fic: it’s been a long time since i came around
Title: it’s been a long time since i came around
Author: icedteainthebag
Characters: Laura Roslin/Sean Allison
Rating: T, PG-13, however you folks rate it
Word Count: 1,025
Notes: A vignette written as a birthday present for carnography, a lovely friend and tremendously talented writer. ♥ This is set during 33.
There is a short time slot within this day, between the sixty-second and sixty-third jump, that is reserved for a man who is in need of her assistance.
She doesn't care about her schedule; she lets Billy attend to it. She merely follows it, line for agonizing line, through the minutes and hours of her never-ending days and nights. She's lucky he schedules in sleep-six hours, every night, and she used to follow it before these jumps, these frakkin' jumps. Nobody can sleep through a jump, she's sure.
He is given ten minutes, this mystery man whose plight, for some reason, has taken priority over others. That is as far as she's thought it out when she hears the curtain rustle as someone walks into her office. She's sitting, her body bent over her desk-she had been trying to read a report but had been nodding off, snapping awake. Nodding off, snapping awake. She looks up drowsily and blinks hard, then stands.
This man with the salt-and-pepper hair brushed back along his temples seems hauntingly familiar, with the broad smile that now crinkles around the edges. She can't place him until she does and a rush of memory hits her, cheeks first, flush.
"Sean," she says, too softly. She corrects herself automatically, straightening her shoulders. "Sean Allison. Wow, it's been a lifetime." She lets that tiny titter of laughter come through and hopes that she doesn't sound as fake as she feels. That laugh, the one she normally reserves for social settings stuck in a place with too few people she gives a damn about, but he isn't one of those. Why did it come so easily, then?
"Laur-President Roslin," he says. "Sorry. I'm not used to the title yet."
"Neither am I," she admits with a smile. "It's been a rough few weeks."
He nods, those once-bright eyes a dim shadow of their former selves, she realizes as she finally takes him in. Moves on from his face to the slouch in his stance, his demeanor not the one of the confident man who walked out her door so many years ago, unwilling to show her the rejection he'd felt when she wouldn't let him have a second round.
A brief flash of recollection hits her then-his tanned flesh on her fair, the sound and feel of his breath against her ear, the steady rocking of his hips as she curled her legs around his waist...
"It has."
She snaps to attention once again. She's been doing that far too often lately-losing track of her thoughts, losing track of time. Losing her place. "I'm sorry. I'm exhausted and I... I'm not the best conversationalist right now."
"Me either." He looks lost for a moment, then takes a deep breath. "I know... I know right now, everyone's having a difficult time right now. Gods know I am. Everyone has lost so much."
He stops, seemingly unable to continue. She wonders if he had a family that was lost in the attacks, but doesn't know how to ask. It wasn't a subject to be approached casually, no matter how prolific the losses seemed now. A death was a death-on her white board it was a number, but every one of those numbers was a person loved by someone.
She fought daily to consider these people numerically. Statistics, casualties of war, as not to fall into a depression about the dire state of things. She was never good at separating the faces from the figures.
"Do you need something, Sean?" she asks. She feels the urge to touch his arm. It's been days since she's touched another person, but that doesn't mean this is the right time, though she longs for the contact.
"I don't have a place to sleep," he says, his eyes averting to the worn carpet at their feet. "I'm not... I'm just saying, and I hate to do this to you, because I know as well as anyone that there aren't enough places to sleep. But I was hoping... since we had a history..."
A history. Lords of Kobol, she couldn't help the shaky breath she took at the mention of it. She'd never expected to see him again. It's not regret that aches in her gut when she looks at this man, his body aged and as weary as her own. It's something else gnawing at her already-frayed emotions and she's too tired to try and figure out what the something else is. Not now. Best to wait for a quiet moment that more than likely will never occur.
"Gods, Sean. Where were you when the attacks happened?"
"I was on the Zephyr, on business. Soon after the attacks most of us were thrown out of our rooms. They replaced us with dignitaries and I'm assuming, people who still had cubits or something to offer for accommodations."
Laura had heard of this behavior and had at times admonished herself for ignoring the rumors of it. There was only so much she could do, but she feels an immediate pang of guilt for neglecting to address it in some indefinable way.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. Sorry for all of it, to everyone.
Sean looks up and meets her eyes, which are burning with the threat of unshed tears that she will, yet again, not allow to fall. She shakes her head with a forced, tight-lipped smile. "Not that. Not your request. I... let me see what I can do. I want to help you. It's the least I can do."
She can see the relief spread like a wave over him: one less thing to be concerned about, an ember of hope. "Thank you, Laura."
They stand in silence for several long seconds until she speaks again, still looking into his eyes. So lost. "I hope you've been well."
He leans in to kiss her cheek. His lips linger for a moment, warmth deepening under her skin. Touch-touch that she doesn't want to end as quickly as he withdraws.
