable skills and their patience when dealing with tjonesy’s impatience. Thanks to melligator for the pretty icon set and again to katamaran78 for the gorgeous frakkin' banner.
We will be posting chapters once per day until the fic is posted in its entirety.
Link to : Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7
Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Epilogue
____________________________________________________________
FINAL CUT PART 1:
I look critically at my outfit in the mirror and the loose white panels on the crossover blouse I'm wearing. The navy blazer and skirt were easy enough to come by, but who would have thought a simple white top would fetch so much money on the black market? I practically had to sell my eyeteeth to get the damned thing, and it's still a size too large for me. My mother used to say "the outfit makes the woman." If she only knew how accurate that statement turned out to be. A pair of stylish red glasses completes the ensemble.
"You look good, Brooke." Nicco's low voice rumbles behind me, and I have to smile. We could probably make a fortune operating as a couple, but he doesn't do women.
"You look good too, baby," I croon, stroking his cheek gently.
He grins roguishly at our reflection in the mirror. "Good enough to frak?"
I don't tell him, but the smile ruins the effect. I can't quite imagine that expression gracing the face of the man he's trying to impersonate. "I'll bet a bunch of lonely guys are lining up right now in Causeway B for just that opportunity," I say as I turn to him so I can adjust one of the phony rank insignias on his collar.
He runs his fingers though his short cropped hair. "I've been getting a lot of freaks lately," he says quietly. "Members of his crew, I think."
"I got one of her staff last week," I confess.
Nicco perks up at that. "Guy or girl?"
"Girl."
He smiles lasciviously at that bit of information. "Interesting."
I shrug. "Not really."
He kisses me on the cheek before he heads off to begin his day. "Good luck out there, honey."
"You too, Nicco."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It's a slow afternoon in Causeway B when Jemma grabs my arm, drawing my attention to a beautiful specimen of a man rounding the corner of the Cloud 9 meat market.
"Brooke, look at that," she whispers. Her enthusiasm is understandable. He's pretty and he looks clean, a rarity down here. I'd like to take this one back with me, so I cross my arms over my chest and lean most of my weight on my left side, like I've seen her do in some of the Fleet newsreels. I give him my most 'presidential' look, but his stunning blue eyes barely scan me before they move on. I control my reaction, but sometimes it hurts when they don't notice you. I'm just about to break the pose when I catch him hesitating, his eyes darting back to look at me. I watch as they widen in shock.
"You," he says, as he walks over to stand in front of me. "What's your name?"
Is he frakking kidding me? "Laura," I respond coyly.
"Laura?"
I lean in and run my finger along his shoulder as I whisper in his ear. "But you can call me Madame President if that's what gets you off."
He pulls away from me like he's been burned. "You're supposed to be Laura Roslin?"
I notice that the other prostitutes have started to walk away from this little confrontation. Nobody wants trouble, and this encounter has all the earmarks of turning into a real crapfest.
"Look, stud, I can be anything you want me to be, okay?" I hope this will appease him. He really seems to have an issue with what I'm doing here.
"No, it's not okay." His face is bright red, but his voice is firm as his eyes scan me from top to bottom.
"If you're not buying, then get lost," I hiss. Last thing I need is some moralistic asshole passing judgment on what I do for a living.
His eyes widen at my tone, but he wisely backs away on unsteady legs before he disappears around the corner like a scared rabbit.
I watch his retreating form with barely controlled contempt. "Frakking prude," I grouse. I hate when they're like that. "What's his problem, anyway?"
"That's Lee Adama, the Commander's son," Jemma informs me like I'm some kind of idiot. "I think you've just bought us all a whole lotta trouble."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I considered lying low after my run-in with Lee Adama, but I don't have that luxury. Money's scarce, and three tricks a day barely pay for two meals and the shitty accommodations I'm renting down on the lower deck. So, I'm out peddling it in the corridor on my regular shift without much luck. The only thing I seem to be earning today is a lot of dirty looks from the other whores.
