Painted Lady (12/14)
posted early by special request
Title: Painted Lady (12/14)
Author: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 2,558
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.
The last two chapters will be posted Saturday and Sunday at about 10 p.m. EST.
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
____________________________________________________________
THE CAPTAIN'S HAND:
"Since assuming the Presidency, I've made it my mission to maintain the rights and freedoms we so enjoyed prior to the attack. One of these rights has now come into direct conflict with the survival of the species, and I find myself forced to make a very difficult decision. The issue is stark. The fact is that if the civilization is to survive, we must, must repopulate this Fleet. Therefore, I'm issuing an Executive Order. From this day forward, anyone seeking to interfere with the birth of a child, whether it be the mother or a medical practitioner, shall be subject to criminal penalty. Thank you."
I'm not sure I needed another reason to dislike the President.
Admiral Adama picked the wrong day to come down here trying to make amends for the aborted frak. Wonder if Roslin would lock him up for that transgression? If I were him, the last place I'd want to be is in a corridor full of angry whores right now, the angriest being me. But, as he seems to do at times, he seems to have absolutely no concept of the ramifications of the decisions made above on the people suffering below, and he strolls onto the causeway like it's any ordinary day while I'm still stewing over the latest wireless address. I take his arm before he even says a word, gripping it a little harder than I probably need to while beelining it to my room.
"Her speech did not go over well," I hiss at him as we walk hastily down the causeway. I want him in my room as fast as possible before someone decides to take their anger over Roslin's preaching from her moral high ground out on him.
"She's got a point," he starts, and I shoot a glare at him. He wisely clams up. He knows me by now.
"Don't talk about it out here," I warn him. "Wait 'til we're inside."
I storm into the room and he does his thing with the rag and closes the hatch, then turns to face me.
"I hope you're here with a two-fold apology," I say, my hand on my hip. "One, for that bullshit you pulled last time, and two, for your girlfriend's social policy decisions."
I'm lodging my formal complaint against the President's abortion ban with him. I'm fuming and he's the closest I can get to the top. I admit I may be a little angrier about the decision just because she made it.
"Nice to see you, too." His sarcasm goes over like a lead balloon and now he just looks uncomfortable.
"Sorry. I'd have set out some tea and cookies, but I'm fresh out."
His eyes narrow and I take a deep breath, readying myself for his response. "That's enough. I didn't come down here to be your whipping boy."
I wisely hold my tongue on that one. It would be so easy to keep this up, but it's accomplishing nothing. "Why didn't you do something?"
"It's a civilian matter, not my domain."
"Oh, bullshit, Adama. I call bullshit."
I surprise myself when I don't call him Bill. At the moment it seems too intimate. I feel like we're so different from who we were before we almost frakked. He looks at the rack. He's wondering where to sit. We're both reminded, uncomfortably so, of the last time he was here, what happened and what didn't.
I toss a pillow at his feet. That's the best hostess I can be right now. He nudges it with his boot. He knows I'm not going to sit and I doubt he wants me towering over him while I go off.
"I know people are probably upset, but-"
"I don't want to hear it," I snap. "Are you actually going to try to defend her decision? You know what she just did, right?"
"I know what she did, Brooke." He looks more somber now. I'm challenging him. More importantly, I'm challenging her.
"A woman President," I fume. I want to pace but there's no frakking room. "A woman President takes it upon herself to eliminate our reproductive rights. What the hell?"
"In case you hadn't noticed," he begins, and I look sharply at him, "there are only about fifty thousand of us left. And we keep dropping numbers, a few here, a few there. We need to recoup some of our losses."
"Yeah, about that. What are you doing on that front?"
"Me?"
"Yes, William Adama. You gonna impregnate anybody in this valiant effort to repopulate the Fleet?"
He doesn't respond, just blows air out of his nose like he's disgusted with me.
"So you're not adding to the gene pool, and your girlfriend over there who passed this frakking mandate can't get pregnant, yet I'm supposed to pick up the mantle and do my duty for gods and colonies. I am not a number, Bill. We are not numbers. We're people. I thought this was something Roslin understood."
