(TM) 222. Sleeping on the Couch
Sleeping on the Couch
She looked so pale lying there.
The aftermath of Baltar's trial had been forcibly set aside in the rush of new crises. Cylons. Starbuck's return. Battle and escape. The demands pelting both President and Admiral over the past days had allowed them only a bare minimum of time to rest. Just as the insanity began to calm slightly, Laura had been forced to remove herself from the center of events to undergo another Diloxin treatment.
Events had pinned Adama in CIC for several hours longer, but once free he'd gone immediately to sickbay to check on her. Cottle informed him that she'd refused to stay there one minute longer than necessary, instead ordering herself escorted to his quarters after the mandatory observation period. No doubt she'd intended to discuss the fleet's situation on his return, but when Bill arrived he'd found her sound asleep in his rack. Her shoes sat next to the bunk; her jacket was draped neatly over the back of a nearby chair.
He stood silent beside her, watching for long minutes. With clothes rumpled and auburn strands trailing over her forehead, Laura in sleep showed more disarray than she usually allowed her waking self. She lay on her back with one hand curled up by her cheek and the other draped over her stomach, silent testimony to drug-induced nausea. The treatment drained her far more than the early-stage cancer could manage.
At that moment Laura Roslin looked far too fragile to carry the burdens on her shoulders. Bill Adama knew better, even as every protective instinct he owned rose up at the sight of her sleeping and vulnerable. He felt grateful as well that she'd chosen to come here, whether to rest or to talk. Even after her stunned dismay at his vote for Baltar's acquittal, she wasn't shutting him out.
At last he moved, gently tugging the bedclothes up from her waist to her shoulder. Any talk between them would have to wait for morning; he refused to disturb her tonight. After a moment's thought, he collected her jacket and hung it neatly in his closet, then stripped off his tunic and hung it beside. Dimming lights as he went, he adjourned to the couch, removing boots, socks and glasses before lying down with a slow exhale.
The leather felt comfortable and familiar. After another long look in the direction of his rack and its occupant, he slipped into sleep.
******
Dear Gods, but he looked tired.
Laura Roslin had started awake in what passed for the very early hours of the morning in deep space. After a minute's confused disorientation at the dimmed lights and her sleep-logged body, she'd sat up and spotted Bill stretched out on his couch. Drawn by curiosity and other things she wouldn't name just now, she'd slipped out of his bunk and padded over to watch him sleeping.
Fatigue was written in the smudges under his eyes and the tension in the line of his neck. Had the lines on his brow and around his mouth been that deeply graven when they met before the decommissioning? She didn't think so, though with a face as rough-hewn as his it was hard to say. But underneath the weariness and age, she fancied she could still see the determination and composure that lay at the core of the man. Whatever their disagreements, she could only be glad that he was there, for the fleet's sake and her own
The rest of his body was composed in a line that ensured no limbs would drape off the couch. Laura blinked for a moment at his bare feet, remembering the last time she'd seen them on New Caprica. A surprisingly soft snore drew her attention back up to his face. Smiling, she slipped back to the rack, stripped off the blanket and brought it back to drape over him.
He woke at even that light touch, blinking up at her blearily in the low light. "Laura?" he husked in a sleep-raspy voice.
She drew the blanket up to his chest and let her fingers rest briefly on his shoulder. "Go back to sleep, Bill. The morning will come soon enough."
Muse: Admiral William Adama
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica '03
Word count: 701
She looked so pale lying there.
The aftermath of Baltar's trial had been forcibly set aside in the rush of new crises. Cylons. Starbuck's return. Battle and escape. The demands pelting both President and Admiral over the past days had allowed them only a bare minimum of time to rest. Just as the insanity began to calm slightly, Laura had been forced to remove herself from the center of events to undergo another Diloxin treatment.
Events had pinned Adama in CIC for several hours longer, but once free he'd gone immediately to sickbay to check on her. Cottle informed him that she'd refused to stay there one minute longer than necessary, instead ordering herself escorted to his quarters after the mandatory observation period. No doubt she'd intended to discuss the fleet's situation on his return, but when Bill arrived he'd found her sound asleep in his rack. Her shoes sat next to the bunk; her jacket was draped neatly over the back of a nearby chair.
He stood silent beside her, watching for long minutes. With clothes rumpled and auburn strands trailing over her forehead, Laura in sleep showed more disarray than she usually allowed her waking self. She lay on her back with one hand curled up by her cheek and the other draped over her stomach, silent testimony to drug-induced nausea. The treatment drained her far more than the early-stage cancer could manage.
At that moment Laura Roslin looked far too fragile to carry the burdens on her shoulders. Bill Adama knew better, even as every protective instinct he owned rose up at the sight of her sleeping and vulnerable. He felt grateful as well that she'd chosen to come here, whether to rest or to talk. Even after her stunned dismay at his vote for Baltar's acquittal, she wasn't shutting him out.
At last he moved, gently tugging the bedclothes up from her waist to her shoulder. Any talk between them would have to wait for morning; he refused to disturb her tonight. After a moment's thought, he collected her jacket and hung it neatly in his closet, then stripped off his tunic and hung it beside. Dimming lights as he went, he adjourned to the couch, removing boots, socks and glasses before lying down with a slow exhale.
The leather felt comfortable and familiar. After another long look in the direction of his rack and its occupant, he slipped into sleep.
******
Dear Gods, but he looked tired.
Laura Roslin had started awake in what passed for the very early hours of the morning in deep space. After a minute's confused disorientation at the dimmed lights and her sleep-logged body, she'd sat up and spotted Bill stretched out on his couch. Drawn by curiosity and other things she wouldn't name just now, she'd slipped out of his bunk and padded over to watch him sleeping.
Fatigue was written in the smudges under his eyes and the tension in the line of his neck. Had the lines on his brow and around his mouth been that deeply graven when they met before the decommissioning? She didn't think so, though with a face as rough-hewn as his it was hard to say. But underneath the weariness and age, she fancied she could still see the determination and composure that lay at the core of the man. Whatever their disagreements, she could only be glad that he was there, for the fleet's sake and her own
The rest of his body was composed in a line that ensured no limbs would drape off the couch. Laura blinked for a moment at his bare feet, remembering the last time she'd seen them on New Caprica. A surprisingly soft snore drew her attention back up to his face. Smiling, she slipped back to the rack, stripped off the blanket and brought it back to drape over him.
He woke at even that light touch, blinking up at her blearily in the low light. "Laura?" he husked in a sleep-raspy voice.
She drew the blanket up to his chest and let her fingers rest briefly on his shoulder. "Go back to sleep, Bill. The morning will come soon enough."
Muse: Admiral William Adama
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica '03
Word count: 701