It's about noon when the other shoe drops, only it's not the son, but the father. An audible hush settles over the causeway as William Adama himself sweeps into our midst with a bad attitude and an angry scowl. I suspect he's trying to look incognito in some gray slacks and a black sweater, but the military issue boots would have given him away even if his ugly mug didn't. Did he really think he wouldn't be recognized? His godsdamned face is plastered on the newsfeeds every day along with hers. There's no such thing as anonymity anymore where he's concerned. I try to keep my rising panic at bay and pay attention to his walk instead. If nothing else, maybe I can give Nicco a few pointers. Just because I'm about to get busted doesn't mean someone else can't benefit from my misfortune.
Adama plants himself in front of me, and I'm shocked to discover he's only an inch or two taller than I am. He looks larger than life on the newsfeeds. His piercing blue eyes narrow as they scan me from head to toe, like some laser guidance system, before they zero in on my face.
"How much?" he asks in that gruff voice that, before this moment, I'd always associated with safety and protection. One on one, it's not quite so reassuring.
I concentrate on keeping my voice calm and steady. "What've you got?"
"Too informal," he replies. "She wouldn't start a negotiation that way."
I smile a bit at that. "What have you got?"
"Better," he grunts. "A few cubits."
"Define 'a few.'"
"Two hundred."
I bite back a bark of laughter. For two hundred, he could have the entire corridor of women for several hours, but I'm not about to tell him that. Makes me wonder if he's been trolling one of the upper decks where the high class call girls hang out. I decide to push my luck. "You got anything to eat?"
If he's startled by my question, he's controlling his reaction well. "You work for food?"
"Don't we all?"
His lips quirk slightly in an almost-smile, and I'm taken aback by how such a spare gesture can soften his harsh features. I try to catalogue the expression for Nicco.
"I don't have any food," he tells me. "So, does two hundred get it done?"
He speaks the language, and I'm relieved that this isn't his first trip to the rodeo. I think, maybe, we can work something out. "Let's go."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I let him into my room and he looks around, like he's trying to scope out more ways to judge me. There's not much to judge. There's a rack with a couple mattresses, a small closet, a crappy little table with a lamp that does a piss poor job of lighting up even this small of a space. There's not a single chair. There isn't any room for one anyway.
"This is better than I thought it would be." He toes the carpeted deck with his boot.
"It's not so bad." Could be worse, I could be living in a lavatory. I tie a tattered green rag around the wheel of the hatch before I shut the door.
"What's that for?"
I hold back more sarcastic remarks and decide to play it nice. He is paying me two hundred frakkin' cubits for my affections. "Lets my roommates know the room is occupied."
"You have a roommate?"
I stare at him, my intolerance bumped up yet another notch. "I have three."
"In … here?"
He looks around the tiny cabin, reassessing. It's cramped. This guy could walk from corner to corner in two short strides, a far cry from the swanky digs he's probably used to.
"Yeah. You thought I lived here alone?"
"It's a single bunk," he says, like this distinction makes any sense after the apocalypse.
"Two mattresses." I motion to the double stack on the rack. "Makes it more comfortable for the clients during working hours, and at night one of them goes on the floor."
He points at the bedding. "So, you sleep two to these single beds at night?"
"Uh huh." I fluff the comforter and arrange the pillows in a way my tricks usually find comfortable. "So, what'll it be, Commander?"
His head snaps up at the use of his rank and he stares at me. "You know who I am?"
Is he kidding? Who doesn't know who he is? "Of course I do," I answer. "And I assume you also know who I am."
"I know who you're trying to be."
I place my hands on my hips and favor him with my best Roslin pose, tilting my head and raising my eyebrow at him. "Well, how am I doing?"
"Not so great."
