fic: Purgatory
Title: Purgatory (Painted Lady series)
Authors: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 4,382
Rating: MA
Pairings: Bill/Brooke, Laura/Bill
Summary: Bill and Brooke reunite (post-Daybreak).
Notes: Written for bsg_kink’s Wrong Pairings challenge. This fic is a sequel to Painted Lady. If you haven’t read that fic, you may be lost. Thank you to somadanne and larsfarm77 for the quick and excellent betas. You two are consistently amazing. ♥
The Painted Lady series : 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
After years of dreaming about it, we finally make love on the bed he made for her. It’s not what I expected. Physically he’s there with me, but emotionally he’s not. His heart is elsewhere. It always was.
Sometimes I wonder if my leaving would kill him, but then I remember he’s already dead.
*****
It’s taken me months to get here-months before I found the courage to go after him. Months of haranguing Lee Adama, begging him to release the final coordinates of his father’s Raptor. Months of crossing inhospitable terrain and avoiding predation. When I look upward and see a small cabin perched upon a bluff overlooking the river that I’m following, I realize I’ve found him. I don’t believe it until I see him in the distance, casting off with a makeshift fishing pole. His technique is terrible and I wonder if he’s had any luck. If he has, it’s because the fish are either abundant or stupid.
As I get closer, I wonder if it’s actually him. His hair has gone completely gray and it’s long. He’s also sporting a beard that looks better than I would have believed. He’s lost maybe fifty pounds in the seven months we’ve been on this planet, and his ragged boxer shorts, the only stitch of clothing he’s wearing, hang loosely off his protruding hip bones.
“Bill?”
He looks up from his position by the river. He seems confused-like he hasn’t heard a human voice in a long time. I know the feeling.
“Brooke?”
It’s been a long time since anyone’s called me that, and in that instant I have to make a decision about who I’m going to allow myself to be with him.
After an endless moment, I nod, taking a tentative step towards him. He rises on shaky legs, his once solid frame heartbreakingly compromised by malnutrition, the struggle to survive and grief.
I approach him slowly. I don’t know what I expect him to do. He’s not going to run. He’s not going to hurt me. The Bill Adama I knew would have done neither of those things. But I question whether I know this man at all. When I’m within arm’s reach and he still hasn’t said another word, I let myself lean into him and wrap my arms around his neck. I’ve waited for this for too long not to feel his body, as different as he seems. I beg him silently to embrace me and he finally slips his arms around my waist. I can barely feel them. Bill’s hugs used to be all encompassing. What he’s offering now is more unsettling than it is comforting.
“Are you alive?” he asks on a shaky breath. It’s not the joyous reaction I expected and the question frankly frightens me.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been seeing people who aren’t really here.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, tears blurring my vision. “I’m not a ghost, Bill. I didn’t die.”
He doesn’t answer, just pulls away from me and looks back at his forgotten fishing pole resting against a rock by the river bank.
Today’s travel has left me thirsty as hell. So while he’s gathering up his fishing supplies, I move past him to the river’s edge. I lean over the water and gasp when I feel him yank me backwards by the arm.
“You can’t,” he says, his fingers shaking as they grip my forearm tightly. I look into his eyes, searching for an answer. He looks away and lets go of me. “It’s dangerous.”
He doesn’t elaborate and it kind of creeps me out. I look into the water, wondering what could be lurking in its murky depths.
What’s hidden beneath the surface is often what ends up killing us.
*****
I follow him up the worn path that leads to his cabin on the bluff. The soil outside is sandy and infertile but he’s managed to coax a meager garden from its rocky depths. He doesn’t possess a green thumb and it shows. I’m surprised he hasn’t starved to death, though from the looks of him, it seems like he’s come pretty close. I’m amazed at how much the planet has ravaged this hardened military man.
He leans down and picks a wizened green bean from one of the plants and offers it to me. I’m starving; I take it, munching on it hungrily, hoping he’ll give me more.
“They’re better when they’re cooked,” he says, and walks into the cabin, leaving the door open behind him. It’s an invitation; one I’ll gladly accept. I’m sure he built this place for the two of them, but the fact that he’s letting me in tells me she never set foot in it.
*****
That night we’re quiet, which is strange. Our relationship was built on conversation, but he doesn’t seem to want to talk much, aside from the obvious questions about how I survived the blast on Cloud 9, what I’d been doing on New Caprica and with whom, and why I never thought to tell him I was alive in the first place. I know he’s upset about that last part, but I also know he understands.
A part of me feels very out of place here, and he, in his state of mind, is not much of a host. He stands outside in the dark, listening to the thrum of insects. I sit inside, alone, and fall asleep in the bed he built for them, longing for his warmth.
When I wake up he’s still standing outside, watching the sun rise. It seems like he’s waiting for something.
*****
In time, I teach him how to fish with a net.
In time, I take over the garden, nurturing it into something that can sustain us both.
In time, we become reacquainted. Both of us are different yet the same, inexorably changed by experience and immeasurable loss.
