Practice Resurrection (Battlestar Galactica)
Practice Resurrection
Battlestar Galactica, Adama/Roslin, PG.
summary: four second chances.
story notes: Written for the Christmas in July challenge at adama_roslin. Prompt: A story dealing with the fact that Laura is apparently not the Dying Leader and what that means for her relationship with Bill.
Practice Resurrection
1.
"Do you miss me?" she asks, pressing her face into his jacket.
He smells like smoke and skin, and she takes a deep breath. Of all her indulgences tonight, this is by far the most dangerous.
"Miss you?" His free hand brings the cigarette to his lips, and he takes a long slow drag. For a second she hates herself for asking.
His breath is warm against her hair as he exhales. "Remind me who you are again?"
Laura tilts her head up, sees the edges of his grin disappearing under his moustache. This man, so unexpected sometimes. She props herself up to meet his gaze, head spinning slightly with the effort. Tries to look stern.
"Laura Roslin? Ex-president of the twelve colonies of Kobol and this here godsforsaken rock?"
"Hmm." He pulls her closer. "Not ringing any bells." They are almost nose to nose.
"Laura Roslin? Ex-prophet, ex-dying leader?" Her tone is light, but his hand still comes up to touch her face.
"Do we have the same dry-cleaner, maybe?"
She smiles, big and bright. Affection pools in her belly, warming her against the cold night air. She settles into him again, forehead pressed against his cheek this time. "Maybe that's it."
"Wait a minute." His lips brush the bridge of her nose as he talks. "Aren't you that lady who got me stoned and took advantage of me?"
Her laughter bubbles then breaks. "Must be some other ex-president".
"Ah. Too bad."
She looks up. Their bodies are level, hips and lips. It would barely take anything. In the east, the bottom of sky is changing color. It's a new day.
2.
It's different the second time.
"Diloxin," Cottle says. He has the nerve to look optimistic.
It will be easier, she tells herself. This time there's no reason to keep her cancer a secret. No reason she can't hold a press conference, carefully use the words 'options' and 'treatment'. Gain sympathy. Gain back leverage with those she somehow failed by not dying the first time. She won't have to worry about the military, won't have to sit through briefing after briefing with silence resting like cold water against her ribs.
This time she already knows the feel of a crowd as it begins to surge, hands pulling and grabbing. She remembers how not to recoil. How to smile at a frightened child as it is thrust into her arms. The soft thump of people falling to their knees. The weight of all that need.
It will be easier. It has to be.
"Diloxin," she answers.
It's different the second time. She has to find the words. Bill's face buckles for a moment, right before he reigns himself in. She steps towards him. The look in his eyes is almost too much to bear.
3.
"I'm sorry," he says later, breath still sour with alcohol. "If I could take it back I would."
Her smile is tight and ugly. "You shouldn't. You were right. The Dying Leader, a dying leader. The end result's the same."
His head falls into his hands and she can't look at him anymore. Her hair is falling out, and her body's so tired she can't even will herself up from the couch. Just for tonight she wants to break something and leave it broken.
"Laura." His voice, like sandpaper, cracks over her name. "You have to fight this. You have to believe you can win."
She’s not sure if it’s anger or desperation that makes her grab at his hand, makes her pull it towards her until his palm is flat against her breast. He starts to pull away in shock, but she closes her other hand around his wrist, locking him there.
"Bill, I'm dying."
He thinks that faith can keep her alive, but she knows that the best it can do is keep her upright. It's the steel in her bones on the days when all she can feel is the artificial gravity of the ship pressing her down. She's tired of telling him. Tired of meeting the same line of resistance, over and over.
"I'm dying." She presses down against the top of his fingers. Maybe this time. "It's not the prophecy that's killing me. If none of this had happened, the cylons, Kobal, none of it, I'd still be dying. I'd be dead. You can't keep--"
His mouth is on hers before she can finish, and she knows he hasn't heard a word. She breaks the kiss.
"That won't help."
"Laura-"
The heat of his hand is still heavy against her heart. She doesn't know how to make him understand. Faith is not immutable. Love is not a guarantee.
4.
His face, his face against her neck, his fingers soft against her back, and she wonders how she has been so blind. He pulls her in tighter, torso to torso, and something in her stomach loosens and shakes. She kisses everywhere her mouth touches, the skin of his cheek, the top of his shoulder. Has it been this simple all along?
