Fanfic: Dirty Hands
Again, apologies flist.
The second of two fics written for LJ Secret Santa 2007.
Title: Dirty Hands
Author: larsfarm77
Rating: MA
Words: 4901
Warnings: Sex. Lots of it.
Huge thanks to ellisandra, tjonesy, innealta and dorque_wrench for ideas and beta help. You guys rock!
Laura Roslin could feel the sweat as it trickled between her shoulder blades and down over her skin, until it pooled in the small of her back. Her arms ached. She tried to get a better grip on the grey plastic bin that threatened to slip from her hands, made clumsy by grease stained gloves. The conveyor below her thrummed constantly; demanding that she press the heavy container into the waiting hands above and then turn back to receive the next. She fought the urge to scratch her head. Dust from the ore had settled over every inch of her body, and she tolerated the stifling heat of the thin woollen cap as the only alternative to letting the grimy particles settle in her hair.
She had made a commitment to Tyrol and the worker’s union to share menial labour among all classes of the fleet, and she was adamant that her decision to assign herself and her staff to the Daru Mozu for the morning be handled correctly. No press. No glad-handing, no photo ops.
Mostly the other workers gawked at her while she worked. She wished that she could talk to them more, but the constant grinding and screeching of the refinery machines drowned out all, but her loudest shouts.
Tory had argued against the Tylium ship. Even though improvements and repairs had begun in the wake of the strike, the ship was still considered one of the most dangerous in the fleet.
Surely you can make the same statement in the laundry room, Ma’am.
The truth was that she wanted to see the ship for herself. And there was no way in hell that she was washing the crew of Galactica’s underwear, especially not the Admiral’s.
“Bend your knees more or you’re gonna feel that in your back.” Quentin, an aged and thick bearded man from Aerelon, pressed close to her when he passed her the next bin, and practically shouted his advice in her ear.
Lift. Turn. Lift. Hand off. She had repeated the motion so many times now that she was able to divert her attention to the sweeping view she had of the processing bay. Her eyes wandered over the sea of grease stained faces, makeshift hardhats, and skull caps that were more suited to the wind chilled surface of New Caprica than the oven that was this ship.
Long coils of her auburn hair had begun to escape the elastic that kept her heavy mane from baking her neck. She rubbed the rough edge of a glove over the sides of her face and neck in a vain attempt to keep the ticklish strands from sticking to her skin. A young boy pointed and grinned, and she realized that she had only succeeded in spreading grime over her face. She shrugged and winked at him, enjoying his laughter even though she couldn’t hear it.
So engrossing was the experience that it took a long time before she noticed that Tory was gesturing wildly at her, exaggeratingly pointing at her wrist.
Frak.
If there was one thing the military did not abide, it was lateness. She pulled her own watch from her pocket. Her meeting with Adama was to have started fifteen minutes ago. She could already picture the Admiral pacing the aft section of Colonial One.
Frak.
She took one last minute to shake the hands of the two men who flanked her in the line, and then hurried down the thin metal stairs. Her staff crowded around her. She smiled at how it was now near impossible to distinguish them from the rest of the crew.
***
Colonial One
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Admiral.” Roslin swept past him, too busy trying to shrug off the dust layered coverall to notice that he’d stopped pacing. She managed to toe off her heavy steel-reinforced boots and couldn’t keep from breathing a long sigh of relief when their weight was discarded under her desk.
The coverall clung to her sweat drenched clothing underneath. She pulled her legs free and looked up to find Adama standing very still. His eyes followed the dusty coverall when she dropped it to the floor.
Gods, what I must look like.
The aft section of Colonial One was narrow and cluttered. The ceiling seemed to hang lower here than in her office, which was closed off pending further repair. She could hardly move about the space without brushing against Adama, and she had the feeling that the scent of sweat and grease from her clothes and skin hung heavily in the room.
A bag of clean clothes waited under her desk. Her temporary quarters were not even on this deck, and she was frustrated that efficiency had forced her to live out of a suitcase again.
She had forgone the shower, not wanting to delay the meeting anymore than she already had. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. She felt perfectly capable of discussing population redistribution from under a layer of sweat and grime.
She watched as his gaze traveled the length of her frame, from the tousled red ponytail on her head, past the half buttoned shirt and thin sweat-stained tank, and down over her jean clad legs. She felt as if she perspired more under the intensity of his gaze than she had during the most rigorous hours aboard the Daru Mozu.
He cleared his throat loudly and, folding his hands in front of him, brought his eyes to hers. “If there’s a better time -“ his voice trailed off when she began to work the grease from her hands with the loose ends of her shirt.
“No, sorry, not this week.” She frowned at the amount of grease that still clung to her skin. “I’m going to have to wash this off. Would you grab that file?”
Wordlessly, he reached past her and scooped the file from her desk. She had the distinct impression that he took his time. “I don’t see a sink around here,” he said.
“Follow me.” She took a few steps aft and leaned over to pull the floor access to the main cargo hold. “It’s not much, but at least it isn’t as crowded down here.”
He said nothing. As she started down the stairs, she looked back to check if he was still there. “What?” She stopped at the look in his eyes.
“Sorry.”
You haven’t looked at me that way in months. Don’t apologize for that.
“We’re not cramped for space on Galactica. You do have a standing offer.”
“Actually, that’s one of the things we need to discuss.” She didn’t look back when she descended into the lower cargo bay.
***
Roslin dipped her hands into the cool water that filled the sink in front of her, and tried not to sigh audibly. The washroom was spare. It resided just off the engine room in the far aft section of Colonial One.
