Painted Lady (11/14)
Title: Painted Lady (11/14)
Author: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 3,088
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. 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 (around 10 p.m. EST) 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
____________________________________________________________
SACRIFICE:
There are precious few hours we allow ourselves to sleep. It's more important to be working, and one of us is usually using the bunk for that purpose. But today was frakked up beyond all belief. We heard about some sort of 'situation' that happened in one of the bars on the upper decks, and everything was locked down as a result. 'Locked down' meant no business for us, and even though it meant the loss of a day's pay, at least it gave us time to relax. As much as you can relax while wondering what the hell is going on above you.
So, we slept, Nicco and I in the rack, Jemma and Annie on the floor. We’re still sleeping when there's a loud pounding on the hatch. I jump at the sound, my back plastered against Nicco's chest, and take a moment to catch my breath. It's probably just someone giving us the all clear to get back to work. I stand up and fumble for my glasses, then put them on. Now I can finally see the clock at the other end the room. It's two in the frakking morning which only makes me more irritated. I tug down on the long t-shirt I claim as pajamas. It's a Galactica t-shirt, something that was handed to me from a box when our stranded transport was rerouted to Cloud 9 after the attacks. Besides the clothes on my back, it was my sole possession after the apocalypse since the luggage bay of my ship was looted shortly after docking.
I open the door and am surprised to see Bill on the other side, wearing his uniform again.
Zeus has returned.
"I frakked up," he says, his voice gravelly, wrought with emotion.
"Yeah, you did," I agree. Guess I’m the girl to come to when everything’s falling apart. "I haven't heard from you in weeks and you come pounding on my hatch at two in the frakkin’ morning-"
"Because I frakked up." He cuts me off. He rarely does that. I cock my head in disbelief. I hope I look as angry as I feel. "We need to talk."
Talk.
I sigh and glance over my shoulder. I hear my roommates shifting. They know as well as I do that they're going to have to leave.
"How long?" I ask impatiently. "I need to tell them how long."
He closes his eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath, letting it out slowly. "Two or three hours."
"Two or three hours?"
"I told you, I frakked up."
Shit. It was gonna be tough to kick my three roommates out in order to do 'business,' but now that I have to tell them they can't come back for three frakkin' hours … I'm going to owe them all a hot meal.
"Just wait out here," I say, shutting the hatch in his face. I have mixed feelings about seeing him. Part of me is irritated by his sense of entitlement-how he thinks it's his gods given right to just waltz in here whenever he pleases and demand an audience. He might be in charge up on Galactica, but down here he knows he has to play by my rules. But another part is pleased that he's come to see me, for a lot of reasons that I don't have a chance to examine before I notice Nicco give me the stinkeye.
"This better be worth it," Nicco hisses as he yanks his pants and shoes on.
"I don't see him, I don't get paid. Then I don't eat, and neither do you," I shoot back. It's true. Nicco's been in a rut lately. We've all been seeing a slowdown in business since that bullshit with Phelan went down.
"Breakfast and lunch tomorrow," Jemma says on a yawn, heading for the door.
"Thank you," I reply softly as I watch the rest of them leave. I hope he's ready for the dirty looks he’s going to get. As distraught as he seems, he probably couldn't care less.
He walks in and places an unopened bottle of ambrosia in my hands. If this is payment in advance for my services then he’s here to dump a world of shit in my lap. 'Indulgence' items are hard to come by and, therefore, extremely valuable.
On the other hand, he might just need to down the entire bottle before he can tell me what brought him here to begin with.
I place the decanter reverently on a small shelf above the rack where it’s easily accessible and toss him the rag. He ties it dutifully and returns to the center of the room, where we stand in front of each other. I feel uneasy when I remember I'm only wearing a t-shirt and underwear.
"I need to get you some chairs," he says irritably.
"Good luck fitting them in here." I motion to the floor. "Pillows or the rack?"
"Frak if I'm sitting on that floor again," he says, taking the few steps to the side of the small bunk. He sits, hunched over, and I kneel in front of him. My breath catches as I look up into his eyes; his expression is haunted.