*****
Bill won’t sleep in the bed. I’ve got a feeling he never has. At night, he sleeps in the Raptor, if he sleeps at all. I think it’s so he can be closer to her. During the daylight hours, the bed has become the center of a strange game of tag. By unspoken agreement, we never occupy it at the same time. Right now he’s splayed across it, reading a book. He looks comfortable and I don’t want to displace him, so I pull up a chair and sit beside him.
“Sometimes I saw you with her on New Caprica.” This catches his attention. I knew it would. I’m not sure how he’s going to take this news, but he actually looks pleased. I wonder if he likes the idea of there being a witness to what they had, if that makes it more real somehow. “You looked happy.”
He places the open book upon his chest. “We were.”
I lean over and trace the pattern on his worn blanket with my fingers. I don’t know what to say or what I’m expecting of him.
He looks at me, finally. “Were you?”
“Up until the occupation, yes.”
He sighs deeply. “Me too.”
Nobody talks about what happened during the occupation. It’s practically an edict.
“Caesar?” he asks, breaking that unspoken rule.
I simply shake my head.
He nods in understanding, but says nothing more. We do most of our speaking in silence these days.
That night, I’m surprised when I feel him slide into bed next to me. At first I’m not sure what prompted this titanic shift for him, and then I realize it’s our shared loss. He thinks it binds us in some way. We’re both lonely, but we’re not alone. I listen to our breath in the darkness and wait for his touch.
In time, it comes, just barely.
*****
Bill Adama cries in his sleep. I’m not sure if he knows this. If he does, it might explain why he waited so long to share his bed with me.
It’s heartwrenching to be faced with the reality of the suffering he works so hard to keep inside. I press against his body and slide my leg over his, nudging him awake while trying to bring him some comfort.
“Is this really it, Brooke?” he asks. The tone of his voice reflects the crushing hopelessness weighing on both of us.
I tuck my arm around his waist and press my mouth against his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. He makes a soft sound in response.
“Maybe we should just enjoy this,” I whisper, kissing his ear, then his jaw. He’s so still. I want him to react. I want him to feel the same warmth of desire I do pooling deep inside me.
He might be afraid to tell me this is what he needs. He might think his fate is to suffer now that she’s gone.
If the only thing we have left is each other, we need to learn to embrace that.
I slip over his body, straddling his hips like I did once years ago. It was a mistake then; maybe it won’t be one now. I’ll try, again, to give him what he needs and take what I can in the bargain.
He looks at me, as curious as I’ve seen him since we encountered each other by the river.
The hands that at one time were so possessive, aren’t. I reach between us and touch his cock through the thin cotton of his boxers. It’s limp and lifeless, just like the rest of him. He lies there, looking into my eyes, unashamed and unaffected.
“Do you want this?” I ask.
“Does it matter?”
I nod, blinking tears away. “I want to make you feel something good.” I want to feel something good, too. He recognizes the desperation in my voice and dutifully runs his hands over my thighs.
I’m not here for a pity frak. I feel selfish and rejected as I roll off him and walk outside. He follows a short while later, his eyes instinctively going to the pile of rocks by the edge of the bluff before they find mine.
“I’m sorry, Brooke. I’ve never been able to give you what you need.”
“Am I what you need, Bill?”
He doesn’t want to hurt me, so he says nothing.
*****
Most days he leaves early in the morning and returns late in the evening. The hours are filled with mindless tasks for the both of us: finding wood, hauling water, catching fish and harvesting a meager supply of edible roots. The majority of our time is swallowed up in the mundane struggle to survive another day on this planet that was supposed to be our salvation.
He collects flowers to put by her gravesite. It annoys the hell out of me for some reason. It’s not that I begrudge her the kindness, it’s just that we have to expend so much energy just to stay alive that a noble gesture seems extravagant and foolhardy when balanced against our very survival. I’ve pointed out that there are perfectly acceptable wildflowers growing close to the cabin, but he doesn’t like them. Instead, he travels to the far side of the river to pick some delicate-looking things that grow near the rocks. They’re beautiful, but they barely last a day under the scorching sun. I think he chose them specifically because of it-so he’s forced to make this daily pilgrimage for her.
We used to struggle to survive in a different way; on our hardest days, I think that was easier.
*****
I join him in the early morning as he stands outside the cabin. It’s become our ritual now. I used to feel like I didn’t belong next to him in these moments. Now I do.
“She used to love watching the sun rise,” he says. “We used to watch it together, down on New Caprica. Sometimes I feel like she’s still here, watching.”
I’ve never been one to believe in this kind of stuff-spirituality has always escaped me somehow. I’ve based my faith on tangible things. But then again, so has he.
“Maybe she is.”
He lets out a breath, his eyes never leaving the day unfolding brilliantly in the valley below us. “She always wanted to meet you.”