"She does."
"No, she doesn't!"
He stares at his feet like he's expecting them to go somewhere. He knows I've got a point, but he's too busy defending this woman he loves so godsdamned much. I don't know what to think anymore. He finally looks into my eyes, his gaze damned near remorseful as I glare back at him.
"I was the one who convinced her to do it," he says softly.
He's so calm, like he believes he did the right thing. I, on the other hand, am barely able to contain my rage. "Excuse me?"
"To make the Executive Order," he clarifies. "She was hesitant."
"What the frak, Bill!" There's no way. No way he did this. No way he'd suggest such an absurd idea.
"The human race is going to die out unless we obtain a positive growth ratio-"
"You can stop the political proselytizing right now."
He looks shocked, like he can't believe I just expressed myself using a five-syllable word, which makes me even angrier. "You know, not only do you not know shit about who I am now, you don't know shit about who I was before. Don't talk down to me just because I'm your whore."
He looks away then. I do too, because hearing myself say it just made it all too real. I clench my jaw and hug myself, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence in the room. "This is not gonna stop anyone from having abortions," I say. "Because if I. Or Jemma. Or Annie. Or any of the women who work this Fleet day in, day out, get pregnant and have a baby, there goes our livelihood."
"There are ways not to get pregnant."
I practically growl at his inanity. "Don't you realize we'll be out of prophylactics in a couple of months?" From the surprised look on his face, I can tell this is all news to him. "No, of course you don't. That would involve you actually taking your dick out of your pants once in awhile."
This man is a monument to battle, an impermeable fortress. Yet I've just obliterated his defenses. It seems too easy, but he can't hide his devastation.
"I'll talk to her. Fix this thing," he stammers. "Maybe we can organize some sort of maternity leave." He's really floundering now, and it's all I can do not to roll my eyes. "Take care of the women in some way until they give birth."
"And then what?" I challenge him. "Toss them back in this hellhole once they've added to the numbers count so they can do it all over again? Yes, our numbers are depleted, but there's still overpopulation on the ships in the Fleet. Where are all these people going to go? Are you even listening to yourself?"
"It's a complicated issue." He breaks off, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. "I didn't realize …"
"No, you didn't," I snap at him. "And you're right, you shouldn't make the calls on civilian matters."
"Frak me." He sits down heavily on the edge of the rack. I stew for a few more minutes before I finally join him, sitting on the other side of the mattress.
"Admit it, Bill, you messed up."
"I did."
"How are you gonna make it up to me? To us?"
"What do you want?" His tone is resigned.
"I want what every woman wants."
I can't help it. This conversation, my anger, his defensiveness … it's about our underlying issues, not about this frakking abortion ban. He did mess up; we both did. We've both made decisions we regret, and now we're dealing with the unavoidable aftermath.
"Brooke," he sighs wearily.
We're not going to iron this out in fifty-five minutes, so I let it go. He's sitting stiffly with his hands clasped loosely in front of himself. He's wearing blue jeans today and I've a sneaking suspicion it's because they don't wrinkle. I doubt he's comfortable removing his pants in my presence anymore, and I decide to test my theory.
"Wanna lie down?"
He glances briefly at the mattress, wincing slightly as he does so, before he looks back at me. "Better not."
"Don't trust yourself, Bill?"
He shrugs and stares at his hands again. "I still don't feel good about what happened last time."
I don't either, but I think it's for a different reason. "We all make mistakes."
"Seems I make more of them than other guys."
If he was here twenty minutes ago when I finished up with my last john, he'd probably revise that estimation. "Don't be so hard on yourself," I say lightly, jostling his shoulder for good measure. "I see a lot of men down here and, trust me, you're better than most of them."
"That's reassuring," he says with an edge of sarcasm.
I snort with laughter and pull his resisting form down onto the mattress with me. He doesn't exactly fight it, but when he finally settles himself rigidly on his back, he folds his hands across his stomach, making it difficult for me to snuggle next to him. "Bill, I'm not gonna molest you."