I look away and start unlacing his boot. I’m just taking off his shoes. That's all I'm doing, I have to remind myself, as my squat puts me directly in line with his crotch. He lifts his foot, barely, and I tug on the boot and drop it to the floor. I do the same with the other.
His gaze is unfocused as he regards me. He's somewhere else, not here.
"Bill?"
"Yeah?" he responds by rote before finally looking up at me. His eyes scan my face for a moment before they eventually move lower, and I have to smile in spite of myself. He's still the proud owner of the finest pair of elevator eyes in the Fleet.
"Where did you get this?" he asks as his hand reaches out to run across the decal on my t-shirt.
"They gave them out to the refugees just after the attacks."
"They got these off of my ship?"
"Must have."
"They were in the gift shop." His voice has an edge to it, and I hope he's not going to use this as an excuse to avoid the reason he really came here. He's so focused on the image of Galactica emblazoned across my chest, he doesn't even notice when his fingers brush inadvertently across my left nipple, bringing it to a sharp peak.
"Why are you wearing this thing?" he persists.
I sigh in exasperation. "Because it was long enough for me to sleep in and it was free." I know I sound harsh, but I'm not in the mood for a lecture, and I hope we're not going to spend the next two or three hours critiquing the rest of my meager wardrobe.
"Okay," he says and drops his hand.
I run my fingers over the buttons on the front of his tunic and tug on one. "Do you want to get comfortable?"
He nods, looking down at my fingers as I begin to unbutton his shirt. I'm relieved that he agrees. I want the uniform off. He seems so different, like he doesn't belong here with me while he's wearing it.
I push it over his shoulders and down his arms, the bare skin of his muscles warm under my palms. He's wearing fleet tanks underneath; I've seen these before on other men, but not him. I rest my hand on his breastbone and watch him close his eyes as my hand slides down to the belt on his trousers.
"Pants too?"
"Why not?" he answers wearily.
I flick the fastener on the buckle, then tug open the button at his waist and lower the fly. His breathing changes then; mine does too, but I hope he can't hear it.
He lifts his hips and pushes his pants down, kicking them off his ankles. I guess he thinks I've helped enough, because he lies back on the mattress, and I slip in beside him. It feels more like us now, all formality in a pile on the floor.
"Almost got my son killed today," he mumbles.
"Oh, Bill." I put my hand on his chest and wait for him to speak.
"He’s going to be okay," he says with difficulty. "But someone else died today. Someone very important to her, because of a decision I made."
"Did you make the right decision?" I ask.
"She doesn't think so. That's all that matters right now."
I slide my hand to his neck and caress the soft skin under his ear. His breathing deepens and I look up, examining his profile. "Did you make the right decision?" I repeat firmly.
"I don't know." I'm surprised when he turns on his side to face me; his strong arms reach out to encircle my waist. His fingers graze my side, stroking absentmindedly. He has no idea what it's doing to me inside. But this is about him, not me, and I do my best to ignore it. "I don't usually second-guess myself," he continues. "Today I did."
"It's over. There's nothing you can do now to fix it, Bill."
Sometimes I can see him thinking, and this is one of them. There are years and years of thinking etched into his worn features.
"He was her only family." His voice is softer than I've ever heard it. I stroke his face. "She blames me, and that's fine …"
He trails off. His tears wet my palm and it stirs something inside me. I move to kiss him on his weathered cheek, but his head turns at the wrong moment, and my lips land sloppily on the side of his mouth. It's a mistake, so I don't know how we end up really kissing. But suddenly it's far too easy for me to tilt my head up and meet his mouth head on. His still, full lips feel good where they press against mine. He feels good.
It seems natural to slide over his body and straddle his hips with my knees, bending over him in the shallow height of the rack I've shared with too many men to count. My hands flex beside his temples upon the flat, worn pillow. I look into his eyes and he reaches up to pull my glasses off. He puts them on the shelf behind his head and his hands press against my bare thighs.
