Only in Dreams
Title: Only in Dreams
Author: afrakaday
Word count: 1650
Rating: T
A/N: Battleship fic, hits six of the seven bonus point prompts (all of them except for "make-up sex"). Thanks to nixmom for the beta and the helpful prompt.
Laura couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned in her narrow cot, but it was 0130 and sleep would simply not come.
Her mind felt hazy and disordered. In these quiet hours, when the bustle of the ship’s inhabitants and shuffling papers and demanding voices was replaced by the white noise of engines reverberating throughout the bulkheads, troubling memories of New Caprica, of the occupation and the losses they’d suffered, tended to haunt to her. Even dreams of that troubled time would be preferable to the waking terror of reliving worried conversations with Maya, checking Tyrol and Tigh’s plans for insurrection, consoling Anders about his missing wife, comforting terrified children who watched parents and classmates succumb to illness.
As if she didn’t already harbor enough resentment toward the Cylons, she could now blame them for her body's refusal to enter the REM sleep cycle as well. It was a stressful thought. She had an 0800 meeting with the Gemenese delegation before a session with the entire Quorum at ten.
There was only one soporific available that she trusted to effectively coax her to sleep, but she felt guilty at even entertaining the notion. Bill needed rest every bit as much as she did, and from what she'd seen, was apparently capable of catching a few winks anywhere, anytime, to her occasional frustration and to her great envy now.
That thought made her reconsider her decision not to call. If she did call, he'd surely be able to get right back to sleep, none for the worse, and then the fleet would have the benefit of two well-rested leaders in the morning instead of one.
She picked up the comm decisively. "Get me the Admiral, please. Yes, I know what time it is. Yes, everything's fine. Just do it."
The line clicked a few times as the call was put through. Finally a sleepy-sounding Bill answered. "Madam President?"
"Bill. I'm sorry to call so late..." She trailed off, unsure. Now that he was actually on the line, her reasoning for calling him at oh-one-frakking-forty didn’t seem so sound.
"Laura, it's fine." He sounded more alert now. "Is something wrong?"
"It's just...I can't sleep," she admitted in a girlish voice.
"So you decided I shouldn't, either?" His warm chuckle took any edge off his words. She relaxed into her cot, his voice already having the effect she’d hoped for.
"My mind was racing, thinking about...things. Your voice is so calming, I thought talking to you would help."
"The last thing the fleet needs is an exhausted President," he allowed.
She giggled. "I’m glad you share my feelings on the matter."
"Would you like me to read to you?"
"That would be perfect, Bill. Ideally something with no plot. Something dry that I won’t get wrapped up in."
“Well, I’ve got some supply reports here, but I think I can do better than that for you. Hang on.” She heard him set the phone down and imagined him, clad only in boxers, tanks, and dog tags, crossing his quarters to flip on a light and select a book from his shelf. She sighed, nestling deeper into her pillows as she waited for him.
A rustling across the line indicated Bill’s return to his rack. “I picked out A History of the Cylon War, Volume II. I thought I would read the chapter on the peace accord and the end of the war. Give us something hopeful to think about. That someday we’ll have our feet back on solid ground and be able to just live life as people again.”
She smiled and closed her eyes, ready for him to begin. “Good choice. Go ahead.”
Bill cleared his throat and began reading. “All across the Colonies, the twelfth Colonial Day celebration proved the grandest yet. With the signing of the Cimtar Peace Accord, the Cylon threat to peace on the young Twelve Colonies of Kobol was resolved, and the unified colonies could finally celebrate the triumph of diplomacy over militarism, and of humanity over the artificially sentient beings. The Colonies had been born in wartime, but at last its citizens would know peace.
“On Caprica, a day-long parade of returning members of the Colonial Fleet ran from Caprica City to Delphi, and was attended by over ten million people. At the Scorpian Shipyards, officers brought out the Fleet’s biggest guns for a celebratory salute, expelling now-unneeded ordnance into the desert. Sagittaron nationalists celebrated the peace by freeing prisoners who had been imprisoned for mutiny during the war, though all involved received Presidential pardons upon pledging their loyalty to the victorious Colonies.”
