"Absolution" (1/1) - BSG, A/R
"Absolution"
By: angiescully
Rating: M
Spoilers: "Colonial Day" and up 'til "Resistance".
Summary: It's a risky stop to make, and you know it, but it's one that had to be made. You may not make it back alive, he may not survive, and you cannot risk leaving without saying goodbye.
A/N: It's been quite some time since I last wrote fics (and it wasn't for this fandom), but let's just say that these two have inspired me again. :) I wanted to fit this in during "Valley of Darkness", but then moved it to take place during "Resistance" instead (as well as "Colonial Day"). It still doesn't go perfectly with the ep, but I suppose it’s just slightly AU in that way. :) Any mistakes still in here are completely my own and should not be blamed on my wonderful beta leiascully. ♥ And huge thanks to splodge04 and multicolour for cheering me on in general and for reading this in various stages. :)
It's a risky stop to make, and you know it, but it's one that had to be made. You may not make it back alive, he may not survive, and you cannot risk leaving without saying goodbye, even if you have to do so to his still unconscious body. For the shortest of seconds you want to run; run away from him, avoid this, him, yourself. But you can't, won't, and instead you take that final step up to his bedside, watching as his chest rises and falls with each breath, and you have never been more grateful to see another human being breathe on his own.
It's strangely comforting, considering this is the same man who so recently robbed you of your freedom. Part of you admires him for it. Another part of you wants to yell at him for being so damn stubborn, but you cannot honestly tell yourself that you would've acted any differently yourself had your positions been reversed. The two of you are more alike than either of you would ever like to admit; you simply regret that you're standing on opposite sides of this giant chasm rather than standing together.
Your eyes are drawn to the angry red scar splitting his chest in two and before you know it, you're gently running your fingertips down each side of it, as if your touch alone will heal him. You can feel Lee's curious eyes on you, but you let his unasked questions remain unanswered. You don't owe him any answers regarding this; in all honesty, you wouldn't even know how to begin answering them, even to yourself, and you're thankful he doesn't give voice to them.
You know you should leave, that you have to, but knowing doesn’t make your feet move or lift your hands from Bill’s bisected chest.
"Would you give me just a minute?"
You're not sure if you're imagining the slight tremor in your voice - if Lee notices, he politely pretends not to - but the meaning of your words is not lost on him. With a nod, he turns and steps outside of the curtain, leaving you completely alone with his father and the steady beeping of the machine. Your gaze turns from Lee's retreating back to where your pale fingers are still resting against Bill's equally pale chest, the fresh scar in jarring contrast against you both, and a shiver runs through you.
It's funny, you think - though you are far, far from laughing - the last time your skin touched his, you were anything but pale, both of you flushed and breathing heavily, his unmarked chest pressed to yours.
* * *
"And I can dance."
A very un-presidential giggle bubbles out of you as Commander Adama bounces lightly on his feet and then holds his arm out for you to take. Before you know it, you find yourself in his arms on the dance floor, and he pulls you closer. It doesn't take long before you forget about everyone's eyes on you and allow yourself to savor the feeling of being held again, feeling the touch of another human being, no matter how innocent the embrace may be.
He wasn’t lying; he certainly knows how to dance and a deep, rich laugh escapes you as he suddenly twirls you around and ends with a dip, holding on to you securely, before pulling you back up against him. You're greeted by a big grin that no doubt mirrors your own, unbridled mirth playing in his eyes, and you realize he's pleased he's able to give you this unguarded moment of just being. Maybe this is what you both need; a few minutes of letting go, of simply enjoying living without having to feel the weight of the fate of humanity on your shoulders, without having to battle each other, and you laugh again, pleased to be able to give at least that back to him.
The song ends far too soon, replaced by something you feel much too old for, and he seems to agree, because he takes you by the elbow, leading you off the dance floor. You stand together, a new sense of understanding sizzling between you, his light touch at your elbow anchoring you, watching as the younger members of the fleet continue to dance the night away.
