~BSG: After Party
Title: After Party
Author: kastari
Summary: The bitch is back & they’re all in the doghouse.
Characters: Adama/Roslin, Cottle, Tigh
Rating: T
Word Count: 510
Author’s Note: Originally written for the 11th ar_drabbles challenge. Prompt: Bill’s Tauron heritage. But I couldn’t do it in 300 words. Beginning: “enterrement de vie de garcon” Middle: “enterrement de vie de garcon, la deuxieme partie” And this is the end.
Disclaimer: I’m just playing in Universal’s sandbox.
After Party
Was the hatch spinning open? Jaffee bringing coffee? What the hell time was it? Drums kept pounding a rhythm to his brain; he wasn’t sure about any of it.
She surveyed the room. Abandoned cards and cubits littered the table. The urn on the coffee table was stuffed with Cottle’s cigarette butts. There were bowls of half eaten noodles, wrappers from gods know what, nut shells everywhere and more spent liquor bottles than she cared to count. A thin white haze of smoke lingered in the air. The place looked like a frat party bomb had gone off.
Tigh sprawled on the floor; Cottle snoring in a chair; Adama face down on the couch.
She stood before them.
“Bill!”
He cringed, her voice shattering the beautiful silence.
Saul’s eye snapped open.
Jack abruptly snorted awake.
The morning after was always brutal.
“This is what I come home to? What the hell is going on here? Do you have any idea what time it is?”
Saul scrambled to his feet; Cottle straightened up; Bill sighed, face down on the couch. “I don’t suppose you’ve come bearing gifts,” he mumbled into the brown leather cushion. “Like coffee?”
Cottle and Tigh traded nervous glances.
Her eyes dark with anger, she pointed to the hatch. The two made a beeline toward freedom.
“Sherman John Cottle, in the name of clean air, if you don’t quit this nasty habit, I’m gonna airlock your smoking ass.” She snatched his last cigarette from his hand.
“Be sure to ask him about the Tauron custom, Roslin.” Tigh laughed his throaty little laugh.
Laura glared at Saul. “Be careful getting home, Colonel,” she growled and shoved him out the door. She turned to Jack. “And you! You of all people should have known this was a bad idea.”
Adama had absolutely no idea what he was getting himself into with this woman.
“If what I think is gonna happen happens,” Cottle said, “I suggest you knock one back yourself, young lady.” With that, he made his escape.
Close hatch. Spin lock. Turn.
He was up off the couch, pouring a drink.
“Traditon. Tradition!”
She recognized the tune in two words. “Don’t even start with me.” she warned.
“Well, I did have an undergraduate degree before I entered War College. “Just where do you think my soliloquy about Earth and so say we all came from?”
Her façade of anger crumbled and she laughed.
He grinned sheepishly. “You get one, too, you know.”
“What?”
“A party.”
She snorted. “Right. Me getting shit faced drunk with Kara Thrace? Possible, but not probable. With Ellen Tigh? Not in this lifetime. Girlfriends aren’t exactly my forte.”
“No worries. It’s a Tauron custom.” He handed her the vodka.
She tilted her head. “What’s this?”
“Courage in liquid form.” He raised his own glass. “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match, find me a find, catch me a catch. Night after night, in the dark, I’m alone. So find me a match of my own.”
William Adama could sing.
Laura Roslin knocked her first shot back.
~finis~
Author: kastari
Summary: The bitch is back & they’re all in the doghouse.
Characters: Adama/Roslin, Cottle, Tigh
Rating: T
Word Count: 510
Author’s Note: Originally written for the 11th ar_drabbles challenge. Prompt: Bill’s Tauron heritage. But I couldn’t do it in 300 words. Beginning: “enterrement de vie de garcon” Middle: “enterrement de vie de garcon, la deuxieme partie” And this is the end.
Disclaimer: I’m just playing in Universal’s sandbox.
After Party
Was the hatch spinning open? Jaffee bringing coffee? What the hell time was it? Drums kept pounding a rhythm to his brain; he wasn’t sure about any of it.
She surveyed the room. Abandoned cards and cubits littered the table. The urn on the coffee table was stuffed with Cottle’s cigarette butts. There were bowls of half eaten noodles, wrappers from gods know what, nut shells everywhere and more spent liquor bottles than she cared to count. A thin white haze of smoke lingered in the air. The place looked like a frat party bomb had gone off.
Tigh sprawled on the floor; Cottle snoring in a chair; Adama face down on the couch.
She stood before them.
“Bill!”
He cringed, her voice shattering the beautiful silence.
Saul’s eye snapped open.
Jack abruptly snorted awake.
The morning after was always brutal.
“This is what I come home to? What the hell is going on here? Do you have any idea what time it is?”
Saul scrambled to his feet; Cottle straightened up; Bill sighed, face down on the couch. “I don’t suppose you’ve come bearing gifts,” he mumbled into the brown leather cushion. “Like coffee?”
Cottle and Tigh traded nervous glances.
Her eyes dark with anger, she pointed to the hatch. The two made a beeline toward freedom.
“Sherman John Cottle, in the name of clean air, if you don’t quit this nasty habit, I’m gonna airlock your smoking ass.” She snatched his last cigarette from his hand.
“Be sure to ask him about the Tauron custom, Roslin.” Tigh laughed his throaty little laugh.
Laura glared at Saul. “Be careful getting home, Colonel,” she growled and shoved him out the door. She turned to Jack. “And you! You of all people should have known this was a bad idea.”
Adama had absolutely no idea what he was getting himself into with this woman.
“If what I think is gonna happen happens,” Cottle said, “I suggest you knock one back yourself, young lady.” With that, he made his escape.
Close hatch. Spin lock. Turn.
He was up off the couch, pouring a drink.
“Traditon. Tradition!”
She recognized the tune in two words. “Don’t even start with me.” she warned.
“Well, I did have an undergraduate degree before I entered War College. “Just where do you think my soliloquy about Earth and so say we all came from?”
Her façade of anger crumbled and she laughed.
He grinned sheepishly. “You get one, too, you know.”
“What?”
“A party.”
She snorted. “Right. Me getting shit faced drunk with Kara Thrace? Possible, but not probable. With Ellen Tigh? Not in this lifetime. Girlfriends aren’t exactly my forte.”
“No worries. It’s a Tauron custom.” He handed her the vodka.
She tilted her head. “What’s this?”
“Courage in liquid form.” He raised his own glass. “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match, find me a find, catch me a catch. Night after night, in the dark, I’m alone. So find me a match of my own.”
William Adama could sing.
Laura Roslin knocked her first shot back.
~finis~