Before her was a short row of sinks, against the wall to her left sat a toilet stall and two urinals, and behind her stood a bank of rudimentary shower stalls. An eyewash station occupied the far corner. The room was used mostly as an emergency facility for the small crew that worked the engine room of the revamped Colonial Heavy. A muted hum accompanied their conversation and there was cloying warmth to the space.
Adama leaned against the frame of the sliding door. A thin sheen of sweat lined his brow.
“I need to temporarily relocate about a hundred people from the Geminon Traveler …” She splashed water over her face and leaned forward to allow the errant drips to fall into the sink.
“The reactor repair.” His voice trailed off to a whisper when she removed the thin shirt she wore over her tank and tossed it to a corner.
“Yes, there is a concern about radiation levels and both the vessel’s Captain -- I can never remember his name -- and Sarah Porter feel that temporary relocation is preferable to depleting an already low med supply. Can Galactica spare a little more room?” She closed her eyes at the feel of the cool washcloth she drew along the skin of her arm.
“Laura, wait.” There was concern in his voice.
“What?”
He came up behind her, and put a restraining hand on her shoulder to keep her from turning towards him. She felt the fingers of his other hand brush against the hem of her tank.
“Unbutton your jeans.” His voice seemed lower, rougher, even for him. He pulled at the waistband of her pants, flipping it back slightly, and the seam pressed into her skin.
She hissed loudly at the stinging pain.
Turning her head, she saw the semi-circle of deep red blood that stained the base of her tank. Frak. She did remember being knocked against a bank of machinery in the cramped space along the side of the conveyor.
“You didn’t listen during the safety briefing, did you?”
“I tried. You can’t hear a thing on that ship.”
Adama had already turned to reach for the first aid kit that sat in a wire frame holder on the wall. She watched while he focused on opening the case and finding what he needed. She closed her eyes and moved her hand to the front of her jeans. Gods damn it, Laura. Her fingers were oddly clumsy when she slipped the button through the hole.
New Caprica is ancient history.
Her body didn’t seem to care about her mind’s argument; anticipation arced teasingly along her nerves when she dragged the zipper downward.
“Do you want me to-“ She heard the tremor in her voice and mentally chided herself for her sudden nervousness. Her hands sat lightly atop the now gaping fabric.
“Wait.” He stood, walked to the sliding door, and drew it closed. She heard the lock click, and was touched that he had thought of her privacy. It’s a courtesy, nothing more.
She felt him settle back behind her.
“Let me see.” His voice rumbled near her hip. She jumped a little when she felt his hand begin to push up the bottom of her tank. She felt like a string on a concert violin; every touch of his hand turned the tuning peg just a little farther and increased the tension along her lithe frame. She closed her eyes, bit her lip hard, and tried to stifle her reaction when his hands came to rest on her hips. She braced a hand on the cool metal sink in front of her when she felt his fingers hook the edge of her underwear. He pulled both garments a few inches downward and she tried to ignore the tingling ache between her legs.
“There’s a small cut here.” His fingers were feather light over a patch of skin below her left hip. “Nothing that’ll need stitches. I just need to clean it, and that’s gonna sting.”
“S’alright.” She resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder. She didn’t trust herself to meet his eyes, couldn’t bear to watch him clinically go about dressing her wound. Not when she had to clench the sink to keep from trembling.
New Caprica…
Mostly she tried to push memories of that ugly little mud ball as far from her mind as she could. If the good memories got buried as well, she accepted that. It was the price of moving on. But sometimes at night, when she was forced to relinquish self-control to sleep, her mind indulged in the feel of sand under bare skin. His weight cradled between her legs, her hands free to roam the warm expanse of his chest, to explore the wet heat where their bodies joined. She would wake, soaked and alone, her hand buried between her legs, knowing that while she could find relief, the emptiness would remain.
I let you get too close … and we paid the price in lives. That can't happen again.
It cut as deeply in memory as it had when he’d spoken the words. But, he was right. They had to make sacrifices. Sometimes she wondered whether she would ever be able to let him go.
His hand came around her hip and held her still. He began to clean the area around her wound, slowly making his way towards it. Even with the warning, she couldn’t prevent the hiss that escaped her lips when the alcohol hit her cut. It was a precise, almost fiery pain, like a shrill note held just a little too long. She felt its echo long after he removed the alcohol soaked gauze. He lightly squeezed her hip in apology, before removing his hand completely, and affixing a bandage over the cut. In a few seconds he would raise her jeans and -
“Does it still hurt?”
She felt his breath against her skin.
“A little, actually,” she said truthfully.
A line of warm, wet kisses dropped onto her skin just above the bandage.
She did tremble then, and the moan that slipped past her lips was low and wanton.
“Better?” he asked, his lips still on her skin. His fingers ran lightly over the outside of her legs. His rough skin caught randomly against the heavy fabric of her jeans.
“Mmm.”
“Does it hurt anywhere else?”
If you’re bluffing, here’s where I call. Her hands were steady when she drew her jeans and underwear as far down her legs as she could reach without bending. She heard his breathing grow ragged and their hands met just above her knee. He took the fabric from her and swept it slowly down and off. The scent of her arousal was unmistakable. She reached behind her and ran a fingernail over the skin at the top of her thigh. “Here.” The word came out on a breath.
He was there immediately, following the lower curve of her bottom with his lips. Her knees threatened to buckle, and she swayed back into him. Strong hands gripped her hips and kept her upright, while he continued his gentle exploration. Then he pulled back, his breath cooling the moisture left by his eager mouth, and waited.
