fic: Lately It's Hard to Keep the Hinges on with All the Noise
Title: Lately It’s Hard to Keep the Hinges on with All the Noise
Rating: R
Spoilers: Through Epiphanies
Summary: Go ahead. Open that drawer for the fifteenth time. Maybe this time it’ll magically hold your vibrator.
A/N: For multicolour, who got a request in at the end, and wanted something early, happy, and cancer-free. This… hopefully fits some of that. And somehow wrote itself (with help from the time spent on the imaginary couch). Now (I think), my requests are officially done.
Lately It's Hard to Keep the Hinges on with All the Noise
Life. Health. An end to that dull, slow death-march that had throbbed in your chest. Frakking pick one, Laura, because there are a thousand-and-one things you should be grateful for, instead of running around your cabin like a crazy woman, ready to airlock the next person who dares violate your personal space.
(Well, sure, when you say it like that-but isn’t this more fun?)
She slams the drawer again, if for nothing else, because the sound has half a chance of drowning out that frakking annoying little voice she thought she’d outgrown sometime in her twenties. Either half-Cylon blood has some kind of backward effect on maturity, or it really had been too long since- Well, now the voice is snickering, the bastard. And she still can’t find that frakking pen, never mind that she’s run her hand over at least a dozen others in the search for it.
The snickering thickens to straight-out laughter.
Shut up.
(Right, like that’s gonna work.)
I swear, if I hear another word out of you….
(Technically? You can’t hear me at all. Maybe it’s time to call Cottle.)
Oh, because that conversation would go swimmingly. What-am I supposed to ask him to list all possible side effects to a never-before-performed procedure? See if there’s a reason that the only frakking thing I seem to be able to concentrate on is…?
(Say it. Go ahead.)
Sex. Happy? Sex sex sexsexsex.
Not that she hadn’t considered asking-the first question, not the second. Because, honestly, this was just getting ridiculous. Waking up drenched in sweat she could handle. Even those moments during hurried showers when the water would sluice over just the right spot. But once Quorum meetings had started to pass more through daydream (the squirming, leg-crossing kind) than with any focus on the political, and even the slightest touch from anyone had her practically vibrating….
(Well, I see it more as, you go in there and he says, ‘What can I do for you, young lady?’ and you say, ‘It’s more what you’re willing to do to me,’ and he says-)
Dear Gods.
(Sure, but not right away. He’s no spring chicken, you know. You really should’ve just asked Billy. He’s cute. And you know he’d do anything you say.)
That’s perverse. Not to mention-
(Yeah, he probably wouldn’t’ve lasted more than a few minutes. And obviously you don’t need any help. Those four times the presidential fingers brought you to the edge last night did just the trick. You’ve been an absolute peach all day.)
And you’re really helping with that.
(Go ahead. Open that drawer for the fifteenth time. Maybe this time it’ll magically hold your vibrator. And if not, you can always slam it again. There’s some satisfaction in that. Almost like a little angry drawer-sized orgasm. Maybe if you slam it enough times in succession….)
The drawer slams. And this time there is absolutely no satisfaction in it. Not in the bang, the accompanying rattle, or the way either of them or the force of the motion vibrate through her fingertips afterwards. She opens it and quickly bangs it shut twice more.
“Need some help with that?”
(Ooh, say yes!... Yes! Yes! Yeeeeesssss!)
It’s not until she hears the little voice’s gleeful shrieks that she realizes the question must have come from somewhere else. Her surprised jump is absurdly delayed. And there he is.
(A knight in shining standard-issue uniform. A thousand cubits says that uniform looks even better in a rumpled heap on the deck, and that he’s got at least-)
Compose yourself, Laura. And you behave.
He’s watching her expectantly. She matches his gaze until it dawns on her-he’d asked a question.
“No. Thank you. I just…. I’ve got it.” As far as she can remember-granted, not an impressive distance all things considered-they didn’t have a meeting scheduled. And Billy, damn him, is nowhere to be seen. Not that she can really blame the poor kid, the way she’d practically jumped down his throat earlier. “What can I do for you, Admiral?”
“How are you feeling?”
Smile. And not like a maniac. There. “Fine.” (Yeah. That particular gleam of crazy in your eyes really just screams ‘fine.’) “I’d be feeling much better if it weren’t for this mountain of paperwork.”
And other things.
“If you want to throw it out the airlock, I can look the other way.”