You spot Billy dancing closely with Petty Officer Dualla, and you smile. He's young, healthy, in love; he deserves this, and you want him to have what you've already resigned yourself to knowing you can't: a future. A sad smile fleetingly finds it way across your lips, and you push the thoughts of your own impending death away. You don't want to ruin this; whatever this night is, it's got nothing to do with death.
"Well," you say, turning to Adama, "seems like I'm either gonna have to pull my assistant away from your lovely Petty Officer or find someone to bring him back to our ship, or I'm gonna be here all night." You nod your head towards them and his eyes follow until he spots them as well. You watch as a grin spreads across his face at the sight of them, and though you up until now never would have associated the word with the rough Commander, you realize what a truly beautiful man he is when he allows himself the luxury of smiling.
"Well then, Madam President," he says as he turns back to you, and you immediately turn your gaze from his mouth to his eyes, "would you allow me to act as your security detail and give you a ride back to your ship? Let the young ones continue enjoying themselves."
You nod in acceptance, honestly grateful for his offer after this long day. “I’ll let Billy know I’m leaving,” you say, leaving his side to press through the crowd to your aide.
“Oh! Madam President,” Billy says and makes a gesture of leaving with you, but you hold up one hand.
“I believe that I’ll be quite safe in the care of the Commander,” you smile. “You enjoy yourself.”
Billy nods, but you can feel him watching you as you walk back to the edge of the floor, where you once again find your arm linked securely with Adama’s as he leads you to the hangar deck. You walk together in silence, neither of you hurrying, and the comfort you feel surprises you slightly, even after the moments you've shared tonight. This easiness between you isn't something you're used to; you decide you like it.
"Whatever will your pilot say about the detour at this late hour, Commander?" you ask softly as you reach the hangar deck. There's a flirtatious edge to your voice, and you're not sure whether or not you want him to notice.
With a slight smirk on his face, he leads you to one of the Raptors, opening the hatch and helping you aboard. "The pilot will be honored to offer his services to the President of the Twelve Colonies."
His baritone voice is even more gruff than usual, but his tone is strangely tender, and as you look around inside the Raptor, you realize that he is the pilot tonight and that what you just heard in his voice was him definitely flirting back. It catches you off guard, despite your own teasing, and you feel a slow tingling spread down your spine. Flirting is fun, harmless, and you will not refuse yourself this.
He closes the Raptor's hatch behind you, his hand sliding over the small of your back as he steps past you to take his seat at the front. You step up after him, squeezing yourself into the seat next to him, making sure you brush up against him, and he laughs. It's barely audible, but it's definitely there. He just laughed, and you realize you are both playing the same game.
It's just flirting, you continue to tell yourself. Completely safe. Completely harmless.
There is something oddly attractive about his features as you silently watch him maneuver the Raptor. Of course you knew he used to be a pilot, and a very good one at that, but this is the first time you've seen him in this setting and it fills you with wonder. He suddenly seems twenty years younger - it is like watching a child in a toy store, seeing the reverent joy with which he handles the controls. It's amazing, you think, what such simple things can do for a human being, and you're glad he allows you to share this with him, because it's been a long time since you found yourself in your own toy store.
As he meets your eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, you realize tonight is as close you've come to feeling happy in years, if happiness is even something you've ever truly experienced; you don't know, you can't remember. But tonight comes close, and all from sharing a dance, a few stolen moments in time, with a man you probably wouldn't even call a friend. Even before the attacks, even before you learned your life was about to come to an end, happiness was not something that was part of who you were, and yet right now, at this very moment, the feeling of it fills your chest until it's almost painful and you force yourself to turn away from him.
This is not safe, not harmless. Who the hell were you trying to kid?
