fic: Worst-Kept Secrets
Title: Worst-Kept Secrets
Rating: T
Spoilers: through 4x01
Summary: The problem was that he almost wanted to shout it, let everyone and their brother and even the Cylons know. Maybe that was why it hadn’t taken long for the news to slip out.
A/N: I hope this isn't cheating, but these two requests just kind of intertwined, so I'm doubling up. I figured one maybe good fic was better than two questionable ones, so.... For aprilleigh24 , who wanted Bill to be the worst secret keeper ever and other's reactions as they found out that Laura was sleeping in his quarters. And for ambiguousgem76 , who just wanted Tigh (though she'll have to fight Caprica for him).
Worst-Kept Secrets
It wasn’t as if he’d jumped up on the command table declared it. (Bring the birds in, stand down to Condition Two, and-in case anyone needs a forwarding address or government assistance or just to know-the President is staying in my quarters. My quarters. The frakking President.) At least not literally. He had a little more self control than that. And it hadn’t even taken all that much convincing-a backhanded comment turned invitation (inward, fingers crossed, pleasepleaseplease) and smiling acceptance with almost a hint of I thought you’d never ask.
If he’d known it would’ve been that easy… (You still would’ve waited, you wuss).
The problem was that he almost wanted to shout it, let everyone and their brother and even the Cylons know. Maybe that was why it hadn’t taken long for the news to slip out.
***
First, it had been in what he had (or more like hadn’t) done.
***
He answered the hatch in his tanks and wrinkled uniform pants, had been awake for over an hour but blinked blearily at the harsh lighting of the hallway. The first thing he noticed was that his socks were mismatched-almost a feat in itself given that he had so few pairs that weren’t standard military issue. The second was the strange look that Lee’s perfected I so don’t want to be here expression morphed into as he stepped out into the hall only half-dressed and shut the hatch behind him.
“I was told to deliver- What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Play it cool and it’ll be almost like you always walk around the battlestar in your socks. New military protocol: sock warfare-smooth floors and static electricity the new enemies. “Go ahead.”
“Do you….” Lee regarded him carefully, wrinkling his nose as if there were some sort of tell-tale scent (eau de Laura, pheromones, or simply couch leather?), and Bill found himself sniffing the air to catch it. “Do you have a woman in there?”
“No.” Automatic. But think, Bill…. “Well, yes, but-”
“Dad, no.” Lee shook his head vehemently, visions of a small boy pouting through the (almost) fully-grown man. He could see having this discussion with his son fifteen, even ten years ago, but surely Lee was old enough now to understand- “The President?”
Ah. So maybe he was. Or maybe the Marine guards stationed outside the door were a little obvious. He’d have to have a chat with them about subtlety and safe distances-or whether their presence was necessary at all.
“A little early for a transport from Colonial One.”
“She’s staying on Galactica during her treatments.”
“And your quarters…?”
“Temporary.”
It wasn’t until he actually had to come out and say it that he realized how flimsy an explanation it actually was (and how untrue an explanation he wanted it to be). He’d have to do something about that, too. After the guards. And making sure L- the President had everything she needed.
“Right,” Lee mumbled in a tone that was somewhat miffed and really didn’t sound at all convinced. He started to walk away, immediately turning and shoving a stack of folders into Bill’s hand-leftovers from Baltar’s trial, all inconsequential. “Here.”
Bill sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes as his son stalked down the hall. The light startled him when he stepped back into his quarters. The bed was empty (and neatly made), the hatch to the head closed. Cursing his son’s timing (both for waking her and making him miss a first glimpse of how she looked fresh from sleep), he grabbed a pair of matching socks and his boots and flopped down on the couch.
The sound of the hatch and a startled Oh! stopped him midway through lacing his boots. Framed in his hatchway stood the President of the Twelve Colonies-hair wet, exposed skin still glistening with drops of water-wrapped in nothing but a towel. A very familiar towel that only half an hour before had been-
Frak.
“I thought you’d left.”
“I didn’t.” Smooth, Bill. “Just stepped out into the hall.”
“I borrowed your towel,” she stated matter-of-factly, fingering the edge-that small motion the only evidence that she was at all unsettled by this. Poise: 10. Grace under pressure: 10. Those legs- “Couldn’t find another. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Which of course meant, I prefer it and may never wash that one again.