She lifted the back of her tank and ran the same finger over the small of her back. This time he used his tongue and lapped at the salty perspiration that soaked her skin. He stood slowly and dragged the tank up her body; his lips and tongue traveled the length of her spine. He stopped when the front of the tank caught on the underside of her breasts. She felt the weight of his forehead between her shoulder blades, the rapid rush of his breath against her skin.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
No. Don’t do this.
She nearly missed the rest of his words, her heart pounded so loudly.
“I thought I could go slow … but I can’t.” His grip on her hips grew almost painful. “It’s been too long.”
“Then don’t.”
His nails scratched against her skin when he swept the tank over her head and off. She tried to turn, eager to find the skin under that crisp uniform, but he held her firmly in place. The buttons on his jacket were blissfully cool against her naked back. His right hand came around to fondle her breasts; his fingers slid easily through the sweat that had pooled between them. She could feel the knuckles of his other hand brush against the skin of her ass, while he worked with the belt and zipper of his uniform pants. She pressed back, rhythmically rubbing against him, and she heard his slight chuckle against the skin of her neck as she caused him to continue to fumble.
He pinched her nipple roughly. “Hold still.”
“It’s been months, Bill. Why now?” She couldn’t quite keep the edge out of her voice. She suddenly wanted him as exposed mentally as she was physically.
For a few seconds it seemed as though he wouldn’t answer. His hand wandered from her breast. He traced a slow path down her body, and pushed his fingers into the wetness between her legs. He stroked along her swollen folds repeatedly, his breath scorching against her neck, his bare cock pressed against her ass.
“I ...” He slid two thick fingers into her. “I miss this. I miss us.”
Laura let her head fall back against his shoulder and felt her body relax. His focus no longer split between his words and her body, he took advantage of her position against him to tease her breasts, while he began to rub tiny circles on her clit with his thumb.
Gods …you haven’t forgotten.
Her vision blurred with tears. She gasped and moaned when he found every sensitive spot as if he owned a map, the pressure on her clit measured to draw out her pleasure while keeping her just short of frustration. Details … I should have dated more model builders.
He was relentless and soon she was writhing against him, a wave of pleasure cresting and threatening to break. She was on the brink, when he removed his fingers and entered her from behind.
Laura bit off a scream as she came; his slow stretching of her amplified and prolonged the sensation until she collapsed against him, boneless and shuddering. He barely let her catch her breath before his hands clutched her breast and hip and he started thrusting. She leaned forward, sweaty hands sliding as she tried to grip the sink in front of her. She parted her legs further, opening herself as much as she could, desperate to feel every inch of him. He whispered her name repeatedly, as his movements grew more forceful, more erratic, until he repeated his previous words to her.
“Hold still.”
She pressed back into him hard and froze. His grip was bruising on her breast when he came, and she thrilled at the sensation as he emptied himself into her.
They stood a long time, just breathing. It took some concentration not to collapse to the floor; the ache of overworked muscles slowly surfaced from under waves of sated bliss. He tried to step back, but she reached behind, and grasped his hip firmly.
“No. I won’t give you up that easily.”
He placed a hand over hers. “You won’t have to, Laura.”
“You walked away once ...”
He gently lifted her hand and stepped back. Already soft, he slipped from her body. He turned from her and she watched as he undid the buttons on his uniform jacket. He slipped the coat from his shoulders and laid it carefully over the back of the toilet. She released the breath she wasn’t aware she had been holding, when he pulled both tanks over his head, and set them aside. Her gaze roamed freely while he removed his boots and socks, leaned over, and started the water for the shower. He unwrapped a bar of military issue soap. She watched the muscles flex along his back and arms with unguarded appreciation. A gentle throb pulsed between her legs. It only intensified when, with damp hands, he undid his belt and removed pants and boxers in a single pass.
A glint of light hit her eye when he rose and turned towards her. Her gaze was drawn to the dog tags that sat against the scar that bisected his chest. His hand came up and he closed his fist around them, hesitating briefly before drawing the chain over his head and off. She watched as he set them carefully on top of his uniform jacket. Laura took a slow, deep breath. No more barriers. No titles. Just us.
He waited until she met his eyes. “I made a decision after New Caprica. I can’t live with it, Laura. Not having you doesn’t change how I feel.” The depth of emotion in his gaze caused tears to once again cloud her vision.
He crossed the distance between them in a single step. Their bodies inches apart, he reached up and removed the elastic from her hair. A small cloud of dust rose as the long strands fell loosely over his fingers.
“You’re filthy,” he said, a corner of his mouth lifting in a smile.
Only my mind. The incredible feel of his skin when she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his, reduced her voice to a whisper. “You didn’t seem to mind.” She covered his mouth with hers and kissed him thoroughly.
He reached around her, drew her leg over his hip with one hand, while taking her weight in his arms. He lifted her only enough to allow him to bring them both under the now scalding spray from the shower. Laura gasped when the wet heat of his mouth was mirrored by the pounding torrent against her back. She ignored the slight sting when her bandage soaked through. He was soon soaked as well, the water reaching farther and faster than her roaming hands on his body. He set her down and when her feet settled on the slick tile floor, she broke the kiss. She gripped his arm firmly and turned his back to the water. Reaching for the soap, she lowered herself until she could slide the bar along the back of his left calf.
“Laura-“
“Let me touch you.” It’s been too long. The bar swept upward along his thigh and when she reached the apex of his legs, the back of her free hand brushed against his balls. He groaned, and his head fell back. His hand slipped blindly over her bare shoulder as she bent to give the same attention to his other leg. When she finally rose, she brushed her fingers along his half-hard cock. She gave him a few teasing strokes, thrilling as he thickened in her grip; the hard muscles in his thigh tightened repeatedly under her other hand.
