fic: one cannot begin it too soon (1/1)
Title: One Cannot Begin it Too Soon
Rating: T
Word Count: ~700
Warnings: None
Summary: “Aerilons have good poetry.” He pulled an earlier verse from his head, his lips around her earlobe proving a good conductor for the memory. An early morning on New Caprica, for citiesofcolor, who wanted AR + Yeats. All lines are taken from "Brown Penny."
---
The sheets and blankets were tangled hopelessly around their legs, but it was warm enough inside Laura’s tent that they didn’t care.
Bill woke before her, lying half off of the mattress that he had dragged to the floor the night before. It had been late, by the time he had gotten to her, his meeting with Baltar delayed until well into the night. He had found her asleep in her grading, wearing the dingy grey tee shirt he had left behind the last time he had been there.
In time passed, Bill had learned that while the president had been quick to rise to answer a crisis, that Laura could be very hard to rouse into consciousness. After stripping down to his boxers, Bill lifted her out of her chair at her makeshift desk, and onto the mattress. She had barely stirred at all, murmuring in faint recognition when he slid in beside her and ran his hand from her knee to her waist.
She slept soundly-it was Saturday, and Bill was inclined to let her stay that way. Turning onto his side, he propped himself up on an elbow to watch her sleep. Her hair was still in the braid she had taken to sleeping with (something about the godsfrakking planet and humidity, but all he knew was that he liked her hair, tame or wild) and after a slight moment of hesitation, he tugged the loosened elastic from the bottom of it and brushed her dark red curls free with his fingers, fanning them out over her back and shoulders.
He loved her hair. Loved these hazy, early-morning moments where decades of training woke up before her. Loved the way she slept, sprawled and elongated, head pillowed on her arms, all long, lean muscle. Had spent long hours learning the freckles dotting her skin, the arch of her feet, her finely-boned ankles. How she buried her face in her pillow, hid her eyes from the sun when she was fighting wakefulness. How her calves flexed, her shoulders flexed, when she finally stopped fighting. How she would blink blearily at him, mumbling some thought that she had latched onto in her stupor, and bury her face into his chest, demanding that they stay in bed.
(He had already effortlessly done away with many of his long-ingrained instincts for her. His predilection against lingering in bed was the least of them.)
How he would hold her, stroking his fingers through her curls while she dozed, until she decided she was hungry, or thirsty, or otherwise inclined to engage him in conversation or… other pursuits.
She made soft, sleepy noises; he wrapped a lock of soft hair around one of his fingers, before letting it spring back into its natural shape. “I am looped in the loops of her hair,” he recited, voice low and raspy, as he brushed her hair away from her face, behind an ear. He paused, trying to remember the rest, palm stroking over the hair brushed out over her upper back.
“O love is a crooked thing,” Laura murmured then-her consonants slippery and malformed-causing him to jolt. She blinked tiredly at him, before elongating under his palm, tendons popping, muscles unfurling from sleeping repose. “There is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he would be thinking of love.”
“Good morning.” He brushed his lips against her ear, smiling when she shivered.
“Good morning,” she replied, on the tail-end of a yawn, not yet moving to curl around him. “I am looped in the loops of her hair?”
“Aerilons have good poetry.” He pulled an earlier verse from his head, his lips around her earlobe proving a good conductor for the memory. “I whispered, ‘I am too young,’ and then, ‘I am old enough,’ wherefore I threw a penny to find out if I might love.”
Laura snorted. “You and I are hardly young.”
“No.” He laughed, and curled another lock of hair around his index finger. She giggled, endearingly. Much about Laura, unfettered by the societal restraints of the president, was endearing, especially now that he could act upon these affections. “But I am looped in the loops of your hair.”
And in love.
Rating: T
Word Count: ~700
Warnings: None
Summary: “Aerilons have good poetry.” He pulled an earlier verse from his head, his lips around her earlobe proving a good conductor for the memory. An early morning on New Caprica, for citiesofcolor, who wanted AR + Yeats. All lines are taken from "Brown Penny."
---
The sheets and blankets were tangled hopelessly around their legs, but it was warm enough inside Laura’s tent that they didn’t care.
Bill woke before her, lying half off of the mattress that he had dragged to the floor the night before. It had been late, by the time he had gotten to her, his meeting with Baltar delayed until well into the night. He had found her asleep in her grading, wearing the dingy grey tee shirt he had left behind the last time he had been there.
In time passed, Bill had learned that while the president had been quick to rise to answer a crisis, that Laura could be very hard to rouse into consciousness. After stripping down to his boxers, Bill lifted her out of her chair at her makeshift desk, and onto the mattress. She had barely stirred at all, murmuring in faint recognition when he slid in beside her and ran his hand from her knee to her waist.
She slept soundly-it was Saturday, and Bill was inclined to let her stay that way. Turning onto his side, he propped himself up on an elbow to watch her sleep. Her hair was still in the braid she had taken to sleeping with (something about the godsfrakking planet and humidity, but all he knew was that he liked her hair, tame or wild) and after a slight moment of hesitation, he tugged the loosened elastic from the bottom of it and brushed her dark red curls free with his fingers, fanning them out over her back and shoulders.
He loved her hair. Loved these hazy, early-morning moments where decades of training woke up before her. Loved the way she slept, sprawled and elongated, head pillowed on her arms, all long, lean muscle. Had spent long hours learning the freckles dotting her skin, the arch of her feet, her finely-boned ankles. How she buried her face in her pillow, hid her eyes from the sun when she was fighting wakefulness. How her calves flexed, her shoulders flexed, when she finally stopped fighting. How she would blink blearily at him, mumbling some thought that she had latched onto in her stupor, and bury her face into his chest, demanding that they stay in bed.
(He had already effortlessly done away with many of his long-ingrained instincts for her. His predilection against lingering in bed was the least of them.)
How he would hold her, stroking his fingers through her curls while she dozed, until she decided she was hungry, or thirsty, or otherwise inclined to engage him in conversation or… other pursuits.
She made soft, sleepy noises; he wrapped a lock of soft hair around one of his fingers, before letting it spring back into its natural shape. “I am looped in the loops of her hair,” he recited, voice low and raspy, as he brushed her hair away from her face, behind an ear. He paused, trying to remember the rest, palm stroking over the hair brushed out over her upper back.
“O love is a crooked thing,” Laura murmured then-her consonants slippery and malformed-causing him to jolt. She blinked tiredly at him, before elongating under his palm, tendons popping, muscles unfurling from sleeping repose. “There is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he would be thinking of love.”
“Good morning.” He brushed his lips against her ear, smiling when she shivered.
“Good morning,” she replied, on the tail-end of a yawn, not yet moving to curl around him. “I am looped in the loops of her hair?”
“Aerilons have good poetry.” He pulled an earlier verse from his head, his lips around her earlobe proving a good conductor for the memory. “I whispered, ‘I am too young,’ and then, ‘I am old enough,’ wherefore I threw a penny to find out if I might love.”
Laura snorted. “You and I are hardly young.”
“No.” He laughed, and curled another lock of hair around his index finger. She giggled, endearingly. Much about Laura, unfettered by the societal restraints of the president, was endearing, especially now that he could act upon these affections. “But I am looped in the loops of your hair.”
And in love.