“I’ll just…” She waved a hand at the head, snatched up a suit that lay over the back of a chair, and disappeared.
He spent the next minute and a half trying to undo the knot he’d tied in his laces, a task made all the more difficult by the soft echo of her laughter.
***
Then it was in what he hadn’t realized (must have known) he was doing.
***
Either step inside or turn back around-it’s a simple decision. Worst that’ll happen is that she’ll tell you to leave. Admiral of the frakking fleet-you should be man enough to handle a little rejection. Now just-
“Where’s that aide of hers?” Cottle’s voice turned the corner before he did. And suddenly Bill found a case of syringes on top of the book he already held in his hands. “She’ll need to take this every four hours. Disinfect, tap out any bubbles, and right in the shoulder. Unless it’s a bad night, then you’ve gotta take one of these…” A larger, more ominous-looking needle. “… and go down below.”
“I’ll make sure Tory knows.”
“Like hell you will,” Cottle snorted, puffing on a cigarette to light it, gaze flicking up to meet his over the top of the lighter. “How’s she been sleeping?”
“I….” Oh, for frak’s sake, Bill. You’ve gotta have a better plan of action than that.
“You follow her around like she’s got you on a tether.” C’mon, at least work up some indignation. You’re the frakking Admiral. “And….” Cottle brushed a hand across Bill’s shoulder, pulling a few long strands from his jacket. Caught, red-haired (he tried not to let his heart sink at the sight of them). “Ask her how she’s doing and she’ll tell you everything’s just fine. How’s she sleeping?”
“She wakes a few times. Sweating, nightmares. Sometimes to go to the head.”
The third time she’d gotten up, he’d reasoned that it was only gentlemanly to offer assistance-he hadn’t said a word as he’d opened the hatch, letting his fingertips lightly caress her neck as he’d swept back her hair (more importantly, she hadn’t pushed him away). The next time, he’d followed her-to the head, back to his rack-and then had somehow never left her side. Safety, he’d told himself even as his arm wrapped (unnecessarily) around her-she had still been trembling, would need his help if she were to get up again. He’d awoken not realizing he had fallen asleep-his arm around her waist, her face pressed to his chest, one leg slung between his. This is good, they’d agreed, without any such conversation occurring (her hand had pressed to his chest, almost a caress).
They’d shared his rack ever since.
“This should help with that.” Cottle waved his cigarette at the syringes. “And if you don’t get some sleep, too, I’m gonna admit you both to sickbay.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Taking a drag from his cigarette, Cottle nodded at the book in Bill’s hands. “Interesting choice.”
“Thought she might like something to-”
“Bill?”
His head jerked toward the curtain at the quiet, sleepy sound, and Cottle stepped aside, lowering his voice. “You keep your woman waiting, she’s liable to castrate you. You keep the President waiting, she’s liable to airlock you. Your woman’s the President… well, you get the idea.”
Shooting the doctor a look (that was probably more helpless than intimidating), Bill passed him and the curtain to stand at her bedside, so stiffly he was almost at military attention. Until he saw her-pale, worn… but smiling (she never won’t be beautiful).
“Thought I heard you out there.” Her hand reached out, fingertips brushing the hem of his jacket. “Hey.”
He took it in his own, squeezing lightly (never let go). “Hey.”
***
Finally, it had been in what he hadn’t thought to hide (and why should he?).
***
“How’s the President?”
Bill swirled the contents of his own half-full (and still first) glass. It had been a long day and Saul had been acting so strangely lately-still, he should have switched his friend to water after that third glass of the crew’s liquor. “Looks like she’s holding up well.”
At this, Saul snorted. Actually snorted-the closest he’d been to laughter in some time. “Either you’ve got a new hobby or there’s a woman sleeping in your quarters. And since those don’t look your size and there’s only one godsdamned woman in the whole frakking fleet you even realize is a woman….” He paused, tipping his glass toward the rack and then raising it at Bill, the liquor sloshing over. “How’s the President?”