A sound akin to a whimper escaped his lips when she released him. She brought both hands around his body and gave a less than gentle squeeze to his ass, before her wandering touch mapped the contours of his back and shoulders. She ran her tongue along his collarbone. He tasted of a mix of hard water, salty perspiration and something burnt and metallic that she had come to associate with aging battleships. While she missed the hint of smoke that had characterized his taste on New Caprica, the wonderful sense of rediscovery remained.
His hands swept up the skin of her arms to her neck and he gently pulled her away from his chest. She knew that he would not remain idle indefinitely, but she was not prepared for what she saw when he tilted her face up to his. His eyes were so blue as to appear black. White steam rose around them, but did not obscure the thin tracks of tears that lined his face.
I know. I’ve missed you too.
When he kissed her, it was fevered and rough. His now fully rigid cock poked her abdomen, and she wondered whether this would be a second desperate frak.
He broke the kiss and pushed her back. She watched as he took a deep breath and struggled with his obvious desire. Stepping out of the flow of the water, he moved to stand behind her. He took the soap from her hand. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her back when she stepped into the spray.
“Turn around.” His voice held a hint of command that sent a jolt of electricity along her spine.
She turned and leaned back to soak her hair. He groaned when her back arched and she brought her hands up to either side of her head. Despite the warmth of the water that coursed over them, her nipples tightened and her breasts felt heavy and swelled.
She gasped as his hand lifted her right breast and his thumb brushed over her pebbled skin. His hand lingered. She looked down and noted the finger shaped bruises that stood out against her pale skin. It’s all right. Long after we’re back to routine, at least I’ll know this was real.
Her eyes fell closed as he began to soothe the hurt with his tongue. He gave equal attention to her uninjured breast before backing away, leaving Laura breathless.
“You are so beautiful.” It wasn’t the words that struck her so much as the rawness of his voice, and the fact that it came from somewhere near her hip. He soaped every inch of her skin with infinite care and patience. He stood slowly, his touch an intoxicating mix of scrubbing and massage. When all the dirt and grime lay in circles about the drain on the floor, he finally entered her. Her back was pressed against the slick tile wall; his blocked the brunt of the stream of slowly cooling water. His movements were languid. She felt almost drugged. He brought her hand between them and brushed it over her clit. They sought their pleasure slowly, and Laura was reminded of something that he’d said to her not so long ago.
We've been at war so long sometimes we forget what we're fighting for. Raise our kids in peace, enjoy one another's company. Live life as people again.
I love you, Bill.
***
30 minutes later
Tom Zarek slouched in a dilapidated swivel chair. He adjusted the papers in front of him, clicked his pen repeatedly, and adjusted his tie. He hadn’t noticed that he was rocking from side to side until his knee struck the corner of her desk. He knew his irritation was the product of months in Cylon detention, where he was always left waiting, never sure for how long or for what.
He checked his watch. Again. Forty-five minutes late. It really wasn’t like Laura to leave him hanging like this. And where was Tory? Did something happen on the Daru Mozu? Laura had tried to downplay that brilliant little move, but Tom was well connected on every level in the Fleet. He had long ago learned that, in politics, information was everything.
He reached out, set a hand against the edge of her desk and started to get up. Seems I’ll have to find you. The last thing he expected was to see the Admiral emerge from a hatch built into the carpet a few metres aft. Certain that Adama had not yet seen him, Tom settled back into the chair. He knew that he couldn’t prevent being discovered, but he savoured the brief opportunity to scrutinize the unguarded man.
Adama’s movements were fluid. Tom had noticed long ago that the Admiral didn’t carry himself with the strict rigidity of a career military man; he was an intimidating presence, but the burden of responsibility for the fleet always seemed to weigh down on him physically. Now - the way he stood and smoothly navigated the haphazard array of file cabinets and desks that cluttered the space - that ever-present weight seemed lighter.
Adama rounded the cabinet nearest him and stopped, surprise crossing his features when his gaze settled on Tom. He composed himself instantly. “Mr. Zarek.”
“Admiral.”
Now that the man was close to him, Tom noticed the slight flush that reddened the skin near the collar of his uniform. Is your hair wet?
Adama circled the desk and reached underneath for a worn and crushed looking duffel bag. He favoured Tom a momentary glare and said: “The President’s schedule is delayed today. If it’s inconvenient for you to wait-“
“It’s no trouble.” Tom smiled, his previous irritation long gone.
“Suit yourself.” Adama turned and headed back towards the cargo bay access. Tom caught a glimpse of the duffel when the Admiral pulled the hatch open. A single light pink strap was visible overhanging the edge of the bag.
Tom quickly looked away; his hand came up to stifle his reaction as the pieces fell into place. He had known about them on New Caprica, well, anyone with eyes could have seen what was between them. In truth he had admired their courage. It wasn’t any easy thing, coming together while under what had to feel like constant scrutiny.
See you up there.
It was the last thing that she’d said to him during the Exodus, her eyes bright and flashing, only hours after she’d saved his life. Even today he could still feel her weight on him, could still smell the sand and gravel that had covered them both at the bottom of the ravine. Something in her eyes, in her voice the last time he’d seen her on the planet, had lit a spark. He’d allowed himself to believe that that impromptu sandy embrace would not be their last. Listening to the Admiral’s speech, after Tyrol had provided some kind of bloody penance, Tom knew that a door had opened for him. Adama could not change who he was, or so Tom had thought.
The hatch slammed closed. Tom ignored the ache in his stomach and found himself smiling. He also had changed. He didn’t care about the political ramifications of what he’d just seen, or how the knowledge could be turned to his advantage. The occupation had turned humanity into something ugly. It was past time that they found themselves again.