Laura snorted; she hadn’t known about the Sagittarons’ unique way of celebrating the end of the Cylon War, but was unsurprised given her own interactions with the intractable members of that delegation.
As Bill continued reading about the twelfth Colonial Day, the building of the Armistice Station, and changes to Colonial society wrought by the peace accord, the traumatic memories of New Caprica receded, replaced by thoughts of happier times on their home worlds. She was old enough that she remembered the celebratory events he spoke of, though not old enough that she’d really understood what was going on at the time. She and her father had been among those ten million souls lining the streets of Caprica City, her sisters too young to join them in the crush of excited people. She felt as warm and content in this moment, listening to Bill read to her in the quiet stillness of her ship, as she did that exciting Colonial Day spent on her father’s shoulders all those years ago.
Bill’s soothing, gravelly tone took on a melancholy edge as he read about the military’s reduction in force and the Cylons’ total lack of engagement in the diplomatic process that had been contemplated at the end of the war. “Five million veterans were discharged from active duty in the Fleet within the first year of the peace,” he read, and paused. “I was one of them, you know.”
Laura vaguely recalled reading something to that effect in the dossier she’d been given on Adama when she first traveled to Galactica for the decommissioning. She’d had to have Tory track that file down for her someday, she thought, before it occurred to her that the silence coming from the other line meant Bill was probably expecting a response. “I’m sorry, Bill. I can’t even imagine you giving up the uniform.”
“Didn’t want to, that’s for sure. A year before the end of the war I was just a scared kid without a clue. By the time the peace accord happened, I’d discovered a passion for flying Vipers. There’s nothing like the rush you get the moment a battle ensues and you shoot out a launch tube to take on Raiders ten times your number. Working on the freighters just wasn’t the same.”
She closed her eyes again and imagined a much younger Bill, first in a tight-fitting flight suit, stepping down from his bird still flushed from battle with a cocky swagger. Then the young man morphed into a closer approximation of Bill as she’d seen him a handful of times on New Caprica, mustachioed and wearing practical civilian attire, but with a face less lined by years of the responsibilities of command. She rolled onto her side and curled up contentedly, keeping the receiver tight against the side of her face.
“Well, luckily the Colonial government came around on the force reduction eventually,” she said in mild defense of her predecessors. “If I had the resources of the Colonies forty years ago, I’d never have made such a decision. But that’s hindsight.” Laura yawned. “Keep reading?”
“With pleasure. You getting sleepy yet?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Laura yawned again. It was selfish of her, but she wanted him to keep reading until she fell asleep. And she wanted to think about Bill in a flight suit some more. He’d take off his helmet and grin at her; she’d run into his arms and embrace him. They’d retire to the duty locker, placing his boots outside the hatch...that would be a nice dream.
Get it together, Laura, she chided herself. Listen to what he’s reading.
But she could barely focus as he read about post-Cylon War pacifism movements across the Colonies and how those movements lost their influence as people forgot the horrors of the war and the conveniences of artificial intelligence became too compelling for people to forebear. These conditions, as well as an economic downturn that the government sought to remedy by increasing military spending, led to the rearmament of the Fleet and, she gathered, Bill’s return to uniform.
Mmmm. Bill’s uniform. Her thoughts became fewer and farther between as she hovered on the edge of consciousness, Bill’s voice gently but insistently lulling her toward sleep. Her mind took her to a place, planetside; a tidy apartment she didn’t recognize, a candlelit table set for two. Bill, wearing duty blues, entering through the door with a duffle over his shoulder, dropping it at the threshold and sweeping her into his arms. “Laura...”
She wrapped an arm around herself, or maybe it was Bill’s. She needed to hang up while she was still conscious. She didn’t move.
Bill hadn’t heard her talk in a while. He listened and then asked into the phone, “Laura?”
“You’re home,” she mumbled.
He cocked an eyebrow at the odd reply. “Ready for bed, now?”
She hummed a rather satisfied hum.
“Me, too. Good night, Laura.”
“I missed you.”
“Don’t forget to hang up the phone.”
“‘Kay. Love you.”
* * *
Back on Galactica, Bill Adama looked at the comm unit in his hand and grinned before setting it back in its cradle and flipping off the light. “You too, Laura,” he rasped into the darkness.