Bill risked a glance at his rack: a pair of high-heeled shoes lay almost innocently on the floor-one standing at perfect perpendicular attention, the other discarded on a careless, tipped diagonal (one stepped out of carefully, the falling victim to the distraction by caused by his thumb and forefinger on her chin, gently turning, tilting, and…).
Pull yourself together.
“She needed a place to stay. Admiral’s quarters are the most comfortable.”
“Comfortable,” Saul mused with a curt nod, the word twisting from his mouth in a way that made it seem much more depraved than Bill had intended (convenient?-no, that wouldn’t have been any better… easily accessi-frak). “Didn’t trust Cottle with her down in sickbay?”
“You can’t keep the President of the Colonies in sickbay for-”
“Right-she’s the President. So Tom Zarek, that mother-frakking Gaius Baltar-you’d’ve shown them the same Presidential hospitality?”
“I’d have shown them the airlock.”
“But not Laura Roslin.” Saul was pouring himself a fourth glass-or was it fifth now? “What is it-the legs?”
“Saul.” He was trying to be warning, to change the subject-really, he was. “She’s….”
Fighting cancer. A woman more than deserving of respect. The frakking President (the President you like to frak-go ahead, admit it).
“A redhead?” Saul supplied not-at-all helpfully, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “You’ve eye-frakked her for three years. It’s about godsdamned time you made your move.”
Bill sighed, surprised to find it relax almost into a chuckle. “It was that bad, huh?”
“Couple of months ago I had to stamp out a plot to accidentally lock you and Madam Airlock in a small arms locker and conveniently lose the key. Couple more weeks and I woulda been about ready to do it myself.” Spinning the glass he still held, Saul seemed almost shocked to find it empty-and even more so to realize that they had lapsed into silence. He remedied both at once, emptying the rest of the liquor bottle into his glass. “So, how is it-sleeping with the President?”
Don’t look at him. Or move. Or even breathe loudly. There’s a reason you stay away from those card games in the rec room-a gang of nuggets would be able to see straight through your triad face, let alone Saul Tigh.
“It’s just sleeping, Saul.”
Impressive. You almost said that as if it were true.
Mostly true. And mostly sleep. Punctuated once (twice, if the system of measurement was switched from numerical to gasps and trembling-taut muscles and the change in pitch of that hum deep in her throat) by careful excursions over breasts and between thighs. It had been another unspoken conversation, almost a logical progression. He had blinked into consciousness to find her watching him sleep, had somehow kissed her good morning instead of saying the words, and she had felt well enough to catch the soft greeting with the tip of her tongue (adorably sneaking out to wet her lips) and plunge it back into his mouth.
Inexplicable (or explaining everything). Unavoidable. And so frakking good.
“Oh, quit frakking around. Either it’s good, or-”
“Gentlemen.”
President on deck!
Bill jumped up, cursing as his drink spilled over the front of his uniform. How the frak had they not heard the hatch open? “Mm-” She was in the shortest of her skirts. (You have them all memorized, don’t you? Measured….) He cleared his throat-tried again. “Madam President.”
Beside him, Saul muttered something that sounded uncannily like “Gotta be the legs,” raising his glass towards Laura before draining it and setting it on the table. He at least managed not to stumble and to murmur a “Madam President” as he breezed past her.
Laura cocked her head as the hatch closed with a bang-she was already shrugging off her jacket and stepping out of her shoes, flexing her toes before rising up on them to stretch her calves with a small sigh. “What was that all about?”
Frak, woman, those legs.
“Nothing. Tactical discussion.” Oh right. She bought that. Idiot. More important than his pride, however, was the lack of color in her cheeks, the exhaustion she was trying not to let show through her eyes. “Come sit down.”
“I have a mountain of reports to-”
“They’ll keep.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Sit.” He took her hand, tugged her to the couch, already handing her a glass of water. “Anything I can get you?”
“No. Thank you.” Her hand trembled as she took the glass. “But you can enlighten me.” She leaned back, a smile tugging at her mouth as he sank down beside her. “What exactly do my legs have to do with tactics?”
“That…” Close, closer, no space between them-his hand on her thigh which he tried to keep steady (enjoy it while you can, for what it is-don’t ruin moments like this with time and thought and-), a grin quickly returned, and a kiss pressed to her temple. “… depends on the operation.”