Normally if a guy criticized how I do my job I'd tear him a new one, but for some reason, I don't mind the fact that he just told me I suck. I smile, then realize I need to shake the starstruck bullshit before he starts to doubt my credibility as a real professional. No matter what he does up on his deck, it's a level playing field down below. Maybe that's what he's looking for--someone to treat him like he's not motherfrakkin' Zeus. I move into his personal space and slide my fingers along the waistband of his slacks, toying with the sweater he's wearing.
"How about you give me some pointers, then," I murmur. Damn, I sound sexy.
His large hands grasp mine, preventing me from untucking his shirt. "I'm not here for sex."
I've heard that excuse often enough from many an affection-starved soul who needed to be coddled into believing it was okay to pay for a frak.
"Sure you're not." I lay on the reassurance, pulling my hands from his so I can run my fingers down the soft fabric covering his surprisingly broad chest.
"No, I'm really not," he insists with a note of warning. I take it easy, letting my fingers rest at his waist. I suddenly realize the other reason he may have shown up and I get a little nervous.
"So, you're shutting me down, then?" If that happens, I'm shit out of luck. I doubt he realizes that without this job, I'll probably starve.
"I haven't decided that yet." He uses the opportunity to give me the once-over again. The ones who make a game out of getting to the point are the most irritating, but I never let it show.
"You're not here for sex, and you're not here to shut me down … " I slip one fingertip under his waistband. I tug on it, looking into his eyes. "Then why are you here?"
"To make sure you don't do anything that will discredit her."
I laugh and quickly catch myself. I clear my throat instead. This is too good.
"You came all the way down here from Galactica to protect the President's reputation?"
He doesn't look nearly as amused as I am. "We've had some trouble with public relations lately. Last thing I need is a documentary on presidential whores."
The sting he intentionally applied to the last word takes me down a notch, but I scoff at him, trying to seem unaffected.
"Discredit her, huh?" I run my finger over his belt buckle.
"Yes." He seems to be getting more annoyed by the minute, but I don't mind. He's paying me to annoy him. I've been paid to do a lot worse.
"Like give a sloppy blow-job?"
I've heard about the 'Adama Glare,' but until it's directed at you, it's hard to explain how intimidating a look can be. I take a hesitant step back, but he moves forward, trapping me against the bulkhead. When he does speak, his voice is icy.
"Don't frak with me or I'll shut you down so fast it will make your head spin."
I refuse to back down, even though he's set me on edge. I've been pushed around a lot lately; it's nothing I can't handle. And I have a feeling that this dog is all bark and no bite.
"I'm just trying to find out what you mean by 'discredit her.'"
"Don't do anything that's … " He trails off, and I realize that talking about sex in this frank manner is probably making him uncomfortable. It would have had the same effect on me a few short months ago.
"Unseemly?"
"Yeah."
"Could you define that for me?" That brief note of relief I saw in his eyes is crushed again. Judging by his reactions, what's unseemly to him may be run-of-the-mill for me now, so I need to know what he's thinking.
He shifts his weight on his feet and rubs the back of his neck. He seems borderline fidgety when he closes his eyes with an exasperated sigh. "Just straight sex, no kinky stuff."
I feel slightly sorry for him; I'm not sure what sex acts he's envisioning the President participating in, but he obviously sees her as a pretty proper kind of woman.
"I don't know what 'straight' is to you." I feel like I'm dancing around a detonator, and it's just a matter of time before I trip that red button.
"It's … straight," he repeats, a sharp edge on his voice. "It's not …"
" … kinky?"
There's that glare, though it's far less intimidating the second time around. "You're frakking with me again."
"No, I'm really not. I just need you to define your terms." This is harder than I thought it would be. "Does 'straight' mean literally straight to you?" He looks at me blankly. Oh, Lords, I can't take this shit. "Like no women?"
His eyes widen in shock. "You do women, too?"
I try not to roll my own in response. "Yes, I do." He's giving me that confused puppy dog look that I might find endearing on a man half his age.
"Women want to sleep with the President?" he asks, attempting to understand the strange twist this conversation has taken.