Author: afrakaday
Word count: 1650
Rating: T
A/N: Battleship fic, hits six of the seven bonus point prompts (all of them except for "make-up sex"). Thanks to nixmom for the beta and the helpful prompt.
Laura couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned in her narrow cot, but it was 0130 and sleep would simply not come.
Her mind felt hazy and disordered. In these quiet hours, when the bustle of the ship’s inhabitants and shuffling papers and demanding voices was replaced by the white noise of engines reverberating throughout the bulkheads, troubling memories of New Caprica, of the occupation and the losses they’d suffered, tended to haunt to her. Even dreams of that troubled time would be preferable to the waking terror of reliving worried conversations with Maya, checking Tyrol and Tigh’s plans for insurrection, consoling Anders about his missing wife, comforting terrified children who watched parents and classmates succumb to illness.
As if she didn’t already harbor enough resentment toward the Cylons, she could now blame them for her body's refusal to enter the REM sleep cycle as well. It was a stressful thought. She had an 0800 meeting with the Gemenese delegation before a session with the entire Quorum at ten.
There was only one soporific available that she trusted to effectively coax her to sleep, but she felt guilty at even entertaining the notion. Bill needed rest every bit as much as she did, and from what she'd seen, was apparently capable of catching a few winks anywhere, anytime, to her occasional frustration and to her great envy now.
That thought made her reconsider her decision not to call. If she did call, he'd surely be able to get right back to sleep, none for the worse, and then the fleet would have the benefit of two well-rested leaders in the morning instead of one.
She picked up the comm decisively. "Get me the Admiral, please. Yes, I know what time it is. Yes, everything's fine. Just do it."
The line clicked a few times as the call was put through. Finally a sleepy-sounding Bill answered. "Madam President?"
"Bill. I'm sorry to call so late..." She trailed off, unsure. Now that he was actually on the line, her reasoning for calling him at oh-one-frakking-forty didn’t seem so sound.
"Laura, it's fine." He sounded more alert now. "Is something wrong?"
"It's just...I can't sleep," she admitted in a girlish voice.
"So you decided I shouldn't, either?" His warm chuckle took any edge off his words. She relaxed into her cot, his voice already having the effect she’d hoped for.
"My mind was racing, thinking about...things. Your voice is so calming, I thought talking to you would help."
"The last thing the fleet needs is an exhausted President," he allowed.
She giggled. "I’m glad you share my feelings on the matter."
"Would you like me to read to you?"
"That would be perfect, Bill. Ideally something with no plot. Something dry that I won’t get wrapped up in."
“Well, I’ve got some supply reports here, but I think I can do better than that for you. Hang on.” She heard him set the phone down and imagined him, clad only in boxers, tanks, and dog tags, crossing his quarters to flip on a light and select a book from his shelf. She sighed, nestling deeper into her pillows as she waited for him.
A rustling across the line indicated Bill’s return to his rack. “I picked out A History of the Cylon War, Volume II. I thought I would read the chapter on the peace accord and the end of the war. Give us something hopeful to think about. That someday we’ll have our feet back on solid ground and be able to just live life as people again.”
She smiled and closed her eyes, ready for him to begin. “Good choice. Go ahead.”
Bill cleared his throat and began reading. “All across the Colonies, the twelfth Colonial Day celebration proved the grandest yet. With the signing of the Cimtar Peace Accord, the Cylon threat to peace on the young Twelve Colonies of Kobol was resolved, and the unified colonies could finally celebrate the triumph of diplomacy over militarism, and of humanity over the artificially sentient beings. The Colonies had been born in wartime, but at last its citizens would know peace.
“On Caprica, a day-long parade of returning members of the Colonial Fleet ran from Caprica City to Delphi, and was attended by over ten million people. At the Scorpian Shipyards, officers brought out the Fleet’s biggest guns for a celebratory salute, expelling now-unneeded ordnance into the desert. Sagittaron nationalists celebrated the peace by freeing prisoners who had been imprisoned for mutiny during the war, though all involved received Presidential pardons upon pledging their loyalty to the victorious Colonies.”