"You're not her," he says softly.
"And you're not him," I whisper. "Not right now."
I lean down and keep his gaze, feeling the tingle of his mouth so very close to mine. We breathe and our lips graze, once and then again. We're asking permission. We're contemplating outs while my body swirls warm with anticipation. There are so many reasons why this isn't a good idea, but I think we're about to ignore all of them.
It only takes his teeth catching my lower lip for me to kiss him again. The push of my tongue into his mouth sends his hips into motion and he presses up against me. I don't know why I'm startled to feel his cock straining against his boxer briefs, hard against my inner thigh, but I take a sharp breath through my nose, enough that he notices. He breaks the kiss and blinks; if the light were brighter, I'm sure I would see his blush.
"I'm sorry," he says. "It's just been so long since-"
"Oh, gods," I breathe. "Don't."
He kisses me hard then, one hand cupping the back of my head, pulling me gently downward as his tongue caresses mine. His other hand reaches around to cover my ass, squeezing it possessively.
This isn't how it should be. This isn't how it is with the countless, faceless men I bring here on a daily basis. There's actual passion igniting between us, and the feelings he's stirring in me are forbidden in this world I now inhabit.
His large hands move under my t-shirt to slide along the sensitive skin of my back as his hips undulate against mine in a gentle rhythm. We're going to make love, I realize. It's something I haven't done in years.
I shouldn't be surprised when he flips me over, taking the dominant position. Seems Adama is a bull hustler too. His eyes glint brightly in the dim lighting of the rack, burning through my resolve with their quiet intensity.
"Yes," I encourage him, rubbing the outside of his leg with mine.
He pulls my shirt off, exposing me to his searing gaze.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, just before his head dips to claim one of my breasts. He's sucking hard on the soft flesh, and I realize he's marking me. I can't believe I'm not only letting him do it, but encouraging his efforts as I pull his head more forcefully against my chest. I cry out at the sensation and he responds enthusiastically, sucking and nipping at one spot until there's an angry, red welt left in his wake. He pulls back to admire his handiwork, and a feral smile settles on his lips.
I want him so badly in that moment; it's almost a desperate need. My fingers move down his chest and belly to grip him though the thin cotton of his underwear. He's hard as a rock against the palm of my hand, and I run my fingers over him a few times, causing his breath to hiss through his teeth as he buries his face against my neck. Whatever he might lack in length, he definitely makes up for in girth, and I ache to feel him inside me.
"Laura," he breathes against my skin.
"Yes," I moan and writhe against him. I don't even realize the mistake until he pulls away from me, stricken.
Oh frak.
"Bill?"
He shakes his head like he's trying to clear it and eases off of me and the mattress to stand in the middle of the room. He looks completely lost.
"Bill, come back to bed," I say, trying to keep the moment from slipping away.
He blatantly ignores me and reaches for the tangle of blue fabric on the floor instead, shaking the clothing out until he separates his pants from his tunic. He stuffs himself insolently into the trousers, wincing as he tugs on the zipper.
He can't be serious.
"You can't go out into the hall like that," I warn him. I'm already anticipating the Colonial Gang's report about the Admiral's 'full salute' over the wireless.
He doesn't say anything, just sits beside me on the bunk and begins savagely tugging on his footwear.
"Bill?"
His shoulders slump in defeat when I say his name. "I didn't mean to use you like that," he chokes out.
I want to tell him he's been using me since he first showed up on Cloud 9, but I hold my tongue. He's so beaten down right now, the last thing he needs is a rebuke.
"There's nothing wrong with fantasizing about her, you know." I feel his muscles tense where I'm rubbing soothing circles on his back.
He closes his eyes in shame. "I don't want to be the asshole who fraks another woman when he's had a fight with his girlfriend."
I'm relieved he can't see the expression on my face. I wonder if he's told her about their relationship status, or if he's just choosing these words to push me away. I gain my composure.
"Is that what she is? Your girlfriend?"