Just love someone.
Battlestar Galactica, Adama/Roslin, PG.
summary: four second chances.
story notes: Written for the Christmas in July challenge at adama_roslin. Prompt: A story dealing with the fact that Laura is apparently not the Dying Leader and what that means for her relationship with Bill.
Practice Resurrection
1.
"Do you miss me?" she asks, pressing her face into his jacket.
He smells like smoke and skin, and she takes a deep breath. Of all her indulgences tonight, this is by far the most dangerous.
"Miss you?" His free hand brings the cigarette to his lips, and he takes a long slow drag. For a second she hates herself for asking.
His breath is warm against her hair as he exhales. "Remind me who you are again?"
Laura tilts her head up, sees the edges of his grin disappearing under his moustache. This man, so unexpected sometimes. She props herself up to meet his gaze, head spinning slightly with the effort. Tries to look stern.
"Laura Roslin? Ex-president of the twelve colonies of Kobol and this here godsforsaken rock?"
"Hmm." He pulls her closer. "Not ringing any bells." They are almost nose to nose.
"Laura Roslin? Ex-prophet, ex-dying leader?" Her tone is light, but his hand still comes up to touch her face.
"Do we have the same dry-cleaner, maybe?"
She smiles, big and bright. Affection pools in her belly, warming her against the cold night air. She settles into him again, forehead pressed against his cheek this time. "Maybe that's it."
"Wait a minute." His lips brush the bridge of her nose as he talks. "Aren't you that lady who got me stoned and took advantage of me?"
Her laughter bubbles then breaks. "Must be some other ex-president".
"Ah. Too bad."
She looks up. Their bodies are level, hips and lips. It would barely take anything. In the east, the bottom of sky is changing color. It's a new day.
2.
It's different the second time.
"Diloxin," Cottle says. He has the nerve to look optimistic.
It will be easier, she tells herself. This time there's no reason to keep her cancer a secret. No reason she can't hold a press conference, carefully use the words 'options' and 'treatment'. Gain sympathy. Gain back leverage with those she somehow failed by not dying the first time. She won't have to worry about the military, won't have to sit through briefing after briefing with silence resting like cold water against her ribs.
This time she already knows the feel of a crowd as it begins to surge, hands pulling and grabbing. She remembers how not to recoil. How to smile at a frightened child as it is thrust into her arms. The soft thump of people falling to their knees. The weight of all that need.
It will be easier. It has to be.
"Diloxin," she answers.
It's different the second time. She has to find the words. Bill's face buckles for a moment, right before he reigns himself in. She steps towards him. The look in his eyes is almost too much to bear.
3.
"I'm sorry," he says later, breath still sour with alcohol. "If I could take it back I would."
Her smile is tight and ugly. "You shouldn't. You were right. The Dying Leader, a dying leader. The end result's the same."
His head falls into his hands and she can't look at him anymore. Her hair is falling out, and her body's so tired she can't even will herself up from the couch. Just for tonight she wants to break something and leave it broken.
"Laura." His voice, like sandpaper, cracks over her name. "You have to fight this. You have to believe you can win."
She’s not sure if it’s anger or desperation that makes her grab at his hand, makes her pull it towards her until his palm is flat against her breast. He starts to pull away in shock, but she closes her other hand around his wrist, locking him there.
"Bill, I'm dying."
He thinks that faith can keep her alive, but she knows that the best it can do is keep her upright. It's the steel in her bones on the days when all she can feel is the artificial gravity of the ship pressing her down. She's tired of telling him. Tired of meeting the same line of resistance, over and over.
"I'm dying." She presses down against the top of his fingers. Maybe this time. "It's not the prophecy that's killing me. If none of this had happened, the cylons, Kobal, none of it, I'd still be dying. I'd be dead. You can't keep--"
His mouth is on hers before she can finish, and she knows he hasn't heard a word. She breaks the kiss.
"That won't help."
"Laura-"
The heat of his hand is still heavy against her heart. She doesn't know how to make him understand. Faith is not immutable. Love is not a guarantee.
4.
His face, his face against her neck, his fingers soft against her back, and she wonders how she has been so blind. He pulls her in tighter, torso to torso, and something in her stomach loosens and shakes. She kisses everywhere her mouth touches, the skin of his cheek, the top of his shoulder. Has it been this simple all along?
Just love someone.