Later, I make my way over the ragged trail from the bluff down to the river, the whir of life in the grass around me punctuated by the sharp sound of Bill’s axe splitting firewood. I head down to the area where he picks his flowers. I teeter precariously over a series of wet river rocks to reach the destination, almost breaking my neck before I find the patch of flowers he favors. I spot a patch of beautiful red blooms growing farther up the bank, but I’d need to wade through a series of rapids to get to them and I’m terrified I’ll get swept away by the strong current. I settle for a handful of yellow flowers and pluck them carefully from their roots.
I say the first thing that comes to mind when laying the flowers upon her cairn. I leave his there from yesterday. Mine is a different kind of offering.
He doesn’t mention it when he enters the cabin after his work is done. It’s taken him longer than usual, and when I look down, I realize why.
In his hand he holds a small bunch of fresh flowers from the river. They’re the red blooms I saw earlier in the day, but couldn’t get to. It infuriates me that he almost killed himself to reach those things. He surprises me when he places them on the table in front of me. My father used to say that a gesture’s value can be measured by its level of difficulty. Bill reaches over and tucks my hair behind my ear, looking into my eyes.
His flowers are a different kind of offering, too.
*****
That night I hear somebody speaking. It alarms me and I wake up, thinking that someone’s entered the cabin. But it’s his voice in my ear and his body pressed against my back. “Love you,” he whispers as he undulates against me, the hard line of his shaft unmistakable. “Should’ve told you sooner.”
I sigh and turn into him. I stroke his weathered face and he leans into my touch. I kiss him but he doesn’t respond. That’s when I realize he’s still asleep and I’m not the person he’s talking to.
I whisper his name against his lips and he reacts by kissing me, his eyes still closed. His hand brushes my cheek and tangles in my hair. I let him pull me deeper.
He nudges me onto my back and our lips separate; he settles between my legs and presses his face against my neck.
“I know you’re not her,” he whispers, his breath heating my skin. “I know you’re not, but I need you to be.”
I gasp as he presses his hardness against me, making sure I understand. “Okay,” I breathe, my heart racing. “Okay.”
I swore I’d never do this again, but if I’m going to, there will be no holding back. “Bill, one condition.”
He nods apprehensively, waiting to hear my terms.
“If I’m going to be her then I want all of you. You make love to me and you give me everything.”
I see the pain in his eyes as the intimacy of my request registers. It’s selfish I know, but this betrayal needs to cost him as much as it’s going to cost me. I’ve lived through an apocalypse. This loss doesn’t frighten me.
He pulls away and I wonder if he’s going to leave the bed when he begins to work my underwear down my thighs. His fingers find my heat immediately and I blush at how wet I am for him. I tense up as they enter me and turn my head as he begins whispering secrets meant for another woman into my ear. I slowly let myself relax into his touch, the gentle rhythm of his fingers and the soothing sound of his words putting me at ease.
He moves down my body and nibbles along my stomach, making me giggle. He smiles indulgently, and I run my fingers through his hair and gently push him downward. He follows my lead, drawing my legs over his shoulders.
I buck at the touch of his tongue and his name escapes my lips. The sound he makes in response is low in his throat and I hear his murmured encouragement. I keep breathing his name, a reminder to myself that this is what, and who, I’ve always wanted.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says before his mouth is on me again.
“Oh, gods,” I whisper, pretending he’s talking to me. I need to create the illusion so I can get lost in the feeling swirling deep inside my body. In the past I’ve used this technique to convince a client that what we have is special. This is the first time I’m using it to convince myself.
My head is half in and half out of the game as I try to gauge what her reactions might be so I can give them to him. In the middle of wondering if I sound like her and taste like her, his tongue hits the right spot and I lose all sense of perspective, crying out as I fall apart under him.
In the blinding white seconds that follow, I give up on the pretense. He’s making love to me, not her. That’s when I finally let go. It’s the most alive I’ve felt in years. I’ve been waiting for him at least that long.
He makes his way up my body, removing my t-shirt along the way. I kiss him gently, teasing my taste off his tongue as his chest presses against mine.
“Good?” He takes my lower lip between his own and tugs on it playfully. I nod, still in wonder of what’s happening between us and feeling the anticipation of things to come.
I slip my fingers under the waistband of his boxers and tug, prompting him to shed them. I don’t want to rush, but I don’t want him to change his mind, either. He looks so different from the last time we almost did this. Not too long ago, I would have appreciated this lean, spare look on a man, but I miss the Bill I knew before-the one who carried a little too much weight around his middle. The one who was softer in every way.
We’re both panting as his cock brushes against me. He slides his arms under my shoulders and pulls me close, nuzzling my ear. “Missed you,” he murmurs expectantly, like he’s waiting for a specific response.
“I’ve wanted this for so long.” I hope it’s the answer he’s looking for. It’s easier to admit these truths when I’m pretending they’re somebody else’s.
“Me too.” I feel him slip just inside me and I press my fingernails into the back of his neck, lifting my hips to encourage him.
He starts out slowly and carefully, and I wonder if he had to be this gentle with her towards the end.