Rating: T
Spoilers: through 4x01
Summary: The problem was that he almost wanted to shout it, let everyone and their brother and even the Cylons know. Maybe that was why it hadn’t taken long for the news to slip out.
A/N: I hope this isn't cheating, but these two requests just kind of intertwined, so I'm doubling up. I figured one maybe good fic was better than two questionable ones, so.... For aprilleigh24 , who wanted Bill to be the worst secret keeper ever and other's reactions as they found out that Laura was sleeping in his quarters. And for ambiguousgem76 , who just wanted Tigh (though she'll have to fight Caprica for him).
Worst-Kept Secrets
It wasn’t as if he’d jumped up on the command table declared it. (Bring the birds in, stand down to Condition Two, and-in case anyone needs a forwarding address or government assistance or just to know-the President is staying in my quarters. My quarters. The frakking President.) At least not literally. He had a little more self control than that. And it hadn’t even taken all that much convincing-a backhanded comment turned invitation (inward, fingers crossed, pleasepleaseplease) and smiling acceptance with almost a hint of I thought you’d never ask.
If he’d known it would’ve been that easy… (You still would’ve waited, you wuss).
The problem was that he almost wanted to shout it, let everyone and their brother and even the Cylons know. Maybe that was why it hadn’t taken long for the news to slip out.
***
First, it had been in what he had (or more like hadn’t) done.
***
He answered the hatch in his tanks and wrinkled uniform pants, had been awake for over an hour but blinked blearily at the harsh lighting of the hallway. The first thing he noticed was that his socks were mismatched-almost a feat in itself given that he had so few pairs that weren’t standard military issue. The second was the strange look that Lee’s perfected I so don’t want to be here expression morphed into as he stepped out into the hall only half-dressed and shut the hatch behind him.
“I was told to deliver- What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Play it cool and it’ll be almost like you always walk around the battlestar in your socks. New military protocol: sock warfare-smooth floors and static electricity the new enemies. “Go ahead.”
“Do you….” Lee regarded him carefully, wrinkling his nose as if there were some sort of tell-tale scent (eau de Laura, pheromones, or simply couch leather?), and Bill found himself sniffing the air to catch it. “Do you have a woman in there?”
“No.” Automatic. But think, Bill…. “Well, yes, but-”
“Dad, no.” Lee shook his head vehemently, visions of a small boy pouting through the (almost) fully-grown man. He could see having this discussion with his son fifteen, even ten years ago, but surely Lee was old enough now to understand- “The President?”
Ah. So maybe he was. Or maybe the Marine guards stationed outside the door were a little obvious. He’d have to have a chat with them about subtlety and safe distances-or whether their presence was necessary at all.
“A little early for a transport from Colonial One.”
“She’s staying on Galactica during her treatments.”
“And your quarters…?”
“Temporary.”
It wasn’t until he actually had to come out and say it that he realized how flimsy an explanation it actually was (and how untrue an explanation he wanted it to be). He’d have to do something about that, too. After the guards. And making sure L- the President had everything she needed.
“Right,” Lee mumbled in a tone that was somewhat miffed and really didn’t sound at all convinced. He started to walk away, immediately turning and shoving a stack of folders into Bill’s hand-leftovers from Baltar’s trial, all inconsequential. “Here.”
Bill sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes as his son stalked down the hall. The light startled him when he stepped back into his quarters. The bed was empty (and neatly made), the hatch to the head closed. Cursing his son’s timing (both for waking her and making him miss a first glimpse of how she looked fresh from sleep), he grabbed a pair of matching socks and his boots and flopped down on the couch.
The sound of the hatch and a startled Oh! stopped him midway through lacing his boots. Framed in his hatchway stood the President of the Twelve Colonies-hair wet, exposed skin still glistening with drops of water-wrapped in nothing but a towel. A very familiar towel that only half an hour before had been-
Frak.
“I thought you’d left.”
“I didn’t.” Smooth, Bill. “Just stepped out into the hall.”
“I borrowed your towel,” she stated matter-of-factly, fingering the edge-that small motion the only evidence that she was at all unsettled by this. Poise: 10. Grace under pressure: 10. Those legs- “Couldn’t find another. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Which of course meant, I prefer it and may never wash that one again.