***
Fin.
The second of two fics written for LJ Secret Santa 2007.
Title: Dirty Hands
Author: larsfarm77
Rating: MA
Words: 4901
Warnings: Sex. Lots of it.
Huge thanks to ellisandra, tjonesy, innealta and dorque_wrench for ideas and beta help. You guys rock!
Laura Roslin could feel the sweat as it trickled between her shoulder blades and down over her skin, until it pooled in the small of her back. Her arms ached. She tried to get a better grip on the grey plastic bin that threatened to slip from her hands, made clumsy by grease stained gloves. The conveyor below her thrummed constantly; demanding that she press the heavy container into the waiting hands above and then turn back to receive the next. She fought the urge to scratch her head. Dust from the ore had settled over every inch of her body, and she tolerated the stifling heat of the thin woollen cap as the only alternative to letting the grimy particles settle in her hair.
She had made a commitment to Tyrol and the worker’s union to share menial labour among all classes of the fleet, and she was adamant that her decision to assign herself and her staff to the Daru Mozu for the morning be handled correctly. No press. No glad-handing, no photo ops.
Mostly the other workers gawked at her while she worked. She wished that she could talk to them more, but the constant grinding and screeching of the refinery machines drowned out all, but her loudest shouts.
Tory had argued against the Tylium ship. Even though improvements and repairs had begun in the wake of the strike, the ship was still considered one of the most dangerous in the fleet.
Surely you can make the same statement in the laundry room, Ma’am.
The truth was that she wanted to see the ship for herself. And there was no way in hell that she was washing the crew of Galactica’s underwear, especially not the Admiral’s.
“Bend your knees more or you’re gonna feel that in your back.” Quentin, an aged and thick bearded man from Aerelon, pressed close to her when he passed her the next bin, and practically shouted his advice in her ear.
Lift. Turn. Lift. Hand off. She had repeated the motion so many times now that she was able to divert her attention to the sweeping view she had of the processing bay. Her eyes wandered over the sea of grease stained faces, makeshift hardhats, and skull caps that were more suited to the wind chilled surface of New Caprica than the oven that was this ship.
Long coils of her auburn hair had begun to escape the elastic that kept her heavy mane from baking her neck. She rubbed the rough edge of a glove over the sides of her face and neck in a vain attempt to keep the ticklish strands from sticking to her skin. A young boy pointed and grinned, and she realized that she had only succeeded in spreading grime over her face. She shrugged and winked at him, enjoying his laughter even though she couldn’t hear it.
So engrossing was the experience that it took a long time before she noticed that Tory was gesturing wildly at her, exaggeratingly pointing at her wrist.
Frak.
If there was one thing the military did not abide, it was lateness. She pulled her own watch from her pocket. Her meeting with Adama was to have started fifteen minutes ago. She could already picture the Admiral pacing the aft section of Colonial One.
Frak.
She took one last minute to shake the hands of the two men who flanked her in the line, and then hurried down the thin metal stairs. Her staff crowded around her. She smiled at how it was now near impossible to distinguish them from the rest of the crew.
***
Colonial One
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Admiral.” Roslin swept past him, too busy trying to shrug off the dust layered coverall to notice that he’d stopped pacing. She managed to toe off her heavy steel-reinforced boots and couldn’t keep from breathing a long sigh of relief when their weight was discarded under her desk.
The coverall clung to her sweat drenched clothing underneath. She pulled her legs free and looked up to find Adama standing very still. His eyes followed the dusty coverall when she dropped it to the floor.
Gods, what I must look like.
The aft section of Colonial One was narrow and cluttered. The ceiling seemed to hang lower here than in her office, which was closed off pending further repair. She could hardly move about the space without brushing against Adama, and she had the feeling that the scent of sweat and grease from her clothes and skin hung heavily in the room.
A bag of clean clothes waited under her desk. Her temporary quarters were not even on this deck, and she was frustrated that efficiency had forced her to live out of a suitcase again.
She had forgone the shower, not wanting to delay the meeting anymore than she already had. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. She felt perfectly capable of discussing population redistribution from under a layer of sweat and grime.
She watched as his gaze traveled the length of her frame, from the tousled red ponytail on her head, past the half buttoned shirt and thin sweat-stained tank, and down over her jean clad legs. She felt as if she perspired more under the intensity of his gaze than she had during the most rigorous hours aboard the Daru Mozu.
He cleared his throat loudly and, folding his hands in front of him, brought his eyes to hers. “If there’s a better time -“ his voice trailed off when she began to work the grease from her hands with the loose ends of her shirt.
“No, sorry, not this week.” She frowned at the amount of grease that still clung to her skin. “I’m going to have to wash this off. Would you grab that file?”
Wordlessly, he reached past her and scooped the file from her desk. She had the distinct impression that he took his time. “I don’t see a sink around here,” he said.
“Follow me.” She took a few steps aft and leaned over to pull the floor access to the main cargo hold. “It’s not much, but at least it isn’t as crowded down here.”
He said nothing. As she started down the stairs, she looked back to check if he was still there. “What?” She stopped at the look in his eyes.
“Sorry.”
You haven’t looked at me that way in months. Don’t apologize for that.
“We’re not cramped for space on Galactica. You do have a standing offer.”
“Actually, that’s one of the things we need to discuss.” She didn’t look back when she descended into the lower cargo bay.
***
Roslin dipped her hands into the cool water that filled the sink in front of her, and tried not to sigh audibly. The washroom was spare. It resided just off the engine room in the far aft section of Colonial One.