“More,” I whisper, tugging on the back of his hair. He pulls away, anchoring himself on his elbows above me, and watches my reaction as he thrusts into me for the first time. It seems to please him that he’s taken my breath away for a moment, and so he does it again. It feels so good. I begin to work with him and his groan is appreciative, even more when I grab his ass and dig my fingernails into it, urging him on.
We take time to explore each other, testing responses and different positions. Some people have an innate feel for sex and Bill’s one of them. Caesar always tried to please me, but Bill actually knows how. He’s doing it right now as he pulls me close and rumbles, “I want you to come around me.” His confident fingers slide between our bodies and I can’t stop my soft whimper of surprise at hearing those words from him.
He thrusts into me with a grunt as his fingers slip over my clit. I’m not lying when I whisper that I’m close to coming again.
He smiles at my words. “We’ll come together,” he promises as he picks up the pace. We work in tandem, both of us reaching for the other’s release. I try to keep my climax at bay while I wait for the telltale loss of rhythm that will let me know he’s there. He keeps looking at me, like he’s waiting for something, but I’m not sure what. We continue to grind against each other, but it doesn’t seem like he’s getting any closer, and it’s becoming more and more difficult for me to resist the natural pull of my own body.
“C’mon, baby,” I encourage him and he grunts in response, twisting his hips with purpose as he tries for even deeper penetration. He hits bottom unexpectedly and my body’s reaction is electric. Pleasure arcs along every nerve ending as I press against his hips, trying to grab every last inch of him and keep him there. I close my eyes and see kaleidoscopic swirls behind my eyelids before they fade to black as my orgasm subsides.
When I open my eyes again, I realize he hasn’t come and is still chasing his own release. I’m shocked that he’s lasted this long considering that he’s been living like a Gemenon monk for almost a year. He rides me for a while without success, his frustration with his body’s stubborn refusal increasingly palpable. Once I think he’s almost there and then it eludes him once again.
I run my fingers over his strong arms, trying to soothe him. “It’s okay, you know.”
He nods, but we both know that it’s not, and I’m beginning to get worried. I’m also starting to get sore.
“Let go, Bill,” I murmur as he thrusts into me again.
“I need-” He breaks off, embarrassed.
“What?” I turn his face towards me and look into his eyes. We know so little about each other sexually. “What do you need?”
“I need you to tell me,” he groans as his hips rock against mine over and over.
“Tell you?”
“Yeah.”
My breath catches in my throat when I realize what he’s asking for, and I bite my tongue against the threat of tears. “I …” My fingertips trail along his smooth back, tracing his shoulder blades.
“Please.” He leans down to kiss me, and I move my hips purposefully against his as our kiss deepens. “Tell me.”
I clench my jaw in frustration at his whispered plea, not because I don’t possess the words, but because I’m trying to prevent their escape. If I say this, he needs to know that it’s coming from me, and not from the woman he buried nearly a year ago. He rests his head in the crook of my neck and whimpers in frustration. Whatever satisfaction he’s seeking is just out of reach and I know it’s my fault. In that instant I realize that what he’s been missing all this time is not a physical connection, but something deeper. His painful desperation tears at my heart and it’s what finally breaks me.
“I love you,” I whisper against the soft skin of his neck. Those three little words finally trigger his orgasm.
Bitter tears land on my chest as he empties himself. He tries biting back her name when he comes, but is unsuccessful.
Afterward, we lie back to back, unable to face one another. I feel guilty about what we just did and I know he does too. But that doesn’t mean I won’t do it again.
“Brooke?”
“Yeah.”
“You were so much like her,” he says, his voice filled with wonder. “How did you know?”
I close my eyes, unable to answer that question. The truth is, I was just being me.
*****
“There was a time when I used to wake up every morning wanting to die.”
I thought he was sleeping. I guess both of us have a lot on our minds.
“So why didn’t you?” I ask, keeping my back turned to him. It seems to be how we have our best conversations. “Plenty of ways to get it done out here.”
“Didn’t feel right.”
I take a deep breath. I can still smell him on my skin.
“I think I could now.” His voice is lower, like he’s on the edge of sleep.
“Why would you want to?” I try not to take offense and ignore the twinge of fear that the idea stirs within me.
He takes a long time to respond-I think he’s dozed off until he speaks, barely coherent. “Maybe I’ll find her there.”
I turn over to find him on his back, staring at the rafters. I prop myself up on my elbow and look down at him. “Is that what you want from me? You want me to help you do it?”
He shakes his head and gently touches my cheek. “No, I couldn’t ask that of you.”
“You could. If that’s what you really wanted.”
“There’s only one thing I really want now.” I nod for him to continue and he does, his voice soft. “When I go, bury me next to her.”
*****
The next morning we’re up at dawn foraging for something edible in the small garden at the back of the cabin. At some point, we reach for the same root and our fingers touch. He smiles at me warmly and it catches me completely by surprise. It’s the first time he’s looked at me like that since I showed up on his doorstep four months ago. It’s then that I realize he’s finally at peace.
I’ll keep my promise to him, of course. But that doesn’t mean I won’t work to make him value the life he has here with me now.
Maybe someday, I'll even get him to look at me without seeing her.