I can't help that the words have a bite to them. Of course I fall for the guy who's in love with the President of the frakking Twelve Colonies … what's left of the Twelve Colonies. It's the only reason he ever found me in the first place-because I was pretending to be her. It's probably the only reason we just did what we did.
"I don't know what we are anymore," he says, his voice low.
It takes me a few seconds to realize he's talking about Roslin.
He stands up and walks toward the door. I feel desperate to keep him with me and ashamed that I feel like I need him to do so. I'm not supposed to want him like this.
"Don't leave," I blurt out, sounding more desperate than I intended. He looks back at me and I fold my arms protectively over my naked chest, suddenly feeling exposed. "I want you to stay. Just for a while."
I always want them to leave; this is different. He's different. It hits me hard when his eyes meet mine. Everything I'm feeling for him, I shouldn't, and everything I want with him is on the brink of never happening. I wonder if I should give him the painting at this very moment. It might keep him here. I could tell him everything. He'd finally understand me.
"Brooke, it's not the right time."
I wish I could convince myself that it's a bullshit line, but I can't. He's right. My eyes begin to burn. I can't cry in front of him; that's nonsense. "There'll never be a right time, will there?"
His gaze rakes over me once more.
"Bill," I manage, my cheeks hot. I nod toward the bottle of ambrosia above my rack. "Is that for me?"
"Yeah," he says in an embarrassed whisper.
No matter how I feel, no matter what we do, it will always come down to this moment. Reality twists that knife deeper into my chest. This is what I am to him, and it's what he is to me: a transaction. She is something different-a whole other world, not cheap and seedy, not something so easily forgotten when the hatch door closes.
I watch out of the corner of my eye as he pulls a silver flask out of his back pocket and sets it on the mattress. "For the ambrosia."
Guilt. The gift that keeps on giving.
I want to punch him in the face. I settle for an emotional punch in the gut instead. "Thanks. That'll make a nice parting gift for the next guy who actually fraks me."
He doesn't give me the pleasure of seeing how much I hurt him. He leaves wordlessly, slamming the hatch door behind him.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Continued in Chapter 12
Author: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 3,088
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. 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 (around 10 p.m. EST) 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
____________________________________________________________
SACRIFICE:
There are precious few hours we allow ourselves to sleep. It's more important to be working, and one of us is usually using the bunk for that purpose. But today was frakked up beyond all belief. We heard about some sort of 'situation' that happened in one of the bars on the upper decks, and everything was locked down as a result. 'Locked down' meant no business for us, and even though it meant the loss of a day's pay, at least it gave us time to relax. As much as you can relax while wondering what the hell is going on above you.
So, we slept, Nicco and I in the rack, Jemma and Annie on the floor. We’re still sleeping when there's a loud pounding on the hatch. I jump at the sound, my back plastered against Nicco's chest, and take a moment to catch my breath. It's probably just someone giving us the all clear to get back to work. I stand up and fumble for my glasses, then put them on. Now I can finally see the clock at the other end the room. It's two in the frakking morning which only makes me more irritated. I tug down on the long t-shirt I claim as pajamas. It's a Galactica t-shirt, something that was handed to me from a box when our stranded transport was rerouted to Cloud 9 after the attacks. Besides the clothes on my back, it was my sole possession after the apocalypse since the luggage bay of my ship was looted shortly after docking.
I open the door and am surprised to see Bill on the other side, wearing his uniform again.
Zeus has returned.
"I frakked up," he says, his voice gravelly, wrought with emotion.
"Yeah, you did," I agree. Guess I’m the girl to come to when everything’s falling apart. "I haven't heard from you in weeks and you come pounding on my hatch at two in the frakkin’ morning-"
"Because I frakked up." He cuts me off. He rarely does that. I cock my head in disbelief. I hope I look as angry as I feel. "We need to talk."
Talk.
I sigh and glance over my shoulder. I hear my roommates shifting. They know as well as I do that they're going to have to leave.
"How long?" I ask impatiently. "I need to tell them how long."
He closes his eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath, letting it out slowly. "Two or three hours."