"Everyone wants to sleep with the President."
I watch as he sits down heavily on the edge of the mattress and tries to absorb this new wrinkle in the crisp fabric of his reality.
"I didn't realize," he admits.
I think I just might have found the most vanilla guy in the Fleet.
"Do you think it discredits her that I accept female clients?" Gods, I hope not. I'd lose a good chunk of my clientele.
I can almost see the wheels churning in his head. I think he's actually trying to figure out if the 'real' Roslin would have sex with a woman. I don't know if the idea is bothering him or turning him on, and I have to bite my lower lip to keep from laughing.
His shoulders drop a moment later. "I guess that would be okay," he says in a defeated whisper.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "So, women are on the menu," I confirm. He gives me the weakest excuse for a nod I've ever seen. "What about blow-jobs?"
He squirms on the edge of the rack, and I wonder if he's imagining her kneeling between his own legs or some random guy's. He looks me in the eye and I smirk at his expression.
Definitely between his legs.
"That's pretty 'straight,' right?" I try putting a positive spin on the act.
"I guess so." Now he looks completely miserable, and I wonder when this poor frakker got his last blow-job. Thank gods the only thing I need to do is convince him I'm doing right by the President's reputation; it's taking way too long, and I’m running out of patience.
"Would it be easier for you to tell me what I can't do?" I ask, tapping my foot.
His face starts reddening, and I'm not sure if it's from anger or embarrassment.
"Do I really have to spell this out for you?" he snarls.
Definitely anger.
"I'm afraid you do," I say in all seriousness. "This is my livelihood. If you shut me down, I don't eat and I can't pay for my berth."
He doesn't like being pushed into things. He's not used to having to explain himself. "Don't let a client abuse or debase you in any way," he says in a slow, deliberate cadence. "You know what I'm getting at here, don't you?"
"I think so."
He shakes his head. "That's not good enough."
"I know what you mean," I answer quickly. Inside, I'm chafing at being told what I can and can't do. And what I think he's referring to is something I would never do, but I still despise the idea of being under somebody else's moral thumb.
Adama rises suddenly, and I realize this conversation is over. He pulls out a worn leather wallet and retrieves the two hundred cubits he offered me earlier. I roll my eyes. Last thing I need from him is his charity.
"You don't need to pay me. Nothing happened."
"Time is money," he says. "And if you're pretending to be the godsdamned President of the Twelve Colonies, don't you ever give it away for free. It cheapens you and it cheapens her." He extends his hand, encouraging me to take the cash wedged between his thick fingers. That amount of money could feed me for several days. I reach out and accept it, jamming it deep into my jacket pocket. "Did you ever tell me your name?"
"I go by Madame President down here." I can't help myself. I have to say it, if only for his reaction. I get one, a gaze that morphs from generosity to intolerance in about three seconds.
"I won't call you that." His voice is gruff, like he's converting back to military formality now that the transaction has closed. "That's not who you really are."
"Nobody down here is who they really are," I say, cocking my head and staring right back at him. "That's the point."
He doesn't say another word, just heads for the hatch and spins it open. He pulls the rag off the wheel and tosses it back to me. I catch it.
"On Galactica we place boots outside the door."
"If you did that here, they'd be gone in a Scorpion second."
He grunts in amusement and steps over the threshold. I move to shut the door behind him, but he stops me at the last second, his sharp gaze wandering down the length of my legs to land at my feet. He points at the conservative pair of heels I'm wearing.
"Roslin would kick those off the second she stepped inside her quarters."
More pointers from the man himself. "I'll have to remember that."
"If you're gonna do it, do it right," he says, and then he's gone.
Commander Adama is a strange man, I think, as I hotfoot it over to the rationing station controlled by Phelan and his goons. There's now a hot meal with my name on it.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Continued in Chapter 2...
Author: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 3,326
Rating: MA
Pairing: Roslin/Adama
Spoilers: S2, Final Cut through LDYB II
Summary: We survived the end of worlds and we still can't tell people how we really feel.
