keep your head up, my love (Adama/Roslin)
I am currently swept up in a great BSG rewatch, and there was no Roslin/Adama reunion scene after the New Caprica arc, and I’m sorry, THAT’S JUST OBSCENELY CRUEL. I could only assume that Adama shaved his angst mustache off at the end because he had plans to court his lady proper. And so I had to scribble this for my own peace of mind. Reunite, you slow burning secret lovers! Reunite and admit you want to kiss each other’s faces! (Or at least take a small step in that direction.)
Title from “Stubborn Love” by The Lumineers.
keep your head up, my love - Battlestar Galactica ; Adama/Roslin ; 1,200 words. Roslin and Adama reunite after her return from New Caprica. Set after "Exodus: Part 2."
+
There’s no grand public reunion-which is for the best. Laura doesn’t always trust her own poise where Bill Adama is concerned, and she wants very badly to be a source of strength for her people right now. To show them that they can’t be easily broken. Weeping sentimentally in the admiral’s arms probably wouldn’t project exactly the right image.
Not that she would really do it. But the thought is tempting.
She stays on the Colonial One and waits for him, certain that he’ll show up soon. Tory is gone for now; Laura insisted that she get something to eat and some rest. It wasn’t entirely altruistic. Since the return, Laura’s been craving a moment to herself. A few seconds of peace. She settles into the chair behind the desk, then folds her arms and rests her head on top of them, closing her eyes.
It’s strange to be in this chair again. As if no time has passed at all, and nothing has been lost.
And speaking of.
She feels his presence before she sees him; there’s the light scuffle of footsteps, and the sudden comfortable awareness that she isn’t alone. For a moment, she keeps her head down and simply basks in knowing that, in this moment, she has something to look forward to.
At last, she lifts her head and opens her eyes. There he is, looking at her with such tenderness. She had almost forgotten how he did that. His expression hardens a bit when he realizes that she’s looking back, but that’s to be expected. They’ve (almost) always been a little formal with each other. It’s what comes of having a friendship so rooted in professionalism.
Professionalism and occasional fits of the giggles.
It’s such a relief to see him.
“Sorry to interrupt your nap,” he says, stepping closer.
“Not napping,” she answers, running her fingers through her hair, suddenly afflicted with a very juvenile sense of How do I look? Which is, of course, entirely ridiculous. “Just ...”
He waits.
“Frakking exhausted,” she finishes, laughing a little.
“That seems to be going around,” he observes wryly.
“Please, have a seat,” she says, and wonders too late if she ought to have hugged him.
He obliges her, settling down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk like he has countless times before.
For a moment, they just look at each other gladly.
It feels, in an odd way, like touching: for an ill-advised second she imagines running her hands over his worn and handsome face, making sure that he is here and real. That it isn’t just more tired hope, or a thought she uses to lull herself to sleep at night. She wonders how he might touch her. Recalls the dimming memory of his fingertips against her cheek.
The staring goes on longer than staring necessarily should.
“Something’s different,” she teases, breaking the silence.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Oh?”
“No more mustache. You shaved.”
“The admiral has to look sharp. It boosts morale.”
“It certainly does,” she says. The words have a flirtatious lilt that is (she is fairly certain) completely accidental. He lifts his eyebrows, but looks amused more than anything.
Gods, it makes her glad. Here she is, with him again. They’ll laugh together again. Giggling in the hallways like children, leaving a wake of torn note cards and broken pencils-that wasn’t their last bit of happiness on Galactica. Life stretches ahead of them. Difficult, yes, but full of possibility too.
“Oh, it’s good to see you, Bill,” she sighs. She gets up and rushes around the desk, wrapping her arms around him. The embrace relaxes her down to her bones, a welcome reprieve from the tension that’s become instinctual over these past few months.
“You too,” he says, his lips brushing her hair. She buries her face in his shoulder and basks in the steady feeling of his arms around her, the familiar scent of him. She hadn’t even noticed before that she knew what Bill Adama smelled like, but now, gods, she’s so aware of it. It feels like being home, really home, at long last.
“I missed you,” she murmurs, and there is the slightest accidental hitch in her breath. She hadn’t meant to do that. It would be very easy to fall apart in each other’s arms, but it would be a shame, too, after their established tradition of keeping each other strong. She pulls away and smiles at him, her hands still resting on his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I promise I won’t cry all over you.”
“I think we’ve all earned a good cry,” he replies. His thumb gently swipes her cheek, as if he’s brushing away an imaginary tear.