"Two or three hours?"
"I told you, I frakked up."
Shit. It was gonna be tough to kick my three roommates out in order to do 'business,' but now that I have to tell them they can't come back for three frakkin' hours … I'm going to owe them all a hot meal.
"Just wait out here," I say, shutting the hatch in his face. I have mixed feelings about seeing him. Part of me is irritated by his sense of entitlement-how he thinks it's his gods given right to just waltz in here whenever he pleases and demand an audience. He might be in charge up on Galactica, but down here he knows he has to play by my rules. But another part is pleased that he's come to see me, for a lot of reasons that I don't have a chance to examine before I notice Nicco give me the stinkeye.
"This better be worth it," Nicco hisses as he yanks his pants and shoes on.
"I don't see him, I don't get paid. Then I don't eat, and neither do you," I shoot back. It's true. Nicco's been in a rut lately. We've all been seeing a slowdown in business since that bullshit with Phelan went down.
"Breakfast and lunch tomorrow," Jemma says on a yawn, heading for the door.
"Thank you," I reply softly as I watch the rest of them leave. I hope he's ready for the dirty looks he’s going to get. As distraught as he seems, he probably couldn't care less.
He walks in and places an unopened bottle of ambrosia in my hands. If this is payment in advance for my services then he’s here to dump a world of shit in my lap. 'Indulgence' items are hard to come by and, therefore, extremely valuable.
On the other hand, he might just need to down the entire bottle before he can tell me what brought him here to begin with.
I place the decanter reverently on a small shelf above the rack where it’s easily accessible and toss him the rag. He ties it dutifully and returns to the center of the room, where we stand in front of each other. I feel uneasy when I remember I'm only wearing a t-shirt and underwear.
"I need to get you some chairs," he says irritably.
"Good luck fitting them in here." I motion to the floor. "Pillows or the rack?"
"Frak if I'm sitting on that floor again," he says, taking the few steps to the side of the small bunk. He sits, hunched over, and I kneel in front of him. My breath catches as I look up into his eyes; his expression is haunted.
I look away and start unlacing his boot. I’m just taking off his shoes. That's all I'm doing, I have to remind myself, as my squat puts me directly in line with his crotch. He lifts his foot, barely, and I tug on the boot and drop it to the floor. I do the same with the other.
His gaze is unfocused as he regards me. He's somewhere else, not here.
"Bill?"
"Yeah?" he responds by rote before finally looking up at me. His eyes scan my face for a moment before they eventually move lower, and I have to smile in spite of myself. He's still the proud owner of the finest pair of elevator eyes in the Fleet.
"Where did you get this?" he asks as his hand reaches out to run across the decal on my t-shirt.
"They gave them out to the refugees just after the attacks."
"They got these off of my ship?"
"Must have."
"They were in the gift shop." His voice has an edge to it, and I hope he's not going to use this as an excuse to avoid the reason he really came here. He's so focused on the image of Galactica emblazoned across my chest, he doesn't even notice when his fingers brush inadvertently across my left nipple, bringing it to a sharp peak.
"Why are you wearing this thing?" he persists.
I sigh in exasperation. "Because it was long enough for me to sleep in and it was free." I know I sound harsh, but I'm not in the mood for a lecture, and I hope we're not going to spend the next two or three hours critiquing the rest of my meager wardrobe.
"Okay," he says and drops his hand.
I run my fingers over the buttons on the front of his tunic and tug on one. "Do you want to get comfortable?"
He nods, looking down at my fingers as I begin to unbutton his shirt. I'm relieved that he agrees. I want the uniform off. He seems so different, like he doesn't belong here with me while he's wearing it.
I push it over his shoulders and down his arms, the bare skin of his muscles warm under my palms. He's wearing fleet tanks underneath; I've seen these before on other men, but not him. I rest my hand on his breastbone and watch him close his eyes as my hand slides down to the belt on his trousers.
"Pants too?"
"Why not?" he answers wearily.