“I’ll just…” She waved a hand at the head, snatched up a suit that lay over the back of a chair, and disappeared.
He spent the next minute and a half trying to undo the knot he’d tied in his laces, a task made all the more difficult by the soft echo of her laughter.
***
Then it was in what he hadn’t realized (must have known) he was doing.
***
Either step inside or turn back around-it’s a simple decision. Worst that’ll happen is that she’ll tell you to leave. Admiral of the frakking fleet-you should be man enough to handle a little rejection. Now just-
“Where’s that aide of hers?” Cottle’s voice turned the corner before he did. And suddenly Bill found a case of syringes on top of the book he already held in his hands. “She’ll need to take this every four hours. Disinfect, tap out any bubbles, and right in the shoulder. Unless it’s a bad night, then you’ve gotta take one of these…” A larger, more ominous-looking needle. “… and go down below.”
“I’ll make sure Tory knows.”
“Like hell you will,” Cottle snorted, puffing on a cigarette to light it, gaze flicking up to meet his over the top of the lighter. “How’s she been sleeping?”
“I….” Oh, for frak’s sake, Bill. You’ve gotta have a better plan of action than that.
“You follow her around like she’s got you on a tether.” C’mon, at least work up some indignation. You’re the frakking Admiral. “And….” Cottle brushed a hand across Bill’s shoulder, pulling a few long strands from his jacket. Caught, red-haired (he tried not to let his heart sink at the sight of them). “Ask her how she’s doing and she’ll tell you everything’s just fine. How’s she sleeping?”
“She wakes a few times. Sweating, nightmares. Sometimes to go to the head.”
The third time she’d gotten up, he’d reasoned that it was only gentlemanly to offer assistance-he hadn’t said a word as he’d opened the hatch, letting his fingertips lightly caress her neck as he’d swept back her hair (more importantly, she hadn’t pushed him away). The next time, he’d followed her-to the head, back to his rack-and then had somehow never left her side. Safety, he’d told himself even as his arm wrapped (unnecessarily) around her-she had still been trembling, would need his help if she were to get up again. He’d awoken not realizing he had fallen asleep-his arm around her waist, her face pressed to his chest, one leg slung between his. This is good, they’d agreed, without any such conversation occurring (her hand had pressed to his chest, almost a caress).
They’d shared his rack ever since.
“This should help with that.” Cottle waved his cigarette at the syringes. “And if you don’t get some sleep, too, I’m gonna admit you both to sickbay.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Taking a drag from his cigarette, Cottle nodded at the book in Bill’s hands. “Interesting choice.”
“Thought she might like something to-”
“Bill?”
His head jerked toward the curtain at the quiet, sleepy sound, and Cottle stepped aside, lowering his voice. “You keep your woman waiting, she’s liable to castrate you. You keep the President waiting, she’s liable to airlock you. Your woman’s the President… well, you get the idea.”
Shooting the doctor a look (that was probably more helpless than intimidating), Bill passed him and the curtain to stand at her bedside, so stiffly he was almost at military attention. Until he saw her-pale, worn… but smiling (she never won’t be beautiful).
“Thought I heard you out there.” Her hand reached out, fingertips brushing the hem of his jacket. “Hey.”
He took it in his own, squeezing lightly (never let go). “Hey.”
***
Finally, it had been in what he hadn’t thought to hide (and why should he?).
***
“How’s the President?”
Bill swirled the contents of his own half-full (and still first) glass. It had been a long day and Saul had been acting so strangely lately-still, he should have switched his friend to water after that third glass of the crew’s liquor. “Looks like she’s holding up well.”
At this, Saul snorted. Actually snorted-the closest he’d been to laughter in some time. “Either you’ve got a new hobby or there’s a woman sleeping in your quarters. And since those don’t look your size and there’s only one godsdamned woman in the whole frakking fleet you even realize is a woman….” He paused, tipping his glass toward the rack and then raising it at Bill, the liquor sloshing over. “How’s the President?”