Notes: Thanks to our amazing betas somadanne and larsfarm77, both for their invaluable skills and their patience when dealing with tjonesy’s impatience. Thanks to melligator for the pretty icon set and again to katamaran78 for the gorgeous frakkin' banner.
We will be posting chapters once per day until the fic is posted in its entirety.
Link to : Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7
Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Epilogue
____________________________________________________________
FINAL CUT PART 1:
I look critically at my outfit in the mirror and the loose white panels on the crossover blouse I'm wearing. The navy blazer and skirt were easy enough to come by, but who would have thought a simple white top would fetch so much money on the black market? I practically had to sell my eyeteeth to get the damned thing, and it's still a size too large for me. My mother used to say "the outfit makes the woman." If she only knew how accurate that statement turned out to be. A pair of stylish red glasses completes the ensemble.
"You look good, Brooke." Nicco's low voice rumbles behind me, and I have to smile. We could probably make a fortune operating as a couple, but he doesn't do women.
"You look good too, baby," I croon, stroking his cheek gently.
He grins roguishly at our reflection in the mirror. "Good enough to frak?"
I don't tell him, but the smile ruins the effect. I can't quite imagine that expression gracing the face of the man he's trying to impersonate. "I'll bet a bunch of lonely guys are lining up right now in Causeway B for just that opportunity," I say as I turn to him so I can adjust one of the phony rank insignias on his collar.
He runs his fingers though his short cropped hair. "I've been getting a lot of freaks lately," he says quietly. "Members of his crew, I think."
"I got one of her staff last week," I confess.
Nicco perks up at that. "Guy or girl?"
"Girl."
He smiles lasciviously at that bit of information. "Interesting."
I shrug. "Not really."
He kisses me on the cheek before he heads off to begin his day. "Good luck out there, honey."
"You too, Nicco."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It's a slow afternoon in Causeway B when Jemma grabs my arm, drawing my attention to a beautiful specimen of a man rounding the corner of the Cloud 9 meat market.
"Brooke, look at that," she whispers. Her enthusiasm is understandable. He's pretty and he looks clean, a rarity down here. I'd like to take this one back with me, so I cross my arms over my chest and lean most of my weight on my left side, like I've seen her do in some of the Fleet newsreels. I give him my most 'presidential' look, but his stunning blue eyes barely scan me before they move on. I control my reaction, but sometimes it hurts when they don't notice you. I'm just about to break the pose when I catch him hesitating, his eyes darting back to look at me. I watch as they widen in shock.
"You," he says, as he walks over to stand in front of me. "What's your name?"
Is he frakking kidding me? "Laura," I respond coyly.
"Laura?"
I lean in and run my finger along his shoulder as I whisper in his ear. "But you can call me Madame President if that's what gets you off."
He pulls away from me like he's been burned. "You're supposed to be Laura Roslin?"
I notice that the other prostitutes have started to walk away from this little confrontation. Nobody wants trouble, and this encounter has all the earmarks of turning into a real crapfest.
"Look, stud, I can be anything you want me to be, okay?" I hope this will appease him. He really seems to have an issue with what I'm doing here.
"No, it's not okay." His face is bright red, but his voice is firm as his eyes scan me from top to bottom.
"If you're not buying, then get lost," I hiss. Last thing I need is some moralistic asshole passing judgment on what I do for a living.
His eyes widen at my tone, but he wisely backs away on unsteady legs before he disappears around the corner like a scared rabbit.
I watch his retreating form with barely controlled contempt. "Frakking prude," I grouse. I hate when they're like that. "What's his problem, anyway?"
"That's Lee Adama, the Commander's son," Jemma informs me like I'm some kind of idiot. "I think you've just bought us all a whole lotta trouble."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I considered lying low after my run-in with Lee Adama, but I don't have that luxury. Money's scarce, and three tricks a day barely pay for two meals and the shitty accommodations I'm renting down on the lower deck. So, I'm out peddling it in the corridor on my regular shift without much luck. The only thing I seem to be earning today is a lot of dirty looks from the other whores.