(Which is totally code for ‘sex,’ in case you somehow missed that. Except ‘out’ means ‘in,’ his callsign’s Paperwork, yours is Airlock, and he wouldn’t be looking the other way. Doesn’t he just have a gorgeous smile?)
“With my luck, it’d just end up right back here. With a 500-page report summarizing some kind of asinine investigation about how it got out the airlock in the first place. Was there something you needed?”
(You know, if you cut the protocol crap, you could both be naked and writhing on the desk right now. You should really work on better managing your time.)
Eyes closed, she can see the image. Eyes open, she can, too. It’s very possible that she will never be able to look at him again without undressing him with her eyes.
Frak.
(That’s the idea.)
“It doesn’t look like this is stuck anymore.”
His voice is closer to her than it had been-the words closer to her thoughts than they should be. When she starts this time, she brushes against him. “What?”
“The drawer. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Oh. It…. Well, it wasn’t exactly stuck to begin with.”
(He’s evading. You know what that means, right? Bill and Laura sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-Oh, don’t look at me in that tone of voice. He did kiss you.)
It was a goodbye. Nothing more.
(So you left and came back and now it’s time for the hello and how are you? and frak me whatever way you want as long as it’s hard and fast and now.)
His smile is knowing, and he chuckles softly, sliding the drawer out and back into place once again-Laura swallows, taking a moment to separate the two conversations and remember he’s not a mind-reader. She hopes. Bill is still examining the drawer as he says, “You should take a trip to Galactica’s gym. Not the sweetest-smelling place on the ship, but a great way to relieve stress.”
A very unpresidential snort of laughter follows. “The sight of me in gym shorts would send your crew off screaming.”
It seems to take him a second too long to answer.
“You’d probably be luckier if it did.” Still speaking to the desk, his fingertips running lightly over the drawer’s handle. “You’re more likely to meet with hundreds of offers of assistance-and not all of it well-intentioned.”
(Oh come on. Did you misplace your Guide to the Male’s Half-Witted Methods of Flirtation? Pages 25 to 62: understanding the backhanded compliment and the appropriate blushing response for each. If that wasn’t a roundabout way of saying ‘you’re damn sexy, Madam President,’ then I don’t know what is. And the appropriate shade is between tea rose and carnation, in case you were wondering.)
Fine. Frak it.
(Yet you’re still not blushing.)
She watches his hand, contemplating each of his fingers in turn. “If I didn’t know any better, Admiral, I’d say you were almost-”
“Maybe you don’t.” His hand jumps from the desk to his side. His eyes don’t move.
“Maybe I don’t what?”
“Know any better.”
(For the love of the Gods, if one of you isn’t just going to jump the other, then why am I even-)
She pulls him by the buttoned flap of his jacket, her fingers just under his throat, knuckles brushing the soft skin there as he stumbles forward, catching himself with a hand on her arm and a foot that just misses crushing onto hers. She catches his mouth-or more specifically, the shadow just under his lip and has to slide her way upward, but she reaches it in the end.
From there, she dives in-or up or into him or however it goes. She’s in heels and up on her tiptoes, her chest pressed to his, her knuckles white with holding tight to his jacket, the fabric rough against her fingers. And then… well, she thinks she moans-a too-loud, needy sound that might’ve been a simple hum if it wasn’t for that electric edge, vibrating and razor-sharp and fluorescent. Which is a pretty good signal that this has quite possibly gone too far.
“That,” he rumbles, his thumb skidding down her jawbone-she hadn’t realized it was there, “wasn’t why I-”
She steps back, waves a hand at him instead of shaking her head-a helpless little gesture that manages to end in a smile. “Consider it repayment.”
(Nice cover. But-unless there was some pretty steep interest-he didn’t give you tongue.)
“I don’t think I can do that, Laura.”
“Bill.” Somehow she’d convinced herself that this wouldn’t sound flirtatious. “It’s only fair.”
She doesn’t see him move. Doesn’t take her eyes off him, doesn’t blink, but he’s somehow a foot closer. A hand closer, actually, because it’s pressed insistently to her waist, slowly, slowly snaking around to rest just at the edge of her back, a renegade finger-the littlest, the bravest-sneaking that much farther and brushing the curve of her ass.
“No.” Never had any successive section of the alphabet sounded so sexy. “It’s not.”
“Oh thank the Gods.” She breathes it more than says it, the words exhaled in a rush.
And now he’s paying her back for her repayment. With interest. Which has risen exponentially in the last thirty seconds-tongue for tongue, but also roaming hands and a breathless groan. “What about your… Billy.”