"It's not you I'm worried about."
Now, that's something new. "You want to do something more today?" I ask, praying he can't detect the pathetic note of hope in my voice. "Because if that's what you want …"
He gives me a curious look and I wonder what's going on in his head. "If things were different, Brooke …" He begins, and then trails off without finishing the sentence. He leans over and kisses me lightly on the forehead.
I want him to finish the damned thought. Tell me the magic formula so this thing between us can finally happen. "What would need to be different?" I ask in an embarrassed whisper.
He looks a little shocked that I've actually voiced it out loud, but he eventually takes a deep breath and starts talking. "First off, the apocalypse would need to have never happened-"
I laugh bitterly at the implausibility of it, cutting him off. "Great, I'll get right on that."
"Brooke." He rolls onto his side to stare down at me. "There are too many things that make this impossible."
"No, you just like creating these impossible scenarios in your head so you don't have to do anything."
"That's not true," he argues.
"Really?" I can't keep the edge out of my voice any longer. "You frak your girlfriend yet?"
He shakes his head in annoyance and flops onto his back again, purposely adjusting the set of his shoulders so he pushes me just a little farther away from him this time.
"Bill?"
He's infuriatingly silent.
I deliberately place my hand against his chest, forcing a physical connection. "You just gonna ignore me now?"
He eyes my hand distastefully, but doesn't push it away. "I'm not going to dignify that with a response."
"Bullshit. You'd be writing your name and hers in graffiti all over the outer hull of your ship if you'd nailed her."
He gets a strange gleam in his eye and looks at me slyly. "You know where I can get my hands on some spray paint?"
I slap his chest so hard, he actually yelps. "Oh my gods, you didn't!"
He pushes my hand away and rubs at the spot where I just hit him. "No, I didn't. But I guess I should be prepared if I ever do."
"Oh, you just reminded me of something." I crawl over his sprawled form, deliberately dragging my thigh across his groin as I exit the bed. If he notices, he doesn't say anything.
In the corner of the room, I retrieve the painting I made for him and I join him in the rack again. This time, he deliberately raises his leg to thwart any further attempts at a stealth grope. I ignore the defensive maneuver and proudly hand him the board. "I made this for you."
He flips it in his hand, recognizes the Marc he gave to me on the reverse side, before he turns it over to look at what I've done on the back.
His blue eyes scan the painting curiously before he looks over at me again. "You did this?" There's an actual note of awe in his voice.
I nod in reply. I don't trust my own voice at the moment.
"For me?"
I nod again. I can already feel a flush warming my cheeks.
His eyes return to the painting. "This is amazing," he says, then looks over at me again. "You're amazing."
I release a breath I didn't know I was holding. It means so much to me that he thinks so.
"It's beautiful, Brooke." His fingers run reverently across my careful brushwork. If he won't touch me in that way, at least he'll do it to something I created. "But I can't take this from you," he says unexpectedly, killing my buzz in an instant. He tries handing the painting back to me, but I refuse to take it from him.
"I painted this for you." My tone is injured. I'm hurt and I can't help it. I deal with rejection every time this man comes into my room, but something about this feels more personal.
"If this was in my quarters," he says in an embarrassed hush, "she'd see it and I'd have to explain where it came from."
Roslin again. I try to control my temper. "Can't you just-"
"-I won't lie to her." He cuts me off, anticipating my suggestion. Damn him.
"Then put it somewhere she won't see it."
He begins to laugh at the notion. "And where the frak would that be?"
"In your rack," I retort without missing a beat. I watch in quiet satisfaction as the laughter dies in his throat.
He doesn't look at me, just continues to stare at the painting in his hand. "… Okay."
"Okay?!" I look at him in mild shock, but he won't meet my gaze.
"I'll hang it on the wall at the foot of my rack," he says simply.
Where Roslin will never see it. The thought both pleases and depresses me. I do want him to be happy. I do. Just not with her.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Continued in Chapter 13...