Before you know it, you find yourself secure on Colonial One's hangar deck, and you practically fly out of your seat and push past him. You need to get away from him, from this, from whatever is happening, but he's up close behind you before you even reach the hatch, his large hand on your shoulder stopping you.
"Let me, Madam President."
His voice comes from right behind you, his tone intimate and knowing, and you still without thinking. As he reaches over your shoulder for the hatch, you lean back against him and his chest brushes against your back. His warmth seeps through layers of clothing and into your skin, into you, and you wonder if the tremor you just felt was in your imagination, if it came from your own body and transferred into his, or if it was real.
You turn slightly in his impromptu embrace. He shivers again and you know it was real, and it's all too much, too close. Your head falls against his shoulder, because even though your brain is telling you to leave, your body isn't listening. One of his strong hands travels up the length of your spine to finally come to rest at the base of your neck, his fingers tangling softly in your hair, and he's not breathing in the scent of your hair any more than you're breathing in the scent of him just above the juncture of his neck and shoulder. You have no idea how it happened, how your face, your nose, your lips are suddenly pressed against his hot skin, but you realize you can't find the strength to even care if this is a smart thing to do or not. It's wrong, wrong, wrong, the President and the Commander, yet nothing has felt this right in a long, long time, and as you press a small kiss against him, your tongue flicking out to taste the skin just underneath his chin, he groans into your hair as his hold on you becomes even firmer.
"If you want to stop, you better tell me now," he rasps into your ear.
You shake your head, because you don't trust your voice to carry even if you tried. Instead you urge him on silently, your hands coming up to grip his arms, and then his mouth captures yours, his lips sliding against yours in a dance as old as mankind, and they're so much softer than you ever imagined. The hand tangled in your hair slides around to cup your cheek as he traces your bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. You part your lips with a moan and let him in, your tongues clashing together in a fierce give and take, and you drink him in, taste him, and you feel so alive it almost hurts.
You shrug out of your jacket, not wanting to come to your senses, and his fingers immediately find the hem of your shirt. You only register his mouth leaving you for a fraction of a second before his lips are once again pressed against you, only this time they're mapping the bare skin just above your collarbone. You can't even remember raising your arms to allow him to divest you of your shirt, nor do you remember your bra sliding down your arms, but his calloused hand is warm against your bare waist when he pulls you even closer; the other is equally as warm as it cups your breast, and you sway willingly into his still fully clothed body, the fabric of his dress greys coarse against your sensitive skin.
Your hands find their way between your bodies and with skill you didn't know you possessed, you free him of his own layers of clothing until your shaking fingers find nothing but his bare chest underneath them. The tips of your fingers tingle at the touch, the sensation spreading throughout your entire body, and you wonder how you reached this point. Daring to look up at him once again, you find him watching you, and you can't find a single trace of hesitation in his eyes. Instead the want in them threatens to consume you, and you surrender, leaving the final whispery doubts behind you.
You raise your hands and slowly run them down the sides of his face, feeling every little unevenness beneath your fingers, and this time he closes his eyes, taking a shaky breath, and you smile. You pause your exploration of his features at his lips, slightly open underneath your touch, and suddenly he reaches for your fingers, curling them tightly into his own as he pulls you close for another kiss.
He’s hungry and insistent; possessive even, as his tongue swipes across the roof of your mouth, swallowing the heady moan that escapes you. You shamelessly rock your body against him, seeking an even closer connection. His hands release yours and then they are once again at your hips, traveling down to find the hem of your skirt, pulling it up until it's bunched up around your waist, and if you weren't so incredibly grateful to finally feel his touch where you want it the most, you would laugh at the un-presidential image you must make, wearing nothing but your heels and half your skirt.