"I've been better," he says, "but I've been worse."
Author: icedteainthebag
Characters: Laura Roslin/Sean Allison
Rating: T, PG-13, however you folks rate it
Word Count: 1,025
Notes: A vignette written as a birthday present for carnography, a lovely friend and tremendously talented writer. ♥ This is set during 33.
There is a short time slot within this day, between the sixty-second and sixty-third jump, that is reserved for a man who is in need of her assistance.
She doesn't care about her schedule; she lets Billy attend to it. She merely follows it, line for agonizing line, through the minutes and hours of her never-ending days and nights. She's lucky he schedules in sleep-six hours, every night, and she used to follow it before these jumps, these frakkin' jumps. Nobody can sleep through a jump, she's sure.
He is given ten minutes, this mystery man whose plight, for some reason, has taken priority over others. That is as far as she's thought it out when she hears the curtain rustle as someone walks into her office. She's sitting, her body bent over her desk-she had been trying to read a report but had been nodding off, snapping awake. Nodding off, snapping awake. She looks up drowsily and blinks hard, then stands.
This man with the salt-and-pepper hair brushed back along his temples seems hauntingly familiar, with the broad smile that now crinkles around the edges. She can't place him until she does and a rush of memory hits her, cheeks first, flush.
"Sean," she says, too softly. She corrects herself automatically, straightening her shoulders. "Sean Allison. Wow, it's been a lifetime." She lets that tiny titter of laughter come through and hopes that she doesn't sound as fake as she feels. That laugh, the one she normally reserves for social settings stuck in a place with too few people she gives a damn about, but he isn't one of those. Why did it come so easily, then?
"Laur-President Roslin," he says. "Sorry. I'm not used to the title yet."
"Neither am I," she admits with a smile. "It's been a rough few weeks."
He nods, those once-bright eyes a dim shadow of their former selves, she realizes as she finally takes him in. Moves on from his face to the slouch in his stance, his demeanor not the one of the confident man who walked out her door so many years ago, unwilling to show her the rejection he'd felt when she wouldn't let him have a second round.
A brief flash of recollection hits her then-his tanned flesh on her fair, the sound and feel of his breath against her ear, the steady rocking of his hips as she curled her legs around his waist...
"It has."
She snaps to attention once again. She's been doing that far too often lately-losing track of her thoughts, losing track of time. Losing her place. "I'm sorry. I'm exhausted and I... I'm not the best conversationalist right now."
"Me either." He looks lost for a moment, then takes a deep breath. "I know... I know right now, everyone's having a difficult time right now. Gods know I am. Everyone has lost so much."
He stops, seemingly unable to continue. She wonders if he had a family that was lost in the attacks, but doesn't know how to ask. It wasn't a subject to be approached casually, no matter how prolific the losses seemed now. A death was a death-on her white board it was a number, but every one of those numbers was a person loved by someone.
She fought daily to consider these people numerically. Statistics, casualties of war, as not to fall into a depression about the dire state of things. She was never good at separating the faces from the figures.
"Do you need something, Sean?" she asks. She feels the urge to touch his arm. It's been days since she's touched another person, but that doesn't mean this is the right time, though she longs for the contact.
"I don't have a place to sleep," he says, his eyes averting to the worn carpet at their feet. "I'm not... I'm just saying, and I hate to do this to you, because I know as well as anyone that there aren't enough places to sleep. But I was hoping... since we had a history..."
A history. Lords of Kobol, she couldn't help the shaky breath she took at the mention of it. She'd never expected to see him again. It's not regret that aches in her gut when she looks at this man, his body aged and as weary as her own. It's something else gnawing at her already-frayed emotions and she's too tired to try and figure out what the something else is. Not now. Best to wait for a quiet moment that more than likely will never occur.
"Gods, Sean. Where were you when the attacks happened?"
"I was on the Zephyr, on business. Soon after the attacks most of us were thrown out of our rooms. They replaced us with dignitaries and I'm assuming, people who still had cubits or something to offer for accommodations."
Laura had heard of this behavior and had at times admonished herself for ignoring the rumors of it. There was only so much she could do, but she feels an immediate pang of guilt for neglecting to address it in some indefinable way.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. Sorry for all of it, to everyone.
Sean looks up and meets her eyes, which are burning with the threat of unshed tears that she will, yet again, not allow to fall. She shakes her head with a forced, tight-lipped smile. "Not that. Not your request. I... let me see what I can do. I want to help you. It's the least I can do."
She can see the relief spread like a wave over him: one less thing to be concerned about, an ember of hope. "Thank you, Laura."
They stand in silence for several long seconds until she speaks again, still looking into his eyes. So lost. "I hope you've been well."
He leans in to kiss her cheek. His lips linger for a moment, warmth deepening under her skin. Touch-touch that she doesn't want to end as quickly as he withdraws.
"I've been better," he says, "but I've been worse."