I flick the fastener on the buckle, then tug open the button at his waist and lower the fly. His breathing changes then; mine does too, but I hope he can't hear it.
He lifts his hips and pushes his pants down, kicking them off his ankles. I guess he thinks I've helped enough, because he lies back on the mattress, and I slip in beside him. It feels more like us now, all formality in a pile on the floor.
"Almost got my son killed today," he mumbles.
"Oh, Bill." I put my hand on his chest and wait for him to speak.
"He’s going to be okay," he says with difficulty. "But someone else died today. Someone very important to her, because of a decision I made."
"Did you make the right decision?" I ask.
"She doesn't think so. That's all that matters right now."
I slide my hand to his neck and caress the soft skin under his ear. His breathing deepens and I look up, examining his profile. "Did you make the right decision?" I repeat firmly.
"I don't know." I'm surprised when he turns on his side to face me; his strong arms reach out to encircle my waist. His fingers graze my side, stroking absentmindedly. He has no idea what it's doing to me inside. But this is about him, not me, and I do my best to ignore it. "I don't usually second-guess myself," he continues. "Today I did."
"It's over. There's nothing you can do now to fix it, Bill."
Sometimes I can see him thinking, and this is one of them. There are years and years of thinking etched into his worn features.
"He was her only family." His voice is softer than I've ever heard it. I stroke his face. "She blames me, and that's fine …"
He trails off. His tears wet my palm and it stirs something inside me. I move to kiss him on his weathered cheek, but his head turns at the wrong moment, and my lips land sloppily on the side of his mouth. It's a mistake, so I don't know how we end up really kissing. But suddenly it's far too easy for me to tilt my head up and meet his mouth head on. His still, full lips feel good where they press against mine. He feels good.
It seems natural to slide over his body and straddle his hips with my knees, bending over him in the shallow height of the rack I've shared with too many men to count. My hands flex beside his temples upon the flat, worn pillow. I look into his eyes and he reaches up to pull my glasses off. He puts them on the shelf behind his head and his hands press against my bare thighs.
"You're not her," he says softly.
"And you're not him," I whisper. "Not right now."
I lean down and keep his gaze, feeling the tingle of his mouth so very close to mine. We breathe and our lips graze, once and then again. We're asking permission. We're contemplating outs while my body swirls warm with anticipation. There are so many reasons why this isn't a good idea, but I think we're about to ignore all of them.
It only takes his teeth catching my lower lip for me to kiss him again. The push of my tongue into his mouth sends his hips into motion and he presses up against me. I don't know why I'm startled to feel his cock straining against his boxer briefs, hard against my inner thigh, but I take a sharp breath through my nose, enough that he notices. He breaks the kiss and blinks; if the light were brighter, I'm sure I would see his blush.
"I'm sorry," he says. "It's just been so long since-"
"Oh, gods," I breathe. "Don't."
He kisses me hard then, one hand cupping the back of my head, pulling me gently downward as his tongue caresses mine. His other hand reaches around to cover my ass, squeezing it possessively.
This isn't how it should be. This isn't how it is with the countless, faceless men I bring here on a daily basis. There's actual passion igniting between us, and the feelings he's stirring in me are forbidden in this world I now inhabit.
His large hands move under my t-shirt to slide along the sensitive skin of my back as his hips undulate against mine in a gentle rhythm. We're going to make love, I realize. It's something I haven't done in years.
I shouldn't be surprised when he flips me over, taking the dominant position. Seems Adama is a bull hustler too. His eyes glint brightly in the dim lighting of the rack, burning through my resolve with their quiet intensity.
"Yes," I encourage him, rubbing the outside of his leg with mine.
He pulls my shirt off, exposing me to his searing gaze.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, just before his head dips to claim one of my breasts. He's sucking hard on the soft flesh, and I realize he's marking me. I can't believe I'm not only letting him do it, but encouraging his efforts as I pull his head more forcefully against my chest. I cry out at the sensation and he responds enthusiastically, sucking and nipping at one spot until there's an angry, red welt left in his wake. He pulls back to admire his handiwork, and a feral smile settles on his lips.