Authors: tjonesy and icedteainthebag
Word Count: 4,382
Rating: MA
Pairings: Bill/Brooke, Laura/Bill
Summary: Bill and Brooke reunite (post-Daybreak).
Notes: Written for bsg_kink’s Wrong Pairings challenge. This fic is a sequel to Painted Lady. If you haven’t read that fic, you may be lost. Thank you to somadanne and larsfarm77 for the quick and excellent betas. You two are consistently amazing. ♥
The Painted Lady series : 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
After years of dreaming about it, we finally make love on the bed he made for her. It’s not what I expected. Physically he’s there with me, but emotionally he’s not. His heart is elsewhere. It always was.
Sometimes I wonder if my leaving would kill him, but then I remember he’s already dead.
*****
It’s taken me months to get here-months before I found the courage to go after him. Months of haranguing Lee Adama, begging him to release the final coordinates of his father’s Raptor. Months of crossing inhospitable terrain and avoiding predation. When I look upward and see a small cabin perched upon a bluff overlooking the river that I’m following, I realize I’ve found him. I don’t believe it until I see him in the distance, casting off with a makeshift fishing pole. His technique is terrible and I wonder if he’s had any luck. If he has, it’s because the fish are either abundant or stupid.
As I get closer, I wonder if it’s actually him. His hair has gone completely gray and it’s long. He’s also sporting a beard that looks better than I would have believed. He’s lost maybe fifty pounds in the seven months we’ve been on this planet, and his ragged boxer shorts, the only stitch of clothing he’s wearing, hang loosely off his protruding hip bones.
“Bill?”
He looks up from his position by the river. He seems confused-like he hasn’t heard a human voice in a long time. I know the feeling.
“Brooke?”
It’s been a long time since anyone’s called me that, and in that instant I have to make a decision about who I’m going to allow myself to be with him.
After an endless moment, I nod, taking a tentative step towards him. He rises on shaky legs, his once solid frame heartbreakingly compromised by malnutrition, the struggle to survive and grief.
I approach him slowly. I don’t know what I expect him to do. He’s not going to run. He’s not going to hurt me. The Bill Adama I knew would have done neither of those things. But I question whether I know this man at all. When I’m within arm’s reach and he still hasn’t said another word, I let myself lean into him and wrap my arms around his neck. I’ve waited for this for too long not to feel his body, as different as he seems. I beg him silently to embrace me and he finally slips his arms around my waist. I can barely feel them. Bill’s hugs used to be all encompassing. What he’s offering now is more unsettling than it is comforting.
“Are you alive?” he asks on a shaky breath. It’s not the joyous reaction I expected and the question frankly frightens me.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been seeing people who aren’t really here.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, tears blurring my vision. “I’m not a ghost, Bill. I didn’t die.”
He doesn’t answer, just pulls away from me and looks back at his forgotten fishing pole resting against a rock by the river bank.
Today’s travel has left me thirsty as hell. So while he’s gathering up his fishing supplies, I move past him to the river’s edge. I lean over the water and gasp when I feel him yank me backwards by the arm.
“You can’t,” he says, his fingers shaking as they grip my forearm tightly. I look into his eyes, searching for an answer. He looks away and lets go of me. “It’s dangerous.”
He doesn’t elaborate and it kind of creeps me out. I look into the water, wondering what could be lurking in its murky depths.
What’s hidden beneath the surface is often what ends up killing us.
*****
I follow him up the worn path that leads to his cabin on the bluff. The soil outside is sandy and infertile but he’s managed to coax a meager garden from its rocky depths. He doesn’t possess a green thumb and it shows. I’m surprised he hasn’t starved to death, though from the looks of him, it seems like he’s come pretty close. I’m amazed at how much the planet has ravaged this hardened military man.
He leans down and picks a wizened green bean from one of the plants and offers it to me. I’m starving; I take it, munching on it hungrily, hoping he’ll give me more.
“They’re better when they’re cooked,” he says, and walks into the cabin, leaving the door open behind him. It’s an invitation; one I’ll gladly accept. I’m sure he built this place for the two of them, but the fact that he’s letting me in tells me she never set foot in it.
*****
That night we’re quiet, which is strange. Our relationship was built on conversation, but he doesn’t seem to want to talk much, aside from the obvious questions about how I survived the blast on Cloud 9, what I’d been doing on New Caprica and with whom, and why I never thought to tell him I was alive in the first place. I know he’s upset about that last part, but I also know he understands.
A part of me feels very out of place here, and he, in his state of mind, is not much of a host. He stands outside in the dark, listening to the thrum of insects. I sit inside, alone, and fall asleep in the bed he built for them, longing for his warmth.
When I wake up he’s still standing outside, watching the sun rise. It seems like he’s waiting for something.
*****
In time, I teach him how to fish with a net.
In time, I take over the garden, nurturing it into something that can sustain us both.
In time, we become reacquainted. Both of us are different yet the same, inexorably changed by experience and immeasurable loss.