Bill risked a glance at his rack: a pair of high-heeled shoes lay almost innocently on the floor-one standing at perfect perpendicular attention, the other discarded on a careless, tipped diagonal (one stepped out of carefully, the falling victim to the distraction by caused by his thumb and forefinger on her chin, gently turning, tilting, and…).
Pull yourself together.
“She needed a place to stay. Admiral’s quarters are the most comfortable.”
“Comfortable,” Saul mused with a curt nod, the word twisting from his mouth in a way that made it seem much more depraved than Bill had intended (convenient?-no, that wouldn’t have been any better… easily accessi-frak). “Didn’t trust Cottle with her down in sickbay?”
“You can’t keep the President of the Colonies in sickbay for-”
“Right-she’s the President. So Tom Zarek, that mother-frakking Gaius Baltar-you’d’ve shown them the same Presidential hospitality?”
“I’d have shown them the airlock.”
“But not Laura Roslin.” Saul was pouring himself a fourth glass-or was it fifth now? “What is it-the legs?”
“Saul.” He was trying to be warning, to change the subject-really, he was. “She’s….”
Fighting cancer. A woman more than deserving of respect. The frakking President (the President you like to frak-go ahead, admit it).
“A redhead?” Saul supplied not-at-all helpfully, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “You’ve eye-frakked her for three years. It’s about godsdamned time you made your move.”
Bill sighed, surprised to find it relax almost into a chuckle. “It was that bad, huh?”
“Couple of months ago I had to stamp out a plot to accidentally lock you and Madam Airlock in a small arms locker and conveniently lose the key. Couple more weeks and I woulda been about ready to do it myself.” Spinning the glass he still held, Saul seemed almost shocked to find it empty-and even more so to realize that they had lapsed into silence. He remedied both at once, emptying the rest of the liquor bottle into his glass. “So, how is it-sleeping with the President?”
Don’t look at him. Or move. Or even breathe loudly. There’s a reason you stay away from those card games in the rec room-a gang of nuggets would be able to see straight through your triad face, let alone Saul Tigh.
“It’s just sleeping, Saul.”
Impressive. You almost said that as if it were true.
Mostly true. And mostly sleep. Punctuated once (twice, if the system of measurement was switched from numerical to gasps and trembling-taut muscles and the change in pitch of that hum deep in her throat) by careful excursions over breasts and between thighs. It had been another unspoken conversation, almost a logical progression. He had blinked into consciousness to find her watching him sleep, had somehow kissed her good morning instead of saying the words, and she had felt well enough to catch the soft greeting with the tip of her tongue (adorably sneaking out to wet her lips) and plunge it back into his mouth.
Inexplicable (or explaining everything). Unavoidable. And so frakking good.
“Oh, quit frakking around. Either it’s good, or-”
“Gentlemen.”
President on deck!
Bill jumped up, cursing as his drink spilled over the front of his uniform. How the frak had they not heard the hatch open? “Mm-” She was in the shortest of her skirts. (You have them all memorized, don’t you? Measured….) He cleared his throat-tried again. “Madam President.”
Beside him, Saul muttered something that sounded uncannily like “Gotta be the legs,” raising his glass towards Laura before draining it and setting it on the table. He at least managed not to stumble and to murmur a “Madam President” as he breezed past her.
Laura cocked her head as the hatch closed with a bang-she was already shrugging off her jacket and stepping out of her shoes, flexing her toes before rising up on them to stretch her calves with a small sigh. “What was that all about?”
Frak, woman, those legs.
“Nothing. Tactical discussion.” Oh right. She bought that. Idiot. More important than his pride, however, was the lack of color in her cheeks, the exhaustion she was trying not to let show through her eyes. “Come sit down.”
“I have a mountain of reports to-”
“They’ll keep.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Sit.” He took her hand, tugged her to the couch, already handing her a glass of water. “Anything I can get you?”
“No. Thank you.” Her hand trembled as she took the glass. “But you can enlighten me.” She leaned back, a smile tugging at her mouth as he sank down beside her. “What exactly do my legs have to do with tactics?”
“That…” Close, closer, no space between them-his hand on her thigh which he tried to keep steady (enjoy it while you can, for what it is-don’t ruin moments like this with time and thought and-), a grin quickly returned, and a kiss pressed to her temple. “… depends on the operation.”