But there is nothing to laugh about as he pushes your underwear to the side and strokes you with skilled fingers, his other hand once again coming up to gently knead your breast, warmth spreading further and further throughout your body as you rock more insistently against him, letting the sensations wash over you. This is not love, you remind yourself; you don’t love him, he doesn’t love you, but you’ll be damned if your entire body doesn’t sing like it’s your wedding night. You tear your lips away from his and your forehead falls down to rest against his shoulder; he smells of his ship, of his dress greys that probably don't see the outside of his closet often enough. He smells of arousal and cologne and of something that you're beginning to realize is uniquely him; it makes your head spin, and your hands clutch at his shoulders as you breathe him in even deeper, desperately wanting to lose yourself in it.
His mouth finds your throat and he sucks at the skin until it's very likely to leave a mark that you won't be able to hide, but you don't stop him, because you're busy losing yourself in his scent and his touch and in him. He soothes the abused skin with his tongue, the strokes matching those of his fingers and you hum against him, almost certain you can feel him smile into your neck.
You feel him pressing against you where your bodies meet, but as you reach down he stops you with fingers slick with evidence of your own arousal.
"No," he breathes. "Let me do this for you."
You let him hold on to your hand as you look up at him, for a brief moment wondering if he knows about the disease raging inside of you. There are so many emotions playing in his darkening eyes, so many things you can’t read, but there is no pity, nothing that even comes close to it. He doesn’t know. You pull your hand from his grasp, letting it join your other one in playing with the short curls at the base of his neck as you once again let your body sway into his touch.
He caresses you, kissing you deeply and thoroughly and so completely until finally the arm around your back is the only thing holding you up. You don’t recognize your own voice as you cry out into his mouth with each touch, each encouraging flick of his fingers, each of his own groans that mingle with yours.
You hear the faint sound of a zipper being pulled down, and then his hand is on your thigh, pulling your leg up to hook around his hip, and suddenly breathing has become a thing of the past. Nothing matters but the way he feels moving against you, inside you. The bulkhead against your back is cold and uncomfortable, such a contrast to his body, and you know it’s going to leave bruises you wouldn’t be able to explain to anyone, but you don’t care, because he’s warm and firm and the feeling of him is so exquisite it has tears pooling in your eyes.
You cling tightly to him as your legs begin to shake from the exertion, but his arms support your weight as your bodies merge, his fingers digging hard into your flesh. The air is still, filled with nothing but your soft gasps and his sharp cries as he fills you again and again, taking as much pleasure as he is giving you, and then everything is an explosion of light as your bodies shudder together and you’re alive, alive, alive.
You breathe heavily against each other as you come down from your high, his body pinning yours against the bulkhead. Your leg is still hooked over his hip, your high heels digging into his backside, and you ache in places you haven’t felt in a long time; it’s a pain you welcome. He pulls back with a final soft kiss to your swollen lips and then slips away from you. You feel empty, struck by a sharp sense of loss.
You both dress silently. It's not an uncomfortable silence, which should surprise you but somehow doesn't. There are no words exchanged about how this was a bad idea, about how this can’t happen again. You both know it can’t; some reasons will be the same, some will be very different. The understanding is there and yet there is absolutely no regret.
You find yourself standing across from him, clothes and face in place, the only evidence of what just happened the barely discernible scent in the air and the slight ruffle of his hair (you’re certain your own doesn’t look much better). He still looks beautiful to you. You try to shake that thought from your mind.
He leans around you and opens the hatch, ever the gentleman, reaching out a helping hand as you follow him. You take it, pulling your dignity around you.
"Thanks for the ride, Commander," you say, and then wince slightly at your unintended double entendre.
"It was my pleasure, Madam President," he replies, giving your hand a slight squeeze, and this time you both laugh softly.
You leave the hangar deck with a smile touching the corners of your lips.
* * *
You lean down and gently press your lips against his; it is the softest of touches, and you feel his breath mingle with your own.