Laura snorted; she hadn’t known about the Sagittarons’ unique way of celebrating the end of the Cylon War, but was unsurprised given her own interactions with the intractable members of that delegation.
As Bill continued reading about the twelfth Colonial Day, the building of the Armistice Station, and changes to Colonial society wrought by the peace accord, the traumatic memories of New Caprica receded, replaced by thoughts of happier times on their home worlds. She was old enough that she remembered the celebratory events he spoke of, though not old enough that she’d really understood what was going on at the time. She and her father had been among those ten million souls lining the streets of Caprica City, her sisters too young to join them in the crush of excited people. She felt as warm and content in this moment, listening to Bill read to her in the quiet stillness of her ship, as she did that exciting Colonial Day spent on her father’s shoulders all those years ago.
Bill’s soothing, gravelly tone took on a melancholy edge as he read about the military’s reduction in force and the Cylons’ total lack of engagement in the diplomatic process that had been contemplated at the end of the war. “Five million veterans were discharged from active duty in the Fleet within the first year of the peace,” he read, and paused. “I was one of them, you know.”
Laura vaguely recalled reading something to that effect in the dossier she’d been given on Adama when she first traveled to Galactica for the decommissioning. She’d had to have Tory track that file down for her someday, she thought, before it occurred to her that the silence coming from the other line meant Bill was probably expecting a response. “I’m sorry, Bill. I can’t even imagine you giving up the uniform.”
“Didn’t want to, that’s for sure. A year before the end of the war I was just a scared kid without a clue. By the time the peace accord happened, I’d discovered a passion for flying Vipers. There’s nothing like the rush you get the moment a battle ensues and you shoot out a launch tube to take on Raiders ten times your number. Working on the freighters just wasn’t the same.”
She closed her eyes again and imagined a much younger Bill, first in a tight-fitting flight suit, stepping down from his bird still flushed from battle with a cocky swagger. Then the young man morphed into a closer approximation of Bill as she’d seen him a handful of times on New Caprica, mustachioed and wearing practical civilian attire, but with a face less lined by years of the responsibilities of command. She rolled onto her side and curled up contentedly, keeping the receiver tight against the side of her face.
“Well, luckily the Colonial government came around on the force reduction eventually,” she said in mild defense of her predecessors. “If I had the resources of the Colonies forty years ago, I’d never have made such a decision. But that’s hindsight.” Laura yawned. “Keep reading?”
“With pleasure. You getting sleepy yet?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Laura yawned again. It was selfish of her, but she wanted him to keep reading until she fell asleep. And she wanted to think about Bill in a flight suit some more. He’d take off his helmet and grin at her; she’d run into his arms and embrace him. They’d retire to the duty locker, placing his boots outside the hatch...that would be a nice dream.
Get it together, Laura, she chided herself. Listen to what he’s reading.
But she could barely focus as he read about post-Cylon War pacifism movements across the Colonies and how those movements lost their influence as people forgot the horrors of the war and the conveniences of artificial intelligence became too compelling for people to forebear. These conditions, as well as an economic downturn that the government sought to remedy by increasing military spending, led to the rearmament of the Fleet and, she gathered, Bill’s return to uniform.
Mmmm. Bill’s uniform. Her thoughts became fewer and farther between as she hovered on the edge of consciousness, Bill’s voice gently but insistently lulling her toward sleep. Her mind took her to a place, planetside; a tidy apartment she didn’t recognize, a candlelit table set for two. Bill, wearing duty blues, entering through the door with a duffle over his shoulder, dropping it at the threshold and sweeping her into his arms. “Laura...”
She wrapped an arm around herself, or maybe it was Bill’s. She needed to hang up while she was still conscious. She didn’t move.
Bill hadn’t heard her talk in a while. He listened and then asked into the phone, “Laura?”
“You’re home,” she mumbled.
He cocked an eyebrow at the odd reply. “Ready for bed, now?”
She hummed a rather satisfied hum.
“Me, too. Good night, Laura.”
“I missed you.”
“Don’t forget to hang up the phone.”
“‘Kay. Love you.”
* * *
Back on Galactica, Bill Adama looked at the comm unit in his hand and grinned before setting it back in its cradle and flipping off the light. “You too, Laura,” he rasped into the darkness.