It's about noon when the other shoe drops, only it's not the son, but the father. An audible hush settles over the causeway as William Adama himself sweeps into our midst with a bad attitude and an angry scowl. I suspect he's trying to look incognito in some gray slacks and a black sweater, but the military issue boots would have given him away even if his ugly mug didn't. Did he really think he wouldn't be recognized? His godsdamned face is plastered on the newsfeeds every day along with hers. There's no such thing as anonymity anymore where he's concerned. I try to keep my rising panic at bay and pay attention to his walk instead. If nothing else, maybe I can give Nicco a few pointers. Just because I'm about to get busted doesn't mean someone else can't benefit from my misfortune.
Adama plants himself in front of me, and I'm shocked to discover he's only an inch or two taller than I am. He looks larger than life on the newsfeeds. His piercing blue eyes narrow as they scan me from head to toe, like some laser guidance system, before they zero in on my face.
"How much?" he asks in that gruff voice that, before this moment, I'd always associated with safety and protection. One on one, it's not quite so reassuring.
I concentrate on keeping my voice calm and steady. "What've you got?"
"Too informal," he replies. "She wouldn't start a negotiation that way."
I smile a bit at that. "What have you got?"
"Better," he grunts. "A few cubits."
"Define 'a few.'"
"Two hundred."
I bite back a bark of laughter. For two hundred, he could have the entire corridor of women for several hours, but I'm not about to tell him that. Makes me wonder if he's been trolling one of the upper decks where the high class call girls hang out. I decide to push my luck. "You got anything to eat?"
If he's startled by my question, he's controlling his reaction well. "You work for food?"
"Don't we all?"
His lips quirk slightly in an almost-smile, and I'm taken aback by how such a spare gesture can soften his harsh features. I try to catalogue the expression for Nicco.
"I don't have any food," he tells me. "So, does two hundred get it done?"
He speaks the language, and I'm relieved that this isn't his first trip to the rodeo. I think, maybe, we can work something out. "Let's go."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I let him into my room and he looks around, like he's trying to scope out more ways to judge me. There's not much to judge. There's a rack with a couple mattresses, a small closet, a crappy little table with a lamp that does a piss poor job of lighting up even this small of a space. There's not a single chair. There isn't any room for one anyway.
"This is better than I thought it would be." He toes the carpeted deck with his boot.
"It's not so bad." Could be worse, I could be living in a lavatory. I tie a tattered green rag around the wheel of the hatch before I shut the door.
"What's that for?"
I hold back more sarcastic remarks and decide to play it nice. He is paying me two hundred frakkin' cubits for my affections. "Lets my roommates know the room is occupied."
"You have a roommate?"
I stare at him, my intolerance bumped up yet another notch. "I have three."
"In … here?"
He looks around the tiny cabin, reassessing. It's cramped. This guy could walk from corner to corner in two short strides, a far cry from the swanky digs he's probably used to.
"Yeah. You thought I lived here alone?"
"It's a single bunk," he says, like this distinction makes any sense after the apocalypse.
"Two mattresses." I motion to the double stack on the rack. "Makes it more comfortable for the clients during working hours, and at night one of them goes on the floor."
He points at the bedding. "So, you sleep two to these single beds at night?"
"Uh huh." I fluff the comforter and arrange the pillows in a way my tricks usually find comfortable. "So, what'll it be, Commander?"
His head snaps up at the use of his rank and he stares at me. "You know who I am?"
Is he kidding? Who doesn't know who he is? "Of course I do," I answer. "And I assume you also know who I am."
"I know who you're trying to be."
I place my hands on my hips and favor him with my best Roslin pose, tilting my head and raising my eyebrow at him. "Well, how am I doing?"
"Not so great."