"I'm sorry." You murmur the words against his mouth, though you don't know exactly what it is you're apologizing for. You're not sorry for what you've done, standing up to his orders; you know in your heart you did the right thing, you only hope he will see it that way too some day. But you are sorry for the rift you've probably caused between him and his all-but-daughter. You are sorry for the rift you've definitely caused between him and his son, even though Lee chose on his own to support you, and even though Bill certainly played his own part in that. You are sorry he's lying here right now and that there's nothing you can do to help him. But you can’t help smiling a little, because he’s alive and so are you.
It startles you when you realize you could love this man, if you’d allow yourself such a thing, but your responsibilities lie elsewhere, and ‘the rest of your life’ isn’t what it once used to be. There's no time for such a thing as 'love' in your life; there's no place for it.
“Madam President, we really need to leave now.”
Lee’s voice brings you back from your thoughts, and you throw him a quick glance, nodding your head. His eyes are still full of questions, but you once again ignore them. Instead you turn back to his father, allowing your fingers to run through his hair one last time.
“Don’t give up on me,” you whisper, before you straighten up and leave.
Fin.
By: angiescully
Rating: M
Spoilers: "Colonial Day" and up 'til "Resistance".
Summary: It's a risky stop to make, and you know it, but it's one that had to be made. You may not make it back alive, he may not survive, and you cannot risk leaving without saying goodbye.
A/N: It's been quite some time since I last wrote fics (and it wasn't for this fandom), but let's just say that these two have inspired me again. :) I wanted to fit this in during "Valley of Darkness", but then moved it to take place during "Resistance" instead (as well as "Colonial Day"). It still doesn't go perfectly with the ep, but I suppose it’s just slightly AU in that way. :) Any mistakes still in here are completely my own and should not be blamed on my wonderful beta leiascully. ♥ And huge thanks to splodge04 and multicolour for cheering me on in general and for reading this in various stages. :)
It's a risky stop to make, and you know it, but it's one that had to be made. You may not make it back alive, he may not survive, and you cannot risk leaving without saying goodbye, even if you have to do so to his still unconscious body. For the shortest of seconds you want to run; run away from him, avoid this, him, yourself. But you can't, won't, and instead you take that final step up to his bedside, watching as his chest rises and falls with each breath, and you have never been more grateful to see another human being breathe on his own.
It's strangely comforting, considering this is the same man who so recently robbed you of your freedom. Part of you admires him for it. Another part of you wants to yell at him for being so damn stubborn, but you cannot honestly tell yourself that you would've acted any differently yourself had your positions been reversed. The two of you are more alike than either of you would ever like to admit; you simply regret that you're standing on opposite sides of this giant chasm rather than standing together.
Your eyes are drawn to the angry red scar splitting his chest in two and before you know it, you're gently running your fingertips down each side of it, as if your touch alone will heal him. You can feel Lee's curious eyes on you, but you let his unasked questions remain unanswered. You don't owe him any answers regarding this; in all honesty, you wouldn't even know how to begin answering them, even to yourself, and you're thankful he doesn't give voice to them.
You know you should leave, that you have to, but knowing doesn’t make your feet move or lift your hands from Bill’s bisected chest.
"Would you give me just a minute?"
You're not sure if you're imagining the slight tremor in your voice - if Lee notices, he politely pretends not to - but the meaning of your words is not lost on him. With a nod, he turns and steps outside of the curtain, leaving you completely alone with his father and the steady beeping of the machine. Your gaze turns from Lee's retreating back to where your pale fingers are still resting against Bill's equally pale chest, the fresh scar in jarring contrast against you both, and a shiver runs through you.
It's funny, you think - though you are far, far from laughing - the last time your skin touched his, you were anything but pale, both of you flushed and breathing heavily, his unmarked chest pressed to yours.
* * *
"And I can dance."
A very un-presidential giggle bubbles out of you as Commander Adama bounces lightly on his feet and then holds his arm out for you to take. Before you know it, you find yourself in his arms on the dance floor, and he pulls you closer. It doesn't take long before you forget about everyone's eyes on you and allow yourself to savor the feeling of being held again, feeling the touch of another human being, no matter how innocent the embrace may be.