“Or a drink,” she proposes.
“That works too,” he agrees easily.
She begins to rummage around the cabin, in search of something-she has no doubt that Gaius Baltar kept the ship well stocked with booze, if not basic human decency-and eventually unearths an unopened bottle of ambrosia and two glasses.
They settle down beside each other in the passenger’s seats. She’s pleased not to have the desk between them. There’s been more than enough distance.
They chat idly for awhile as they drink. She asks after Lee and Dualla, and isn’t terribly surprised when Bill seems quietly baffled by the developments there. (“He got a little ...” “A little what?” “Puffy,” Bill admits delicately, making her laugh so loud that she’s glad he’s the only bystander.) She tells him about teaching, bringing out all her best anecdotes about incorrigible children. For a little while, they’re able to pretend that they’re old friends catching up after time apart.
But that can only last so long. As the bottle gets emptier, conversation takes a turn for the melancholy. They talk about Saul Tigh, back without his eye, without Ellen, and wandering around so hopelessly lost. About Kara Thrace, whose usual sparkle has dimmed.
Then Bill begins to tread on dangerous ground. “The election. If I hadn’t talked you out of it-”
“No,” she says firmly. “No, we’re not doing that.” She pauses to sip from her glass. “What’s done is done.”
He nods grimly. It goes silent, save for the faint hum of the lights.
“I hated thinking of you down there,” he says after a time, staring down into the bright green contents of his glass. “All of you. But ...”
“Me especially?” she says. She meant to joke. It doesn’t come out like a joke.
He looks up at her and takes her hand. His thumb strokes her palm. “Yeah.”
“I wish you’d gotten to visit more often before the occupation,” she muses, lulled toward happier thoughts. “That night-that was fun.”
He chuckles softly. “Yes, it was.”
“A little starlight,” she says, playful. “A bit of a buzz, a charming bedfellow ...”
“I can’t think of a better way to spend an evening,” he says. “Although this comes close.”
She smiles, and with their free hands they clink their glasses together. Something about the ringing noise of it strikes her hard. It’s easy to celebrate the dawn of a new age. But they’ll have to build it, too. And that is never, never easy.
“It’s back to work for the two of us, isn’t it?” she says after a moment.
“Tomorrow,” he replies. She’s thankful for that.
“Well then, Admiral Adama.” She considers the light, all-too-welcome press of his knee against hers. She thinks she might be a little drunk. “What’s on the agenda for tonight?”
He smiles at her. “You tell me.”
Title from “Stubborn Love” by The Lumineers.
keep your head up, my love - Battlestar Galactica ; Adama/Roslin ; 1,200 words. Roslin and Adama reunite after her return from New Caprica. Set after "Exodus: Part 2."
+
There’s no grand public reunion-which is for the best. Laura doesn’t always trust her own poise where Bill Adama is concerned, and she wants very badly to be a source of strength for her people right now. To show them that they can’t be easily broken. Weeping sentimentally in the admiral’s arms probably wouldn’t project exactly the right image.
Not that she would really do it. But the thought is tempting.
She stays on the Colonial One and waits for him, certain that he’ll show up soon. Tory is gone for now; Laura insisted that she get something to eat and some rest. It wasn’t entirely altruistic. Since the return, Laura’s been craving a moment to herself. A few seconds of peace. She settles into the chair behind the desk, then folds her arms and rests her head on top of them, closing her eyes.
It’s strange to be in this chair again. As if no time has passed at all, and nothing has been lost.
And speaking of.
She feels his presence before she sees him; there’s the light scuffle of footsteps, and the sudden comfortable awareness that she isn’t alone. For a moment, she keeps her head down and simply basks in knowing that, in this moment, she has something to look forward to.
At last, she lifts her head and opens her eyes. There he is, looking at her with such tenderness. She had almost forgotten how he did that. His expression hardens a bit when he realizes that she’s looking back, but that’s to be expected. They’ve (almost) always been a little formal with each other. It’s what comes of having a friendship so rooted in professionalism.
Professionalism and occasional fits of the giggles.
It’s such a relief to see him.
“Sorry to interrupt your nap,” he says, stepping closer.
“Not napping,” she answers, running her fingers through her hair, suddenly afflicted with a very juvenile sense of How do I look? Which is, of course, entirely ridiculous. “Just ...”
He waits.
“Frakking exhausted,” she finishes, laughing a little.
“That seems to be going around,” he observes wryly.