Title: Painted Lady (12/14)
Author: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 2,558
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.
The last two chapters will be posted Saturday and Sunday at about 10 p.m. EST.
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
____________________________________________________________
THE CAPTAIN'S HAND:
"Since assuming the Presidency, I've made it my mission to maintain the rights and freedoms we so enjoyed prior to the attack. One of these rights has now come into direct conflict with the survival of the species, and I find myself forced to make a very difficult decision. The issue is stark. The fact is that if the civilization is to survive, we must, must repopulate this Fleet. Therefore, I'm issuing an Executive Order. From this day forward, anyone seeking to interfere with the birth of a child, whether it be the mother or a medical practitioner, shall be subject to criminal penalty. Thank you."
I'm not sure I needed another reason to dislike the President.
Admiral Adama picked the wrong day to come down here trying to make amends for the aborted frak. Wonder if Roslin would lock him up for that transgression? If I were him, the last place I'd want to be is in a corridor full of angry whores right now, the angriest being me. But, as he seems to do at times, he seems to have absolutely no concept of the ramifications of the decisions made above on the people suffering below, and he strolls onto the causeway like it's any ordinary day while I'm still stewing over the latest wireless address. I take his arm before he even says a word, gripping it a little harder than I probably need to while beelining it to my room.
"Her speech did not go over well," I hiss at him as we walk hastily down the causeway. I want him in my room as fast as possible before someone decides to take their anger over Roslin's preaching from her moral high ground out on him.
"She's got a point," he starts, and I shoot a glare at him. He wisely clams up. He knows me by now.
"Don't talk about it out here," I warn him. "Wait 'til we're inside."
I storm into the room and he does his thing with the rag and closes the hatch, then turns to face me.
"I hope you're here with a two-fold apology," I say, my hand on my hip. "One, for that bullshit you pulled last time, and two, for your girlfriend's social policy decisions."
I'm lodging my formal complaint against the President's abortion ban with him. I'm fuming and he's the closest I can get to the top. I admit I may be a little angrier about the decision just because she made it.
"Nice to see you, too." His sarcasm goes over like a lead balloon and now he just looks uncomfortable.
"Sorry. I'd have set out some tea and cookies, but I'm fresh out."
His eyes narrow and I take a deep breath, readying myself for his response. "That's enough. I didn't come down here to be your whipping boy."
I wisely hold my tongue on that one. It would be so easy to keep this up, but it's accomplishing nothing. "Why didn't you do something?"
"It's a civilian matter, not my domain."
"Oh, bullshit, Adama. I call bullshit."
I surprise myself when I don't call him Bill. At the moment it seems too intimate. I feel like we're so different from who we were before we almost frakked. He looks at the rack. He's wondering where to sit. We're both reminded, uncomfortably so, of the last time he was here, what happened and what didn't.
I toss a pillow at his feet. That's the best hostess I can be right now. He nudges it with his boot. He knows I'm not going to sit and I doubt he wants me towering over him while I go off.
"I know people are probably upset, but-"
"I don't want to hear it," I snap. "Are you actually going to try to defend her decision? You know what she just did, right?"
"I know what she did, Brooke." He looks more somber now. I'm challenging him. More importantly, I'm challenging her.
"A woman President," I fume. I want to pace but there's no frakking room. "A woman President takes it upon herself to eliminate our reproductive rights. What the hell?"
"In case you hadn't noticed," he begins, and I look sharply at him, "there are only about fifty thousand of us left. And we keep dropping numbers, a few here, a few there. We need to recoup some of our losses."
"Yeah, about that. What are you doing on that front?"
"Me?"
"Yes, William Adama. You gonna impregnate anybody in this valiant effort to repopulate the Fleet?"
He doesn't respond, just blows air out of his nose like he's disgusted with me.
"So you're not adding to the gene pool, and your girlfriend over there who passed this frakking mandate can't get pregnant, yet I'm supposed to pick up the mantle and do my duty for gods and colonies. I am not a number, Bill. We are not numbers. We're people. I thought this was something Roslin understood."