Normally if a guy criticized how I do my job I'd tear him a new one, but for some reason, I don't mind the fact that he just told me I suck. I smile, then realize I need to shake the starstruck bullshit before he starts to doubt my credibility as a real professional. No matter what he does up on his deck, it's a level playing field down below. Maybe that's what he's looking for--someone to treat him like he's not motherfrakkin' Zeus. I move into his personal space and slide my fingers along the waistband of his slacks, toying with the sweater he's wearing.
"How about you give me some pointers, then," I murmur. Damn, I sound sexy.
His large hands grasp mine, preventing me from untucking his shirt. "I'm not here for sex."
I've heard that excuse often enough from many an affection-starved soul who needed to be coddled into believing it was okay to pay for a frak.
"Sure you're not." I lay on the reassurance, pulling my hands from his so I can run my fingers down the soft fabric covering his surprisingly broad chest.
"No, I'm really not," he insists with a note of warning. I take it easy, letting my fingers rest at his waist. I suddenly realize the other reason he may have shown up and I get a little nervous.
"So, you're shutting me down, then?" If that happens, I'm shit out of luck. I doubt he realizes that without this job, I'll probably starve.
"I haven't decided that yet." He uses the opportunity to give me the once-over again. The ones who make a game out of getting to the point are the most irritating, but I never let it show.
"You're not here for sex, and you're not here to shut me down … " I slip one fingertip under his waistband. I tug on it, looking into his eyes. "Then why are you here?"
"To make sure you don't do anything that will discredit her."
I laugh and quickly catch myself. I clear my throat instead. This is too good.
"You came all the way down here from Galactica to protect the President's reputation?"
He doesn't look nearly as amused as I am. "We've had some trouble with public relations lately. Last thing I need is a documentary on presidential whores."
The sting he intentionally applied to the last word takes me down a notch, but I scoff at him, trying to seem unaffected.
"Discredit her, huh?" I run my finger over his belt buckle.
"Yes." He seems to be getting more annoyed by the minute, but I don't mind. He's paying me to annoy him. I've been paid to do a lot worse.
"Like give a sloppy blow-job?"
I've heard about the 'Adama Glare,' but until it's directed at you, it's hard to explain how intimidating a look can be. I take a hesitant step back, but he moves forward, trapping me against the bulkhead. When he does speak, his voice is icy.
"Don't frak with me or I'll shut you down so fast it will make your head spin."
I refuse to back down, even though he's set me on edge. I've been pushed around a lot lately; it's nothing I can't handle. And I have a feeling that this dog is all bark and no bite.
"I'm just trying to find out what you mean by 'discredit her.'"
"Don't do anything that's … " He trails off, and I realize that talking about sex in this frank manner is probably making him uncomfortable. It would have had the same effect on me a few short months ago.
"Unseemly?"
"Yeah."
"Could you define that for me?" That brief note of relief I saw in his eyes is crushed again. Judging by his reactions, what's unseemly to him may be run-of-the-mill for me now, so I need to know what he's thinking.
He shifts his weight on his feet and rubs the back of his neck. He seems borderline fidgety when he closes his eyes with an exasperated sigh. "Just straight sex, no kinky stuff."
I feel slightly sorry for him; I'm not sure what sex acts he's envisioning the President participating in, but he obviously sees her as a pretty proper kind of woman.
"I don't know what 'straight' is to you." I feel like I'm dancing around a detonator, and it's just a matter of time before I trip that red button.
"It's … straight," he repeats, a sharp edge on his voice. "It's not …"
" … kinky?"
There's that glare, though it's far less intimidating the second time around. "You're frakking with me again."
"No, I'm really not. I just need you to define your terms." This is harder than I thought it would be. "Does 'straight' mean literally straight to you?" He looks at me blankly. Oh, Lords, I can't take this shit. "Like no women?"
His eyes widen in shock. "You do women, too?"
I try not to roll my own in response. "Yes, I do." He's giving me that confused puppy dog look that I might find endearing on a man half his age.