“He-” She nuzzles into his neck, his pulse fluttering against her cheek. “-won’t be a problem. I might’ve scared him off.”
(Fear of castration will do that to a twenty-something boy. But why are we even discussing him?)
What the frak are you still doing here? Aren’t you satisfied yet?
(Are you?)
“You’re…” he pauses, smile pressing to one of her eyelids, then the other, “…a little keyed up.”
“Mmm.” Because she can barely decipher speech, takes a moment to follow his gaze. Down, down-scarlet and gold piping flanked by buttons, his belt buckle, the swelling beneath (her breath hitches, she tries to swallow it), and then-
His thigh. The right one.
She’s already pressing forward, rocking against it.
(A little keyed up?)
Gods, that’s….
“Yessssss. Since….”
She doesn’t finish, but he knows already. His response? To words and movement and friction? Fingers. Smoothing over her skirt, catching where the fabric’s bunched, each snag a ripple of vibration that she savors until-
“Ohhh….”
Fingers.
(And thumb. Gods, don’t forget the thumb.)
At that instant-and for quite a few after-she can’t remember much of anything.
“Better?” he murmurs against the curve of her jaw, each of the letters sliding hot and wet with the touch of his tongue, the question mark curling into her chin and dotted. Twice.
Her cheeks are flushed. She can feel the heat blossom, the slow surge of the blood vessels dilating-for a moment, she absurdly wonders at the color (amaranth? cerise? crimson?). She can also feel the solid strength of her desk against her sweat-slick palms, can’t remember reaching back or leaning against it, but that’s hardly surprising. Her smile spreads, slow and dangerous-that she can see in the reflection of his glasses, yes, but more so in the way the muscles of his jaw start to work, almost spasm, in response.
“What would you do if I said yes?” Yes-thank you for being of service, Admiral, your work here is done. “Bill?”
“Might have to accuse you of perjury,” he muses slowly, studying her. “Not a good charge for a President.”
“Not good for an Admiral to be making reckless accusations. You’ll need evidence.”
“I think I can come up with something.”
It’s not until she leans against him, finds herself waiting for the obvious joke that she hears the silence. Heartbeat- and breath-filled-but the voice is gone. Her hands slide up his arms of their own accord, and he has both his around her, tightening, and his lips a breath from hers-an answer before she even asks the question.
“And what will you do when I say no?”
Rating: R
Spoilers: Through Epiphanies
Summary: Go ahead. Open that drawer for the fifteenth time. Maybe this time it’ll magically hold your vibrator.
A/N: For multicolour, who got a request in at the end, and wanted something early, happy, and cancer-free. This… hopefully fits some of that. And somehow wrote itself (with help from the time spent on the imaginary couch). Now (I think), my requests are officially done.
Lately It's Hard to Keep the Hinges on with All the Noise
Life. Health. An end to that dull, slow death-march that had throbbed in your chest. Frakking pick one, Laura, because there are a thousand-and-one things you should be grateful for, instead of running around your cabin like a crazy woman, ready to airlock the next person who dares violate your personal space.
(Well, sure, when you say it like that-but isn’t this more fun?)
She slams the drawer again, if for nothing else, because the sound has half a chance of drowning out that frakking annoying little voice she thought she’d outgrown sometime in her twenties. Either half-Cylon blood has some kind of backward effect on maturity, or it really had been too long since- Well, now the voice is snickering, the bastard. And she still can’t find that frakking pen, never mind that she’s run her hand over at least a dozen others in the search for it.
The snickering thickens to straight-out laughter.
Shut up.
(Right, like that’s gonna work.)
I swear, if I hear another word out of you….
(Technically? You can’t hear me at all. Maybe it’s time to call Cottle.)
Oh, because that conversation would go swimmingly. What-am I supposed to ask him to list all possible side effects to a never-before-performed procedure? See if there’s a reason that the only frakking thing I seem to be able to concentrate on is…?
(Say it. Go ahead.)
Sex. Happy? Sex sex sexsexsex.
Not that she hadn’t considered asking-the first question, not the second. Because, honestly, this was just getting ridiculous. Waking up drenched in sweat she could handle. Even those moments during hurried showers when the water would sluice over just the right spot. But once Quorum meetings had started to pass more through daydream (the squirming, leg-crossing kind) than with any focus on the political, and even the slightest touch from anyone had her practically vibrating….
(Well, I see it more as, you go in there and he says, ‘What can I do for you, young lady?’ and you say, ‘It’s more what you’re willing to do to me,’ and he says-)
Dear Gods.