Before her was a short row of sinks, against the wall to her left sat a toilet stall and two urinals, and behind her stood a bank of rudimentary shower stalls. An eyewash station occupied the far corner. The room was used mostly as an emergency facility for the small crew that worked the engine room of the revamped Colonial Heavy. A muted hum accompanied their conversation and there was cloying warmth to the space.
Adama leaned against the frame of the sliding door. A thin sheen of sweat lined his brow.
“I need to temporarily relocate about a hundred people from the Geminon Traveler …” She splashed water over her face and leaned forward to allow the errant drips to fall into the sink.
“The reactor repair.” His voice trailed off to a whisper when she removed the thin shirt she wore over her tank and tossed it to a corner.
“Yes, there is a concern about radiation levels and both the vessel’s Captain -- I can never remember his name -- and Sarah Porter feel that temporary relocation is preferable to depleting an already low med supply. Can Galactica spare a little more room?” She closed her eyes at the feel of the cool washcloth she drew along the skin of her arm.
“Laura, wait.” There was concern in his voice.
“What?”
He came up behind her, and put a restraining hand on her shoulder to keep her from turning towards him. She felt the fingers of his other hand brush against the hem of her tank.
“Unbutton your jeans.” His voice seemed lower, rougher, even for him. He pulled at the waistband of her pants, flipping it back slightly, and the seam pressed into her skin.
She hissed loudly at the stinging pain.
Turning her head, she saw the semi-circle of deep red blood that stained the base of her tank. Frak. She did remember being knocked against a bank of machinery in the cramped space along the side of the conveyor.
“You didn’t listen during the safety briefing, did you?”
“I tried. You can’t hear a thing on that ship.”
Adama had already turned to reach for the first aid kit that sat in a wire frame holder on the wall. She watched while he focused on opening the case and finding what he needed. She closed her eyes and moved her hand to the front of her jeans. Gods damn it, Laura. Her fingers were oddly clumsy when she slipped the button through the hole.
New Caprica is ancient history.
Her body didn’t seem to care about her mind’s argument; anticipation arced teasingly along her nerves when she dragged the zipper downward.
“Do you want me to-“ She heard the tremor in her voice and mentally chided herself for her sudden nervousness. Her hands sat lightly atop the now gaping fabric.
“Wait.” He stood, walked to the sliding door, and drew it closed. She heard the lock click, and was touched that he had thought of her privacy. It’s a courtesy, nothing more.
She felt him settle back behind her.
“Let me see.” His voice rumbled near her hip. She jumped a little when she felt his hand begin to push up the bottom of her tank. She felt like a string on a concert violin; every touch of his hand turned the tuning peg just a little farther and increased the tension along her lithe frame. She closed her eyes, bit her lip hard, and tried to stifle her reaction when his hands came to rest on her hips. She braced a hand on the cool metal sink in front of her when she felt his fingers hook the edge of her underwear. He pulled both garments a few inches downward and she tried to ignore the tingling ache between her legs.
“There’s a small cut here.” His fingers were feather light over a patch of skin below her left hip. “Nothing that’ll need stitches. I just need to clean it, and that’s gonna sting.”
“S’alright.” She resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder. She didn’t trust herself to meet his eyes, couldn’t bear to watch him clinically go about dressing her wound. Not when she had to clench the sink to keep from trembling.
New Caprica…
Mostly she tried to push memories of that ugly little mud ball as far from her mind as she could. If the good memories got buried as well, she accepted that. It was the price of moving on. But sometimes at night, when she was forced to relinquish self-control to sleep, her mind indulged in the feel of sand under bare skin. His weight cradled between her legs, her hands free to roam the warm expanse of his chest, to explore the wet heat where their bodies joined. She would wake, soaked and alone, her hand buried between her legs, knowing that while she could find relief, the emptiness would remain.
I let you get too close … and we paid the price in lives. That can't happen again.
It cut as deeply in memory as it had when he’d spoken the words. But, he was right. They had to make sacrifices. Sometimes she wondered whether she would ever be able to let him go.
His hand came around her hip and held her still. He began to clean the area around her wound, slowly making his way towards it. Even with the warning, she couldn’t prevent the hiss that escaped her lips when the alcohol hit her cut. It was a precise, almost fiery pain, like a shrill note held just a little too long. She felt its echo long after he removed the alcohol soaked gauze. He lightly squeezed her hip in apology, before removing his hand completely, and affixing a bandage over the cut. In a few seconds he would raise her jeans and -
“Does it still hurt?”
She felt his breath against her skin.
“A little, actually,” she said truthfully.
A line of warm, wet kisses dropped onto her skin just above the bandage.
She did tremble then, and the moan that slipped past her lips was low and wanton.
“Better?” he asked, his lips still on her skin. His fingers ran lightly over the outside of her legs. His rough skin caught randomly against the heavy fabric of her jeans.
“Mmm.”
“Does it hurt anywhere else?”
If you’re bluffing, here’s where I call. Her hands were steady when she drew her jeans and underwear as far down her legs as she could reach without bending. She heard his breathing grow ragged and their hands met just above her knee. He took the fabric from her and swept it slowly down and off. The scent of her arousal was unmistakable. She reached behind her and ran a fingernail over the skin at the top of her thigh. “Here.” The word came out on a breath.
He was there immediately, following the lower curve of her bottom with his lips. Her knees threatened to buckle, and she swayed back into him. Strong hands gripped her hips and kept her upright, while he continued his gentle exploration. Then he pulled back, his breath cooling the moisture left by his eager mouth, and waited.