He wasn’t lying; he certainly knows how to dance and a deep, rich laugh escapes you as he suddenly twirls you around and ends with a dip, holding on to you securely, before pulling you back up against him. You're greeted by a big grin that no doubt mirrors your own, unbridled mirth playing in his eyes, and you realize he's pleased he's able to give you this unguarded moment of just being. Maybe this is what you both need; a few minutes of letting go, of simply enjoying living without having to feel the weight of the fate of humanity on your shoulders, without having to battle each other, and you laugh again, pleased to be able to give at least that back to him.
The song ends far too soon, replaced by something you feel much too old for, and he seems to agree, because he takes you by the elbow, leading you off the dance floor. You stand together, a new sense of understanding sizzling between you, his light touch at your elbow anchoring you, watching as the younger members of the fleet continue to dance the night away.
You spot Billy dancing closely with Petty Officer Dualla, and you smile. He's young, healthy, in love; he deserves this, and you want him to have what you've already resigned yourself to knowing you can't: a future. A sad smile fleetingly finds it way across your lips, and you push the thoughts of your own impending death away. You don't want to ruin this; whatever this night is, it's got nothing to do with death.
"Well," you say, turning to Adama, "seems like I'm either gonna have to pull my assistant away from your lovely Petty Officer or find someone to bring him back to our ship, or I'm gonna be here all night." You nod your head towards them and his eyes follow until he spots them as well. You watch as a grin spreads across his face at the sight of them, and though you up until now never would have associated the word with the rough Commander, you realize what a truly beautiful man he is when he allows himself the luxury of smiling.
"Well then, Madam President," he says as he turns back to you, and you immediately turn your gaze from his mouth to his eyes, "would you allow me to act as your security detail and give you a ride back to your ship? Let the young ones continue enjoying themselves."
You nod in acceptance, honestly grateful for his offer after this long day. “I’ll let Billy know I’m leaving,” you say, leaving his side to press through the crowd to your aide.
“Oh! Madam President,” Billy says and makes a gesture of leaving with you, but you hold up one hand.
“I believe that I’ll be quite safe in the care of the Commander,” you smile. “You enjoy yourself.”
Billy nods, but you can feel him watching you as you walk back to the edge of the floor, where you once again find your arm linked securely with Adama’s as he leads you to the hangar deck. You walk together in silence, neither of you hurrying, and the comfort you feel surprises you slightly, even after the moments you've shared tonight. This easiness between you isn't something you're used to; you decide you like it.
"Whatever will your pilot say about the detour at this late hour, Commander?" you ask softly as you reach the hangar deck. There's a flirtatious edge to your voice, and you're not sure whether or not you want him to notice.
With a slight smirk on his face, he leads you to one of the Raptors, opening the hatch and helping you aboard. "The pilot will be honored to offer his services to the President of the Twelve Colonies."
His baritone voice is even more gruff than usual, but his tone is strangely tender, and as you look around inside the Raptor, you realize that he is the pilot tonight and that what you just heard in his voice was him definitely flirting back. It catches you off guard, despite your own teasing, and you feel a slow tingling spread down your spine. Flirting is fun, harmless, and you will not refuse yourself this.
He closes the Raptor's hatch behind you, his hand sliding over the small of your back as he steps past you to take his seat at the front. You step up after him, squeezing yourself into the seat next to him, making sure you brush up against him, and he laughs. It's barely audible, but it's definitely there. He just laughed, and you realize you are both playing the same game.
It's just flirting, you continue to tell yourself. Completely safe. Completely harmless.
There is something oddly attractive about his features as you silently watch him maneuver the Raptor. Of course you knew he used to be a pilot, and a very good one at that, but this is the first time you've seen him in this setting and it fills you with wonder. He suddenly seems twenty years younger - it is like watching a child in a toy store, seeing the reverent joy with which he handles the controls. It's amazing, you think, what such simple things can do for a human being, and you're glad he allows you to share this with him, because it's been a long time since you found yourself in your own toy store.