(Sure, but not right away. He’s no spring chicken, you know. You really should’ve just asked Billy. He’s cute. And you know he’d do anything you say.)
That’s perverse. Not to mention-
(Yeah, he probably wouldn’t’ve lasted more than a few minutes. And obviously you don’t need any help. Those four times the presidential fingers brought you to the edge last night did just the trick. You’ve been an absolute peach all day.)
And you’re really helping with that.
(Go ahead. Open that drawer for the fifteenth time. Maybe this time it’ll magically hold your vibrator. And if not, you can always slam it again. There’s some satisfaction in that. Almost like a little angry drawer-sized orgasm. Maybe if you slam it enough times in succession….)
The drawer slams. And this time there is absolutely no satisfaction in it. Not in the bang, the accompanying rattle, or the way either of them or the force of the motion vibrate through her fingertips afterwards. She opens it and quickly bangs it shut twice more.
“Need some help with that?”
(Ooh, say yes!... Yes! Yes! Yeeeeesssss!)
It’s not until she hears the little voice’s gleeful shrieks that she realizes the question must have come from somewhere else. Her surprised jump is absurdly delayed. And there he is.
(A knight in shining standard-issue uniform. A thousand cubits says that uniform looks even better in a rumpled heap on the deck, and that he’s got at least-)
Compose yourself, Laura. And you behave.
He’s watching her expectantly. She matches his gaze until it dawns on her-he’d asked a question.
“No. Thank you. I just…. I’ve got it.” As far as she can remember-granted, not an impressive distance all things considered-they didn’t have a meeting scheduled. And Billy, damn him, is nowhere to be seen. Not that she can really blame the poor kid, the way she’d practically jumped down his throat earlier. “What can I do for you, Admiral?”
“How are you feeling?”
Smile. And not like a maniac. There. “Fine.” (Yeah. That particular gleam of crazy in your eyes really just screams ‘fine.’) “I’d be feeling much better if it weren’t for this mountain of paperwork.”
And other things.
“If you want to throw it out the airlock, I can look the other way.”
(Which is totally code for ‘sex,’ in case you somehow missed that. Except ‘out’ means ‘in,’ his callsign’s Paperwork, yours is Airlock, and he wouldn’t be looking the other way. Doesn’t he just have a gorgeous smile?)
“With my luck, it’d just end up right back here. With a 500-page report summarizing some kind of asinine investigation about how it got out the airlock in the first place. Was there something you needed?”
(You know, if you cut the protocol crap, you could both be naked and writhing on the desk right now. You should really work on better managing your time.)
Eyes closed, she can see the image. Eyes open, she can, too. It’s very possible that she will never be able to look at him again without undressing him with her eyes.
Frak.
(That’s the idea.)
“It doesn’t look like this is stuck anymore.”
His voice is closer to her than it had been-the words closer to her thoughts than they should be. When she starts this time, she brushes against him. “What?”
“The drawer. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Oh. It…. Well, it wasn’t exactly stuck to begin with.”
(He’s evading. You know what that means, right? Bill and Laura sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-Oh, don’t look at me in that tone of voice. He did kiss you.)
It was a goodbye. Nothing more.
(So you left and came back and now it’s time for the hello and how are you? and frak me whatever way you want as long as it’s hard and fast and now.)
His smile is knowing, and he chuckles softly, sliding the drawer out and back into place once again-Laura swallows, taking a moment to separate the two conversations and remember he’s not a mind-reader. She hopes. Bill is still examining the drawer as he says, “You should take a trip to Galactica’s gym. Not the sweetest-smelling place on the ship, but a great way to relieve stress.”
A very unpresidential snort of laughter follows. “The sight of me in gym shorts would send your crew off screaming.”
It seems to take him a second too long to answer.
“You’d probably be luckier if it did.” Still speaking to the desk, his fingertips running lightly over the drawer’s handle. “You’re more likely to meet with hundreds of offers of assistance-and not all of it well-intentioned.”
(Oh come on. Did you misplace your Guide to the Male’s Half-Witted Methods of Flirtation? Pages 25 to 62: understanding the backhanded compliment and the appropriate blushing response for each. If that wasn’t a roundabout way of saying ‘you’re damn sexy, Madam President,’ then I don’t know what is. And the appropriate shade is between tea rose and carnation, in case you were wondering.)
Fine. Frak it.
(Yet you’re still not blushing.)