She lifted the back of her tank and ran the same finger over the small of her back. This time he used his tongue and lapped at the salty perspiration that soaked her skin. He stood slowly and dragged the tank up her body; his lips and tongue traveled the length of her spine. He stopped when the front of the tank caught on the underside of her breasts. She felt the weight of his forehead between her shoulder blades, the rapid rush of his breath against her skin.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
No. Don’t do this.
She nearly missed the rest of his words, her heart pounded so loudly.
“I thought I could go slow … but I can’t.” His grip on her hips grew almost painful. “It’s been too long.”
“Then don’t.”
His nails scratched against her skin when he swept the tank over her head and off. She tried to turn, eager to find the skin under that crisp uniform, but he held her firmly in place. The buttons on his jacket were blissfully cool against her naked back. His right hand came around to fondle her breasts; his fingers slid easily through the sweat that had pooled between them. She could feel the knuckles of his other hand brush against the skin of her ass, while he worked with the belt and zipper of his uniform pants. She pressed back, rhythmically rubbing against him, and she heard his slight chuckle against the skin of her neck as she caused him to continue to fumble.
He pinched her nipple roughly. “Hold still.”
“It’s been months, Bill. Why now?” She couldn’t quite keep the edge out of her voice. She suddenly wanted him as exposed mentally as she was physically.
For a few seconds it seemed as though he wouldn’t answer. His hand wandered from her breast. He traced a slow path down her body, and pushed his fingers into the wetness between her legs. He stroked along her swollen folds repeatedly, his breath scorching against her neck, his bare cock pressed against her ass.
“I ...” He slid two thick fingers into her. “I miss this. I miss us.”
Laura let her head fall back against his shoulder and felt her body relax. His focus no longer split between his words and her body, he took advantage of her position against him to tease her breasts, while he began to rub tiny circles on her clit with his thumb.
Gods …you haven’t forgotten.
Her vision blurred with tears. She gasped and moaned when he found every sensitive spot as if he owned a map, the pressure on her clit measured to draw out her pleasure while keeping her just short of frustration. Details … I should have dated more model builders.
He was relentless and soon she was writhing against him, a wave of pleasure cresting and threatening to break. She was on the brink, when he removed his fingers and entered her from behind.
Laura bit off a scream as she came; his slow stretching of her amplified and prolonged the sensation until she collapsed against him, boneless and shuddering. He barely let her catch her breath before his hands clutched her breast and hip and he started thrusting. She leaned forward, sweaty hands sliding as she tried to grip the sink in front of her. She parted her legs further, opening herself as much as she could, desperate to feel every inch of him. He whispered her name repeatedly, as his movements grew more forceful, more erratic, until he repeated his previous words to her.
“Hold still.”
She pressed back into him hard and froze. His grip was bruising on her breast when he came, and she thrilled at the sensation as he emptied himself into her.
They stood a long time, just breathing. It took some concentration not to collapse to the floor; the ache of overworked muscles slowly surfaced from under waves of sated bliss. He tried to step back, but she reached behind, and grasped his hip firmly.
“No. I won’t give you up that easily.”
He placed a hand over hers. “You won’t have to, Laura.”
“You walked away once ...”
He gently lifted her hand and stepped back. Already soft, he slipped from her body. He turned from her and she watched as he undid the buttons on his uniform jacket. He slipped the coat from his shoulders and laid it carefully over the back of the toilet. She released the breath she wasn’t aware she had been holding, when he pulled both tanks over his head, and set them aside. Her gaze roamed freely while he removed his boots and socks, leaned over, and started the water for the shower. He unwrapped a bar of military issue soap. She watched the muscles flex along his back and arms with unguarded appreciation. A gentle throb pulsed between her legs. It only intensified when, with damp hands, he undid his belt and removed pants and boxers in a single pass.
A glint of light hit her eye when he rose and turned towards her. Her gaze was drawn to the dog tags that sat against the scar that bisected his chest. His hand came up and he closed his fist around them, hesitating briefly before drawing the chain over his head and off. She watched as he set them carefully on top of his uniform jacket. Laura took a slow, deep breath. No more barriers. No titles. Just us.
He waited until she met his eyes. “I made a decision after New Caprica. I can’t live with it, Laura. Not having you doesn’t change how I feel.” The depth of emotion in his gaze caused tears to once again cloud her vision.
He crossed the distance between them in a single step. Their bodies inches apart, he reached up and removed the elastic from her hair. A small cloud of dust rose as the long strands fell loosely over his fingers.
“You’re filthy,” he said, a corner of his mouth lifting in a smile.
Only my mind. The incredible feel of his skin when she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his, reduced her voice to a whisper. “You didn’t seem to mind.” She covered his mouth with hers and kissed him thoroughly.
He reached around her, drew her leg over his hip with one hand, while taking her weight in his arms. He lifted her only enough to allow him to bring them both under the now scalding spray from the shower. Laura gasped when the wet heat of his mouth was mirrored by the pounding torrent against her back. She ignored the slight sting when her bandage soaked through. He was soon soaked as well, the water reaching farther and faster than her roaming hands on his body. He set her down and when her feet settled on the slick tile floor, she broke the kiss. She gripped his arm firmly and turned his back to the water. Reaching for the soap, she lowered herself until she could slide the bar along the back of his left calf.
“Laura-“
“Let me touch you.” It’s been too long. The bar swept upward along his thigh and when she reached the apex of his legs, the back of her free hand brushed against his balls. He groaned, and his head fell back. His hand slipped blindly over her bare shoulder as she bent to give the same attention to his other leg. When she finally rose, she brushed her fingers along his half-hard cock. She gave him a few teasing strokes, thrilling as he thickened in her grip; the hard muscles in his thigh tightened repeatedly under her other hand.