“Please, have a seat,” she says, and wonders too late if she ought to have hugged him.
He obliges her, settling down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk like he has countless times before.
For a moment, they just look at each other gladly.
It feels, in an odd way, like touching: for an ill-advised second she imagines running her hands over his worn and handsome face, making sure that he is here and real. That it isn’t just more tired hope, or a thought she uses to lull herself to sleep at night. She wonders how he might touch her. Recalls the dimming memory of his fingertips against her cheek.
The staring goes on longer than staring necessarily should.
“Something’s different,” she teases, breaking the silence.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Oh?”
“No more mustache. You shaved.”
“The admiral has to look sharp. It boosts morale.”
“It certainly does,” she says. The words have a flirtatious lilt that is (she is fairly certain) completely accidental. He lifts his eyebrows, but looks amused more than anything.
Gods, it makes her glad. Here she is, with him again. They’ll laugh together again. Giggling in the hallways like children, leaving a wake of torn note cards and broken pencils-that wasn’t their last bit of happiness on Galactica. Life stretches ahead of them. Difficult, yes, but full of possibility too.
“Oh, it’s good to see you, Bill,” she sighs. She gets up and rushes around the desk, wrapping her arms around him. The embrace relaxes her down to her bones, a welcome reprieve from the tension that’s become instinctual over these past few months.
“You too,” he says, his lips brushing her hair. She buries her face in his shoulder and basks in the steady feeling of his arms around her, the familiar scent of him. She hadn’t even noticed before that she knew what Bill Adama smelled like, but now, gods, she’s so aware of it. It feels like being home, really home, at long last.
“I missed you,” she murmurs, and there is the slightest accidental hitch in her breath. She hadn’t meant to do that. It would be very easy to fall apart in each other’s arms, but it would be a shame, too, after their established tradition of keeping each other strong. She pulls away and smiles at him, her hands still resting on his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I promise I won’t cry all over you.”
“I think we’ve all earned a good cry,” he replies. His thumb gently swipes her cheek, as if he’s brushing away an imaginary tear.
“Or a drink,” she proposes.
“That works too,” he agrees easily.
She begins to rummage around the cabin, in search of something-she has no doubt that Gaius Baltar kept the ship well stocked with booze, if not basic human decency-and eventually unearths an unopened bottle of ambrosia and two glasses.
They settle down beside each other in the passenger’s seats. She’s pleased not to have the desk between them. There’s been more than enough distance.
They chat idly for awhile as they drink. She asks after Lee and Dualla, and isn’t terribly surprised when Bill seems quietly baffled by the developments there. (“He got a little ...” “A little what?” “Puffy,” Bill admits delicately, making her laugh so loud that she’s glad he’s the only bystander.) She tells him about teaching, bringing out all her best anecdotes about incorrigible children. For a little while, they’re able to pretend that they’re old friends catching up after time apart.
But that can only last so long. As the bottle gets emptier, conversation takes a turn for the melancholy. They talk about Saul Tigh, back without his eye, without Ellen, and wandering around so hopelessly lost. About Kara Thrace, whose usual sparkle has dimmed.
Then Bill begins to tread on dangerous ground. “The election. If I hadn’t talked you out of it-”
“No,” she says firmly. “No, we’re not doing that.” She pauses to sip from her glass. “What’s done is done.”
He nods grimly. It goes silent, save for the faint hum of the lights.
“I hated thinking of you down there,” he says after a time, staring down into the bright green contents of his glass. “All of you. But ...”
“Me especially?” she says. She meant to joke. It doesn’t come out like a joke.
He looks up at her and takes her hand. His thumb strokes her palm. “Yeah.”
“I wish you’d gotten to visit more often before the occupation,” she muses, lulled toward happier thoughts. “That night-that was fun.”
He chuckles softly. “Yes, it was.”
“A little starlight,” she says, playful. “A bit of a buzz, a charming bedfellow ...”
“I can’t think of a better way to spend an evening,” he says. “Although this comes close.”
She smiles, and with their free hands they clink their glasses together. Something about the ringing noise of it strikes her hard. It’s easy to celebrate the dawn of a new age. But they’ll have to build it, too. And that is never, never easy.
“It’s back to work for the two of us, isn’t it?” she says after a moment.
“Tomorrow,” he replies. She’s thankful for that.
“Well then, Admiral Adama.” She considers the light, all-too-welcome press of his knee against hers. She thinks she might be a little drunk. “What’s on the agenda for tonight?”
He smiles at her. “You tell me.”