As he meets your eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, you realize tonight is as close you've come to feeling happy in years, if happiness is even something you've ever truly experienced; you don't know, you can't remember. But tonight comes close, and all from sharing a dance, a few stolen moments in time, with a man you probably wouldn't even call a friend. Even before the attacks, even before you learned your life was about to come to an end, happiness was not something that was part of who you were, and yet right now, at this very moment, the feeling of it fills your chest until it's almost painful and you force yourself to turn away from him.
This is not safe, not harmless. Who the hell were you trying to kid?
Before you know it, you find yourself secure on Colonial One's hangar deck, and you practically fly out of your seat and push past him. You need to get away from him, from this, from whatever is happening, but he's up close behind you before you even reach the hatch, his large hand on your shoulder stopping you.
"Let me, Madam President."
His voice comes from right behind you, his tone intimate and knowing, and you still without thinking. As he reaches over your shoulder for the hatch, you lean back against him and his chest brushes against your back. His warmth seeps through layers of clothing and into your skin, into you, and you wonder if the tremor you just felt was in your imagination, if it came from your own body and transferred into his, or if it was real.
You turn slightly in his impromptu embrace. He shivers again and you know it was real, and it's all too much, too close. Your head falls against his shoulder, because even though your brain is telling you to leave, your body isn't listening. One of his strong hands travels up the length of your spine to finally come to rest at the base of your neck, his fingers tangling softly in your hair, and he's not breathing in the scent of your hair any more than you're breathing in the scent of him just above the juncture of his neck and shoulder. You have no idea how it happened, how your face, your nose, your lips are suddenly pressed against his hot skin, but you realize you can't find the strength to even care if this is a smart thing to do or not. It's wrong, wrong, wrong, the President and the Commander, yet nothing has felt this right in a long, long time, and as you press a small kiss against him, your tongue flicking out to taste the skin just underneath his chin, he groans into your hair as his hold on you becomes even firmer.
"If you want to stop, you better tell me now," he rasps into your ear.
You shake your head, because you don't trust your voice to carry even if you tried. Instead you urge him on silently, your hands coming up to grip his arms, and then his mouth captures yours, his lips sliding against yours in a dance as old as mankind, and they're so much softer than you ever imagined. The hand tangled in your hair slides around to cup your cheek as he traces your bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. You part your lips with a moan and let him in, your tongues clashing together in a fierce give and take, and you drink him in, taste him, and you feel so alive it almost hurts.
You shrug out of your jacket, not wanting to come to your senses, and his fingers immediately find the hem of your shirt. You only register his mouth leaving you for a fraction of a second before his lips are once again pressed against you, only this time they're mapping the bare skin just above your collarbone. You can't even remember raising your arms to allow him to divest you of your shirt, nor do you remember your bra sliding down your arms, but his calloused hand is warm against your bare waist when he pulls you even closer; the other is equally as warm as it cups your breast, and you sway willingly into his still fully clothed body, the fabric of his dress greys coarse against your sensitive skin.
Your hands find their way between your bodies and with skill you didn't know you possessed, you free him of his own layers of clothing until your shaking fingers find nothing but his bare chest underneath them. The tips of your fingers tingle at the touch, the sensation spreading throughout your entire body, and you wonder how you reached this point. Daring to look up at him once again, you find him watching you, and you can't find a single trace of hesitation in his eyes. Instead the want in them threatens to consume you, and you surrender, leaving the final whispery doubts behind you.
You raise your hands and slowly run them down the sides of his face, feeling every little unevenness beneath your fingers, and this time he closes his eyes, taking a shaky breath, and you smile. You pause your exploration of his features at his lips, slightly open underneath your touch, and suddenly he reaches for your fingers, curling them tightly into his own as he pulls you close for another kiss.