She watches his hand, contemplating each of his fingers in turn. “If I didn’t know any better, Admiral, I’d say you were almost-”
“Maybe you don’t.” His hand jumps from the desk to his side. His eyes don’t move.
“Maybe I don’t what?”
“Know any better.”
(For the love of the Gods, if one of you isn’t just going to jump the other, then why am I even-)
She pulls him by the buttoned flap of his jacket, her fingers just under his throat, knuckles brushing the soft skin there as he stumbles forward, catching himself with a hand on her arm and a foot that just misses crushing onto hers. She catches his mouth-or more specifically, the shadow just under his lip and has to slide her way upward, but she reaches it in the end.
From there, she dives in-or up or into him or however it goes. She’s in heels and up on her tiptoes, her chest pressed to his, her knuckles white with holding tight to his jacket, the fabric rough against her fingers. And then… well, she thinks she moans-a too-loud, needy sound that might’ve been a simple hum if it wasn’t for that electric edge, vibrating and razor-sharp and fluorescent. Which is a pretty good signal that this has quite possibly gone too far.
“That,” he rumbles, his thumb skidding down her jawbone-she hadn’t realized it was there, “wasn’t why I-”
She steps back, waves a hand at him instead of shaking her head-a helpless little gesture that manages to end in a smile. “Consider it repayment.”
(Nice cover. But-unless there was some pretty steep interest-he didn’t give you tongue.)
“I don’t think I can do that, Laura.”
“Bill.” Somehow she’d convinced herself that this wouldn’t sound flirtatious. “It’s only fair.”
She doesn’t see him move. Doesn’t take her eyes off him, doesn’t blink, but he’s somehow a foot closer. A hand closer, actually, because it’s pressed insistently to her waist, slowly, slowly snaking around to rest just at the edge of her back, a renegade finger-the littlest, the bravest-sneaking that much farther and brushing the curve of her ass.
“No.” Never had any successive section of the alphabet sounded so sexy. “It’s not.”
“Oh thank the Gods.” She breathes it more than says it, the words exhaled in a rush.
And now he’s paying her back for her repayment. With interest. Which has risen exponentially in the last thirty seconds-tongue for tongue, but also roaming hands and a breathless groan. “What about your… Billy.”
“He-” She nuzzles into his neck, his pulse fluttering against her cheek. “-won’t be a problem. I might’ve scared him off.”
(Fear of castration will do that to a twenty-something boy. But why are we even discussing him?)
What the frak are you still doing here? Aren’t you satisfied yet?
(Are you?)
“You’re…” he pauses, smile pressing to one of her eyelids, then the other, “…a little keyed up.”
“Mmm.” Because she can barely decipher speech, takes a moment to follow his gaze. Down, down-scarlet and gold piping flanked by buttons, his belt buckle, the swelling beneath (her breath hitches, she tries to swallow it), and then-
His thigh. The right one.
She’s already pressing forward, rocking against it.
(A little keyed up?)
Gods, that’s….
“Yessssss. Since….”
She doesn’t finish, but he knows already. His response? To words and movement and friction? Fingers. Smoothing over her skirt, catching where the fabric’s bunched, each snag a ripple of vibration that she savors until-
“Ohhh….”
Fingers.
(And thumb. Gods, don’t forget the thumb.)
At that instant-and for quite a few after-she can’t remember much of anything.
“Better?” he murmurs against the curve of her jaw, each of the letters sliding hot and wet with the touch of his tongue, the question mark curling into her chin and dotted. Twice.
Her cheeks are flushed. She can feel the heat blossom, the slow surge of the blood vessels dilating-for a moment, she absurdly wonders at the color (amaranth? cerise? crimson?). She can also feel the solid strength of her desk against her sweat-slick palms, can’t remember reaching back or leaning against it, but that’s hardly surprising. Her smile spreads, slow and dangerous-that she can see in the reflection of his glasses, yes, but more so in the way the muscles of his jaw start to work, almost spasm, in response.
“What would you do if I said yes?” Yes-thank you for being of service, Admiral, your work here is done. “Bill?”
“Might have to accuse you of perjury,” he muses slowly, studying her. “Not a good charge for a President.”
“Not good for an Admiral to be making reckless accusations. You’ll need evidence.”
“I think I can come up with something.”
It’s not until she leans against him, finds herself waiting for the obvious joke that she hears the silence. Heartbeat- and breath-filled-but the voice is gone. Her hands slide up his arms of their own accord, and he has both his around her, tightening, and his lips a breath from hers-an answer before she even asks the question.
“And what will you do when I say no?”