*****
Bill won’t sleep in the bed. I’ve got a feeling he never has. At night, he sleeps in the Raptor, if he sleeps at all. I think it’s so he can be closer to her. During the daylight hours, the bed has become the center of a strange game of tag. By unspoken agreement, we never occupy it at the same time. Right now he’s splayed across it, reading a book. He looks comfortable and I don’t want to displace him, so I pull up a chair and sit beside him.
“Sometimes I saw you with her on New Caprica.” This catches his attention. I knew it would. I’m not sure how he’s going to take this news, but he actually looks pleased. I wonder if he likes the idea of there being a witness to what they had, if that makes it more real somehow. “You looked happy.”
He places the open book upon his chest. “We were.”
I lean over and trace the pattern on his worn blanket with my fingers. I don’t know what to say or what I’m expecting of him.
He looks at me, finally. “Were you?”
“Up until the occupation, yes.”
He sighs deeply. “Me too.”
Nobody talks about what happened during the occupation. It’s practically an edict.
“Caesar?” he asks, breaking that unspoken rule.
I simply shake my head.
He nods in understanding, but says nothing more. We do most of our speaking in silence these days.
That night, I’m surprised when I feel him slide into bed next to me. At first I’m not sure what prompted this titanic shift for him, and then I realize it’s our shared loss. He thinks it binds us in some way. We’re both lonely, but we’re not alone. I listen to our breath in the darkness and wait for his touch.
In time, it comes, just barely.
*****
Bill Adama cries in his sleep. I’m not sure if he knows this. If he does, it might explain why he waited so long to share his bed with me.
It’s heartwrenching to be faced with the reality of the suffering he works so hard to keep inside. I press against his body and slide my leg over his, nudging him awake while trying to bring him some comfort.
“Is this really it, Brooke?” he asks. The tone of his voice reflects the crushing hopelessness weighing on both of us.
I tuck my arm around his waist and press my mouth against his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. He makes a soft sound in response.
“Maybe we should just enjoy this,” I whisper, kissing his ear, then his jaw. He’s so still. I want him to react. I want him to feel the same warmth of desire I do pooling deep inside me.
He might be afraid to tell me this is what he needs. He might think his fate is to suffer now that she’s gone.
If the only thing we have left is each other, we need to learn to embrace that.
I slip over his body, straddling his hips like I did once years ago. It was a mistake then; maybe it won’t be one now. I’ll try, again, to give him what he needs and take what I can in the bargain.
He looks at me, as curious as I’ve seen him since we encountered each other by the river.
The hands that at one time were so possessive, aren’t. I reach between us and touch his cock through the thin cotton of his boxers. It’s limp and lifeless, just like the rest of him. He lies there, looking into my eyes, unashamed and unaffected.
“Do you want this?” I ask.
“Does it matter?”
I nod, blinking tears away. “I want to make you feel something good.” I want to feel something good, too. He recognizes the desperation in my voice and dutifully runs his hands over my thighs.
I’m not here for a pity frak. I feel selfish and rejected as I roll off him and walk outside. He follows a short while later, his eyes instinctively going to the pile of rocks by the edge of the bluff before they find mine.
“I’m sorry, Brooke. I’ve never been able to give you what you need.”
“Am I what you need, Bill?”
He doesn’t want to hurt me, so he says nothing.
*****
Most days he leaves early in the morning and returns late in the evening. The hours are filled with mindless tasks for the both of us: finding wood, hauling water, catching fish and harvesting a meager supply of edible roots. The majority of our time is swallowed up in the mundane struggle to survive another day on this planet that was supposed to be our salvation.
He collects flowers to put by her gravesite. It annoys the hell out of me for some reason. It’s not that I begrudge her the kindness, it’s just that we have to expend so much energy just to stay alive that a noble gesture seems extravagant and foolhardy when balanced against our very survival. I’ve pointed out that there are perfectly acceptable wildflowers growing close to the cabin, but he doesn’t like them. Instead, he travels to the far side of the river to pick some delicate-looking things that grow near the rocks. They’re beautiful, but they barely last a day under the scorching sun. I think he chose them specifically because of it-so he’s forced to make this daily pilgrimage for her.
We used to struggle to survive in a different way; on our hardest days, I think that was easier.
*****
I join him in the early morning as he stands outside the cabin. It’s become our ritual now. I used to feel like I didn’t belong next to him in these moments. Now I do.
“She used to love watching the sun rise,” he says. “We used to watch it together, down on New Caprica. Sometimes I feel like she’s still here, watching.”
I’ve never been one to believe in this kind of stuff-spirituality has always escaped me somehow. I’ve based my faith on tangible things. But then again, so has he.
“Maybe she is.”
He lets out a breath, his eyes never leaving the day unfolding brilliantly in the valley below us. “She always wanted to meet you.”