"Women want to sleep with the President?" he asks, attempting to understand the strange twist this conversation has taken.
"Everyone wants to sleep with the President."
I watch as he sits down heavily on the edge of the mattress and tries to absorb this new wrinkle in the crisp fabric of his reality.
"I didn't realize," he admits.
I think I just might have found the most vanilla guy in the Fleet.
"Do you think it discredits her that I accept female clients?" Gods, I hope not. I'd lose a good chunk of my clientele.
I can almost see the wheels churning in his head. I think he's actually trying to figure out if the 'real' Roslin would have sex with a woman. I don't know if the idea is bothering him or turning him on, and I have to bite my lower lip to keep from laughing.
His shoulders drop a moment later. "I guess that would be okay," he says in a defeated whisper.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "So, women are on the menu," I confirm. He gives me the weakest excuse for a nod I've ever seen. "What about blow-jobs?"
He squirms on the edge of the rack, and I wonder if he's imagining her kneeling between his own legs or some random guy's. He looks me in the eye and I smirk at his expression.
Definitely between his legs.
"That's pretty 'straight,' right?" I try putting a positive spin on the act.
"I guess so." Now he looks completely miserable, and I wonder when this poor frakker got his last blow-job. Thank gods the only thing I need to do is convince him I'm doing right by the President's reputation; it's taking way too long, and I’m running out of patience.
"Would it be easier for you to tell me what I can't do?" I ask, tapping my foot.
His face starts reddening, and I'm not sure if it's from anger or embarrassment.
"Do I really have to spell this out for you?" he snarls.
Definitely anger.
"I'm afraid you do," I say in all seriousness. "This is my livelihood. If you shut me down, I don't eat and I can't pay for my berth."
He doesn't like being pushed into things. He's not used to having to explain himself. "Don't let a client abuse or debase you in any way," he says in a slow, deliberate cadence. "You know what I'm getting at here, don't you?"
"I think so."
He shakes his head. "That's not good enough."
"I know what you mean," I answer quickly. Inside, I'm chafing at being told what I can and can't do. And what I think he's referring to is something I would never do, but I still despise the idea of being under somebody else's moral thumb.
Adama rises suddenly, and I realize this conversation is over. He pulls out a worn leather wallet and retrieves the two hundred cubits he offered me earlier. I roll my eyes. Last thing I need from him is his charity.
"You don't need to pay me. Nothing happened."
"Time is money," he says. "And if you're pretending to be the godsdamned President of the Twelve Colonies, don't you ever give it away for free. It cheapens you and it cheapens her." He extends his hand, encouraging me to take the cash wedged between his thick fingers. That amount of money could feed me for several days. I reach out and accept it, jamming it deep into my jacket pocket. "Did you ever tell me your name?"
"I go by Madame President down here." I can't help myself. I have to say it, if only for his reaction. I get one, a gaze that morphs from generosity to intolerance in about three seconds.
"I won't call you that." His voice is gruff, like he's converting back to military formality now that the transaction has closed. "That's not who you really are."
"Nobody down here is who they really are," I say, cocking my head and staring right back at him. "That's the point."
He doesn't say another word, just heads for the hatch and spins it open. He pulls the rag off the wheel and tosses it back to me. I catch it.
"On Galactica we place boots outside the door."
"If you did that here, they'd be gone in a Scorpion second."
He grunts in amusement and steps over the threshold. I move to shut the door behind him, but he stops me at the last second, his sharp gaze wandering down the length of my legs to land at my feet. He points at the conservative pair of heels I'm wearing.
"Roslin would kick those off the second she stepped inside her quarters."
More pointers from the man himself. "I'll have to remember that."
"If you're gonna do it, do it right," he says, and then he's gone.
Commander Adama is a strange man, I think, as I hotfoot it over to the rationing station controlled by Phelan and his goons. There's now a hot meal with my name on it.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Continued in Chapter 2...