A sound akin to a whimper escaped his lips when she released him. She brought both hands around his body and gave a less than gentle squeeze to his ass, before her wandering touch mapped the contours of his back and shoulders. She ran her tongue along his collarbone. He tasted of a mix of hard water, salty perspiration and something burnt and metallic that she had come to associate with aging battleships. While she missed the hint of smoke that had characterized his taste on New Caprica, the wonderful sense of rediscovery remained.
His hands swept up the skin of her arms to her neck and he gently pulled her away from his chest. She knew that he would not remain idle indefinitely, but she was not prepared for what she saw when he tilted her face up to his. His eyes were so blue as to appear black. White steam rose around them, but did not obscure the thin tracks of tears that lined his face.
I know. I’ve missed you too.
When he kissed her, it was fevered and rough. His now fully rigid cock poked her abdomen, and she wondered whether this would be a second desperate frak.
He broke the kiss and pushed her back. She watched as he took a deep breath and struggled with his obvious desire. Stepping out of the flow of the water, he moved to stand behind her. He took the soap from her hand. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her back when she stepped into the spray.
“Turn around.” His voice held a hint of command that sent a jolt of electricity along her spine.
She turned and leaned back to soak her hair. He groaned when her back arched and she brought her hands up to either side of her head. Despite the warmth of the water that coursed over them, her nipples tightened and her breasts felt heavy and swelled.
She gasped as his hand lifted her right breast and his thumb brushed over her pebbled skin. His hand lingered. She looked down and noted the finger shaped bruises that stood out against her pale skin. It’s all right. Long after we’re back to routine, at least I’ll know this was real.
Her eyes fell closed as he began to soothe the hurt with his tongue. He gave equal attention to her uninjured breast before backing away, leaving Laura breathless.
“You are so beautiful.” It wasn’t the words that struck her so much as the rawness of his voice, and the fact that it came from somewhere near her hip. He soaped every inch of her skin with infinite care and patience. He stood slowly, his touch an intoxicating mix of scrubbing and massage. When all the dirt and grime lay in circles about the drain on the floor, he finally entered her. Her back was pressed against the slick tile wall; his blocked the brunt of the stream of slowly cooling water. His movements were languid. She felt almost drugged. He brought her hand between them and brushed it over her clit. They sought their pleasure slowly, and Laura was reminded of something that he’d said to her not so long ago.
We've been at war so long sometimes we forget what we're fighting for. Raise our kids in peace, enjoy one another's company. Live life as people again.
I love you, Bill.
***
30 minutes later
Tom Zarek slouched in a dilapidated swivel chair. He adjusted the papers in front of him, clicked his pen repeatedly, and adjusted his tie. He hadn’t noticed that he was rocking from side to side until his knee struck the corner of her desk. He knew his irritation was the product of months in Cylon detention, where he was always left waiting, never sure for how long or for what.
He checked his watch. Again. Forty-five minutes late. It really wasn’t like Laura to leave him hanging like this. And where was Tory? Did something happen on the Daru Mozu? Laura had tried to downplay that brilliant little move, but Tom was well connected on every level in the Fleet. He had long ago learned that, in politics, information was everything.
He reached out, set a hand against the edge of her desk and started to get up. Seems I’ll have to find you. The last thing he expected was to see the Admiral emerge from a hatch built into the carpet a few metres aft. Certain that Adama had not yet seen him, Tom settled back into the chair. He knew that he couldn’t prevent being discovered, but he savoured the brief opportunity to scrutinize the unguarded man.
Adama’s movements were fluid. Tom had noticed long ago that the Admiral didn’t carry himself with the strict rigidity of a career military man; he was an intimidating presence, but the burden of responsibility for the fleet always seemed to weigh down on him physically. Now - the way he stood and smoothly navigated the haphazard array of file cabinets and desks that cluttered the space - that ever-present weight seemed lighter.
Adama rounded the cabinet nearest him and stopped, surprise crossing his features when his gaze settled on Tom. He composed himself instantly. “Mr. Zarek.”
“Admiral.”
Now that the man was close to him, Tom noticed the slight flush that reddened the skin near the collar of his uniform. Is your hair wet?
Adama circled the desk and reached underneath for a worn and crushed looking duffel bag. He favoured Tom a momentary glare and said: “The President’s schedule is delayed today. If it’s inconvenient for you to wait-“
“It’s no trouble.” Tom smiled, his previous irritation long gone.
“Suit yourself.” Adama turned and headed back towards the cargo bay access. Tom caught a glimpse of the duffel when the Admiral pulled the hatch open. A single light pink strap was visible overhanging the edge of the bag.
Tom quickly looked away; his hand came up to stifle his reaction as the pieces fell into place. He had known about them on New Caprica, well, anyone with eyes could have seen what was between them. In truth he had admired their courage. It wasn’t any easy thing, coming together while under what had to feel like constant scrutiny.
See you up there.
It was the last thing that she’d said to him during the Exodus, her eyes bright and flashing, only hours after she’d saved his life. Even today he could still feel her weight on him, could still smell the sand and gravel that had covered them both at the bottom of the ravine. Something in her eyes, in her voice the last time he’d seen her on the planet, had lit a spark. He’d allowed himself to believe that that impromptu sandy embrace would not be their last. Listening to the Admiral’s speech, after Tyrol had provided some kind of bloody penance, Tom knew that a door had opened for him. Adama could not change who he was, or so Tom had thought.
The hatch slammed closed. Tom ignored the ache in his stomach and found himself smiling. He also had changed. He didn’t care about the political ramifications of what he’d just seen, or how the knowledge could be turned to his advantage. The occupation had turned humanity into something ugly. It was past time that they found themselves again.
***
Fin.