"She does."
"No, she doesn't!"
He stares at his feet like he's expecting them to go somewhere. He knows I've got a point, but he's too busy defending this woman he loves so godsdamned much. I don't know what to think anymore. He finally looks into my eyes, his gaze damned near remorseful as I glare back at him.
"I was the one who convinced her to do it," he says softly.
He's so calm, like he believes he did the right thing. I, on the other hand, am barely able to contain my rage. "Excuse me?"
"To make the Executive Order," he clarifies. "She was hesitant."
"What the frak, Bill!" There's no way. No way he did this. No way he'd suggest such an absurd idea.
"The human race is going to die out unless we obtain a positive growth ratio-"
"You can stop the political proselytizing right now."
He looks shocked, like he can't believe I just expressed myself using a five-syllable word, which makes me even angrier. "You know, not only do you not know shit about who I am now, you don't know shit about who I was before. Don't talk down to me just because I'm your whore."
He looks away then. I do too, because hearing myself say it just made it all too real. I clench my jaw and hug myself, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence in the room. "This is not gonna stop anyone from having abortions," I say. "Because if I. Or Jemma. Or Annie. Or any of the women who work this Fleet day in, day out, get pregnant and have a baby, there goes our livelihood."
"There are ways not to get pregnant."
I practically growl at his inanity. "Don't you realize we'll be out of prophylactics in a couple of months?" From the surprised look on his face, I can tell this is all news to him. "No, of course you don't. That would involve you actually taking your dick out of your pants once in awhile."
This man is a monument to battle, an impermeable fortress. Yet I've just obliterated his defenses. It seems too easy, but he can't hide his devastation.
"I'll talk to her. Fix this thing," he stammers. "Maybe we can organize some sort of maternity leave." He's really floundering now, and it's all I can do not to roll my eyes. "Take care of the women in some way until they give birth."
"And then what?" I challenge him. "Toss them back in this hellhole once they've added to the numbers count so they can do it all over again? Yes, our numbers are depleted, but there's still overpopulation on the ships in the Fleet. Where are all these people going to go? Are you even listening to yourself?"
"It's a complicated issue." He breaks off, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. "I didn't realize …"
"No, you didn't," I snap at him. "And you're right, you shouldn't make the calls on civilian matters."
"Frak me." He sits down heavily on the edge of the rack. I stew for a few more minutes before I finally join him, sitting on the other side of the mattress.
"Admit it, Bill, you messed up."
"I did."
"How are you gonna make it up to me? To us?"
"What do you want?" His tone is resigned.
"I want what every woman wants."
I can't help it. This conversation, my anger, his defensiveness … it's about our underlying issues, not about this frakking abortion ban. He did mess up; we both did. We've both made decisions we regret, and now we're dealing with the unavoidable aftermath.
"Brooke," he sighs wearily.
We're not going to iron this out in fifty-five minutes, so I let it go. He's sitting stiffly with his hands clasped loosely in front of himself. He's wearing blue jeans today and I've a sneaking suspicion it's because they don't wrinkle. I doubt he's comfortable removing his pants in my presence anymore, and I decide to test my theory.
"Wanna lie down?"
He glances briefly at the mattress, wincing slightly as he does so, before he looks back at me. "Better not."
"Don't trust yourself, Bill?"
He shrugs and stares at his hands again. "I still don't feel good about what happened last time."
I don't either, but I think it's for a different reason. "We all make mistakes."
"Seems I make more of them than other guys."
If he was here twenty minutes ago when I finished up with my last john, he'd probably revise that estimation. "Don't be so hard on yourself," I say lightly, jostling his shoulder for good measure. "I see a lot of men down here and, trust me, you're better than most of them."
"That's reassuring," he says with an edge of sarcasm.
I snort with laughter and pull his resisting form down onto the mattress with me. He doesn't exactly fight it, but when he finally settles himself rigidly on his back, he folds his hands across his stomach, making it difficult for me to snuggle next to him. "Bill, I'm not gonna molest you."