Later, I make my way over the ragged trail from the bluff down to the river, the whir of life in the grass around me punctuated by the sharp sound of Bill’s axe splitting firewood. I head down to the area where he picks his flowers. I teeter precariously over a series of wet river rocks to reach the destination, almost breaking my neck before I find the patch of flowers he favors. I spot a patch of beautiful red blooms growing farther up the bank, but I’d need to wade through a series of rapids to get to them and I’m terrified I’ll get swept away by the strong current. I settle for a handful of yellow flowers and pluck them carefully from their roots.
I say the first thing that comes to mind when laying the flowers upon her cairn. I leave his there from yesterday. Mine is a different kind of offering.
He doesn’t mention it when he enters the cabin after his work is done. It’s taken him longer than usual, and when I look down, I realize why.
In his hand he holds a small bunch of fresh flowers from the river. They’re the red blooms I saw earlier in the day, but couldn’t get to. It infuriates me that he almost killed himself to reach those things. He surprises me when he places them on the table in front of me. My father used to say that a gesture’s value can be measured by its level of difficulty. Bill reaches over and tucks my hair behind my ear, looking into my eyes.
His flowers are a different kind of offering, too.
*****
That night I hear somebody speaking. It alarms me and I wake up, thinking that someone’s entered the cabin. But it’s his voice in my ear and his body pressed against my back. “Love you,” he whispers as he undulates against me, the hard line of his shaft unmistakable. “Should’ve told you sooner.”
I sigh and turn into him. I stroke his weathered face and he leans into my touch. I kiss him but he doesn’t respond. That’s when I realize he’s still asleep and I’m not the person he’s talking to.
I whisper his name against his lips and he reacts by kissing me, his eyes still closed. His hand brushes my cheek and tangles in my hair. I let him pull me deeper.
He nudges me onto my back and our lips separate; he settles between my legs and presses his face against my neck.
“I know you’re not her,” he whispers, his breath heating my skin. “I know you’re not, but I need you to be.”
I gasp as he presses his hardness against me, making sure I understand. “Okay,” I breathe, my heart racing. “Okay.”
I swore I’d never do this again, but if I’m going to, there will be no holding back. “Bill, one condition.”
He nods apprehensively, waiting to hear my terms.
“If I’m going to be her then I want all of you. You make love to me and you give me everything.”
I see the pain in his eyes as the intimacy of my request registers. It’s selfish I know, but this betrayal needs to cost him as much as it’s going to cost me. I’ve lived through an apocalypse. This loss doesn’t frighten me.
He pulls away and I wonder if he’s going to leave the bed when he begins to work my underwear down my thighs. His fingers find my heat immediately and I blush at how wet I am for him. I tense up as they enter me and turn my head as he begins whispering secrets meant for another woman into my ear. I slowly let myself relax into his touch, the gentle rhythm of his fingers and the soothing sound of his words putting me at ease.
He moves down my body and nibbles along my stomach, making me giggle. He smiles indulgently, and I run my fingers through his hair and gently push him downward. He follows my lead, drawing my legs over his shoulders.
I buck at the touch of his tongue and his name escapes my lips. The sound he makes in response is low in his throat and I hear his murmured encouragement. I keep breathing his name, a reminder to myself that this is what, and who, I’ve always wanted.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says before his mouth is on me again.
“Oh, gods,” I whisper, pretending he’s talking to me. I need to create the illusion so I can get lost in the feeling swirling deep inside my body. In the past I’ve used this technique to convince a client that what we have is special. This is the first time I’m using it to convince myself.
My head is half in and half out of the game as I try to gauge what her reactions might be so I can give them to him. In the middle of wondering if I sound like her and taste like her, his tongue hits the right spot and I lose all sense of perspective, crying out as I fall apart under him.
In the blinding white seconds that follow, I give up on the pretense. He’s making love to me, not her. That’s when I finally let go. It’s the most alive I’ve felt in years. I’ve been waiting for him at least that long.
He makes his way up my body, removing my t-shirt along the way. I kiss him gently, teasing my taste off his tongue as his chest presses against mine.
“Good?” He takes my lower lip between his own and tugs on it playfully. I nod, still in wonder of what’s happening between us and feeling the anticipation of things to come.
I slip my fingers under the waistband of his boxers and tug, prompting him to shed them. I don’t want to rush, but I don’t want him to change his mind, either. He looks so different from the last time we almost did this. Not too long ago, I would have appreciated this lean, spare look on a man, but I miss the Bill I knew before-the one who carried a little too much weight around his middle. The one who was softer in every way.
We’re both panting as his cock brushes against me. He slides his arms under my shoulders and pulls me close, nuzzling my ear. “Missed you,” he murmurs expectantly, like he’s waiting for a specific response.
“I’ve wanted this for so long.” I hope it’s the answer he’s looking for. It’s easier to admit these truths when I’m pretending they’re somebody else’s.
“Me too.” I feel him slip just inside me and I press my fingernails into the back of his neck, lifting my hips to encourage him.
He starts out slowly and carefully, and I wonder if he had to be this gentle with her towards the end.
“More,” I whisper, tugging on the back of his hair. He pulls away, anchoring himself on his elbows above me, and watches my reaction as he thrusts into me for the first time. It seems to please him that he’s taken my breath away for a moment, and so he does it again. It feels so good. I begin to work with him and his groan is appreciative, even more when I grab his ass and dig my fingernails into it, urging him on.