I want him so badly in that moment; it's almost a desperate need. My fingers move down his chest and belly to grip him though the thin cotton of his underwear. He's hard as a rock against the palm of my hand, and I run my fingers over him a few times, causing his breath to hiss through his teeth as he buries his face against my neck. Whatever he might lack in length, he definitely makes up for in girth, and I ache to feel him inside me.
"Laura," he breathes against my skin.
"Yes," I moan and writhe against him. I don't even realize the mistake until he pulls away from me, stricken.
Oh frak.
"Bill?"
He shakes his head like he's trying to clear it and eases off of me and the mattress to stand in the middle of the room. He looks completely lost.
"Bill, come back to bed," I say, trying to keep the moment from slipping away.
He blatantly ignores me and reaches for the tangle of blue fabric on the floor instead, shaking the clothing out until he separates his pants from his tunic. He stuffs himself insolently into the trousers, wincing as he tugs on the zipper.
He can't be serious.
"You can't go out into the hall like that," I warn him. I'm already anticipating the Colonial Gang's report about the Admiral's 'full salute' over the wireless.
He doesn't say anything, just sits beside me on the bunk and begins savagely tugging on his footwear.
"Bill?"
His shoulders slump in defeat when I say his name. "I didn't mean to use you like that," he chokes out.
I want to tell him he's been using me since he first showed up on Cloud 9, but I hold my tongue. He's so beaten down right now, the last thing he needs is a rebuke.
"There's nothing wrong with fantasizing about her, you know." I feel his muscles tense where I'm rubbing soothing circles on his back.
He closes his eyes in shame. "I don't want to be the asshole who fraks another woman when he's had a fight with his girlfriend."
I'm relieved he can't see the expression on my face. I wonder if he's told her about their relationship status, or if he's just choosing these words to push me away. I gain my composure.
"Is that what she is? Your girlfriend?"
I can't help that the words have a bite to them. Of course I fall for the guy who's in love with the President of the frakking Twelve Colonies … what's left of the Twelve Colonies. It's the only reason he ever found me in the first place-because I was pretending to be her. It's probably the only reason we just did what we did.
"I don't know what we are anymore," he says, his voice low.
It takes me a few seconds to realize he's talking about Roslin.
He stands up and walks toward the door. I feel desperate to keep him with me and ashamed that I feel like I need him to do so. I'm not supposed to want him like this.
"Don't leave," I blurt out, sounding more desperate than I intended. He looks back at me and I fold my arms protectively over my naked chest, suddenly feeling exposed. "I want you to stay. Just for a while."
I always want them to leave; this is different. He's different. It hits me hard when his eyes meet mine. Everything I'm feeling for him, I shouldn't, and everything I want with him is on the brink of never happening. I wonder if I should give him the painting at this very moment. It might keep him here. I could tell him everything. He'd finally understand me.
"Brooke, it's not the right time."
I wish I could convince myself that it's a bullshit line, but I can't. He's right. My eyes begin to burn. I can't cry in front of him; that's nonsense. "There'll never be a right time, will there?"
His gaze rakes over me once more.
"Bill," I manage, my cheeks hot. I nod toward the bottle of ambrosia above my rack. "Is that for me?"
"Yeah," he says in an embarrassed whisper.
No matter how I feel, no matter what we do, it will always come down to this moment. Reality twists that knife deeper into my chest. This is what I am to him, and it's what he is to me: a transaction. She is something different-a whole other world, not cheap and seedy, not something so easily forgotten when the hatch door closes.
I watch out of the corner of my eye as he pulls a silver flask out of his back pocket and sets it on the mattress. "For the ambrosia."
Guilt. The gift that keeps on giving.
I want to punch him in the face. I settle for an emotional punch in the gut instead. "Thanks. That'll make a nice parting gift for the next guy who actually fraks me."
He doesn't give me the pleasure of seeing how much I hurt him. He leaves wordlessly, slamming the hatch door behind him.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Continued in Chapter 12