"It's not you I'm worried about."
Now, that's something new. "You want to do something more today?" I ask, praying he can't detect the pathetic note of hope in my voice. "Because if that's what you want …"
He gives me a curious look and I wonder what's going on in his head. "If things were different, Brooke …" He begins, and then trails off without finishing the sentence. He leans over and kisses me lightly on the forehead.
I want him to finish the damned thought. Tell me the magic formula so this thing between us can finally happen. "What would need to be different?" I ask in an embarrassed whisper.
He looks a little shocked that I've actually voiced it out loud, but he eventually takes a deep breath and starts talking. "First off, the apocalypse would need to have never happened-"
I laugh bitterly at the implausibility of it, cutting him off. "Great, I'll get right on that."
"Brooke." He rolls onto his side to stare down at me. "There are too many things that make this impossible."
"No, you just like creating these impossible scenarios in your head so you don't have to do anything."
"That's not true," he argues.
"Really?" I can't keep the edge out of my voice any longer. "You frak your girlfriend yet?"
He shakes his head in annoyance and flops onto his back again, purposely adjusting the set of his shoulders so he pushes me just a little farther away from him this time.
"Bill?"
He's infuriatingly silent.
I deliberately place my hand against his chest, forcing a physical connection. "You just gonna ignore me now?"
He eyes my hand distastefully, but doesn't push it away. "I'm not going to dignify that with a response."
"Bullshit. You'd be writing your name and hers in graffiti all over the outer hull of your ship if you'd nailed her."
He gets a strange gleam in his eye and looks at me slyly. "You know where I can get my hands on some spray paint?"
I slap his chest so hard, he actually yelps. "Oh my gods, you didn't!"
He pushes my hand away and rubs at the spot where I just hit him. "No, I didn't. But I guess I should be prepared if I ever do."
"Oh, you just reminded me of something." I crawl over his sprawled form, deliberately dragging my thigh across his groin as I exit the bed. If he notices, he doesn't say anything.
In the corner of the room, I retrieve the painting I made for him and I join him in the rack again. This time, he deliberately raises his leg to thwart any further attempts at a stealth grope. I ignore the defensive maneuver and proudly hand him the board. "I made this for you."
He flips it in his hand, recognizes the Marc he gave to me on the reverse side, before he turns it over to look at what I've done on the back.
His blue eyes scan the painting curiously before he looks over at me again. "You did this?" There's an actual note of awe in his voice.
I nod in reply. I don't trust my own voice at the moment.
"For me?"
I nod again. I can already feel a flush warming my cheeks.
His eyes return to the painting. "This is amazing," he says, then looks over at me again. "You're amazing."
I release a breath I didn't know I was holding. It means so much to me that he thinks so.
"It's beautiful, Brooke." His fingers run reverently across my careful brushwork. If he won't touch me in that way, at least he'll do it to something I created. "But I can't take this from you," he says unexpectedly, killing my buzz in an instant. He tries handing the painting back to me, but I refuse to take it from him.
"I painted this for you." My tone is injured. I'm hurt and I can't help it. I deal with rejection every time this man comes into my room, but something about this feels more personal.
"If this was in my quarters," he says in an embarrassed hush, "she'd see it and I'd have to explain where it came from."
Roslin again. I try to control my temper. "Can't you just-"
"-I won't lie to her." He cuts me off, anticipating my suggestion. Damn him.
"Then put it somewhere she won't see it."
He begins to laugh at the notion. "And where the frak would that be?"
"In your rack," I retort without missing a beat. I watch in quiet satisfaction as the laughter dies in his throat.
He doesn't look at me, just continues to stare at the painting in his hand. "… Okay."
"Okay?!" I look at him in mild shock, but he won't meet my gaze.
"I'll hang it on the wall at the foot of my rack," he says simply.
Where Roslin will never see it. The thought both pleases and depresses me. I do want him to be happy. I do. Just not with her.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Continued in Chapter 13...