We take time to explore each other, testing responses and different positions. Some people have an innate feel for sex and Bill’s one of them. Caesar always tried to please me, but Bill actually knows how. He’s doing it right now as he pulls me close and rumbles, “I want you to come around me.” His confident fingers slide between our bodies and I can’t stop my soft whimper of surprise at hearing those words from him.
He thrusts into me with a grunt as his fingers slip over my clit. I’m not lying when I whisper that I’m close to coming again.
He smiles at my words. “We’ll come together,” he promises as he picks up the pace. We work in tandem, both of us reaching for the other’s release. I try to keep my climax at bay while I wait for the telltale loss of rhythm that will let me know he’s there. He keeps looking at me, like he’s waiting for something, but I’m not sure what. We continue to grind against each other, but it doesn’t seem like he’s getting any closer, and it’s becoming more and more difficult for me to resist the natural pull of my own body.
“C’mon, baby,” I encourage him and he grunts in response, twisting his hips with purpose as he tries for even deeper penetration. He hits bottom unexpectedly and my body’s reaction is electric. Pleasure arcs along every nerve ending as I press against his hips, trying to grab every last inch of him and keep him there. I close my eyes and see kaleidoscopic swirls behind my eyelids before they fade to black as my orgasm subsides.
When I open my eyes again, I realize he hasn’t come and is still chasing his own release. I’m shocked that he’s lasted this long considering that he’s been living like a Gemenon monk for almost a year. He rides me for a while without success, his frustration with his body’s stubborn refusal increasingly palpable. Once I think he’s almost there and then it eludes him once again.
I run my fingers over his strong arms, trying to soothe him. “It’s okay, you know.”
He nods, but we both know that it’s not, and I’m beginning to get worried. I’m also starting to get sore.
“Let go, Bill,” I murmur as he thrusts into me again.
“I need-” He breaks off, embarrassed.
“What?” I turn his face towards me and look into his eyes. We know so little about each other sexually. “What do you need?”
“I need you to tell me,” he groans as his hips rock against mine over and over.
“Tell you?”
“Yeah.”
My breath catches in my throat when I realize what he’s asking for, and I bite my tongue against the threat of tears. “I …” My fingertips trail along his smooth back, tracing his shoulder blades.
“Please.” He leans down to kiss me, and I move my hips purposefully against his as our kiss deepens. “Tell me.”
I clench my jaw in frustration at his whispered plea, not because I don’t possess the words, but because I’m trying to prevent their escape. If I say this, he needs to know that it’s coming from me, and not from the woman he buried nearly a year ago. He rests his head in the crook of my neck and whimpers in frustration. Whatever satisfaction he’s seeking is just out of reach and I know it’s my fault. In that instant I realize that what he’s been missing all this time is not a physical connection, but something deeper. His painful desperation tears at my heart and it’s what finally breaks me.
“I love you,” I whisper against the soft skin of his neck. Those three little words finally trigger his orgasm.
Bitter tears land on my chest as he empties himself. He tries biting back her name when he comes, but is unsuccessful.
Afterward, we lie back to back, unable to face one another. I feel guilty about what we just did and I know he does too. But that doesn’t mean I won’t do it again.
“Brooke?”
“Yeah.”
“You were so much like her,” he says, his voice filled with wonder. “How did you know?”
I close my eyes, unable to answer that question. The truth is, I was just being me.
*****
“There was a time when I used to wake up every morning wanting to die.”
I thought he was sleeping. I guess both of us have a lot on our minds.
“So why didn’t you?” I ask, keeping my back turned to him. It seems to be how we have our best conversations. “Plenty of ways to get it done out here.”
“Didn’t feel right.”
I take a deep breath. I can still smell him on my skin.
“I think I could now.” His voice is lower, like he’s on the edge of sleep.
“Why would you want to?” I try not to take offense and ignore the twinge of fear that the idea stirs within me.
He takes a long time to respond-I think he’s dozed off until he speaks, barely coherent. “Maybe I’ll find her there.”
I turn over to find him on his back, staring at the rafters. I prop myself up on my elbow and look down at him. “Is that what you want from me? You want me to help you do it?”
He shakes his head and gently touches my cheek. “No, I couldn’t ask that of you.”
“You could. If that’s what you really wanted.”
“There’s only one thing I really want now.” I nod for him to continue and he does, his voice soft. “When I go, bury me next to her.”
*****
The next morning we’re up at dawn foraging for something edible in the small garden at the back of the cabin. At some point, we reach for the same root and our fingers touch. He smiles at me warmly and it catches me completely by surprise. It’s the first time he’s looked at me like that since I showed up on his doorstep four months ago. It’s then that I realize he’s finally at peace.
I’ll keep my promise to him, of course. But that doesn’t mean I won’t work to make him value the life he has here with me now.
Maybe someday, I'll even get him to look at me without seeing her.