He’s hungry and insistent; possessive even, as his tongue swipes across the roof of your mouth, swallowing the heady moan that escapes you. You shamelessly rock your body against him, seeking an even closer connection. His hands release yours and then they are once again at your hips, traveling down to find the hem of your skirt, pulling it up until it's bunched up around your waist, and if you weren't so incredibly grateful to finally feel his touch where you want it the most, you would laugh at the un-presidential image you must make, wearing nothing but your heels and half your skirt.
But there is nothing to laugh about as he pushes your underwear to the side and strokes you with skilled fingers, his other hand once again coming up to gently knead your breast, warmth spreading further and further throughout your body as you rock more insistently against him, letting the sensations wash over you. This is not love, you remind yourself; you don’t love him, he doesn’t love you, but you’ll be damned if your entire body doesn’t sing like it’s your wedding night. You tear your lips away from his and your forehead falls down to rest against his shoulder; he smells of his ship, of his dress greys that probably don't see the outside of his closet often enough. He smells of arousal and cologne and of something that you're beginning to realize is uniquely him; it makes your head spin, and your hands clutch at his shoulders as you breathe him in even deeper, desperately wanting to lose yourself in it.
His mouth finds your throat and he sucks at the skin until it's very likely to leave a mark that you won't be able to hide, but you don't stop him, because you're busy losing yourself in his scent and his touch and in him. He soothes the abused skin with his tongue, the strokes matching those of his fingers and you hum against him, almost certain you can feel him smile into your neck.
You feel him pressing against you where your bodies meet, but as you reach down he stops you with fingers slick with evidence of your own arousal.
"No," he breathes. "Let me do this for you."
You let him hold on to your hand as you look up at him, for a brief moment wondering if he knows about the disease raging inside of you. There are so many emotions playing in his darkening eyes, so many things you can’t read, but there is no pity, nothing that even comes close to it. He doesn’t know. You pull your hand from his grasp, letting it join your other one in playing with the short curls at the base of his neck as you once again let your body sway into his touch.
He caresses you, kissing you deeply and thoroughly and so completely until finally the arm around your back is the only thing holding you up. You don’t recognize your own voice as you cry out into his mouth with each touch, each encouraging flick of his fingers, each of his own groans that mingle with yours.
You hear the faint sound of a zipper being pulled down, and then his hand is on your thigh, pulling your leg up to hook around his hip, and suddenly breathing has become a thing of the past. Nothing matters but the way he feels moving against you, inside you. The bulkhead against your back is cold and uncomfortable, such a contrast to his body, and you know it’s going to leave bruises you wouldn’t be able to explain to anyone, but you don’t care, because he’s warm and firm and the feeling of him is so exquisite it has tears pooling in your eyes.
You cling tightly to him as your legs begin to shake from the exertion, but his arms support your weight as your bodies merge, his fingers digging hard into your flesh. The air is still, filled with nothing but your soft gasps and his sharp cries as he fills you again and again, taking as much pleasure as he is giving you, and then everything is an explosion of light as your bodies shudder together and you’re alive, alive, alive.
You breathe heavily against each other as you come down from your high, his body pinning yours against the bulkhead. Your leg is still hooked over his hip, your high heels digging into his backside, and you ache in places you haven’t felt in a long time; it’s a pain you welcome. He pulls back with a final soft kiss to your swollen lips and then slips away from you. You feel empty, struck by a sharp sense of loss.
You both dress silently. It's not an uncomfortable silence, which should surprise you but somehow doesn't. There are no words exchanged about how this was a bad idea, about how this can’t happen again. You both know it can’t; some reasons will be the same, some will be very different. The understanding is there and yet there is absolutely no regret.
You find yourself standing across from him, clothes and face in place, the only evidence of what just happened the barely discernible scent in the air and the slight ruffle of his hair (you’re certain your own doesn’t look much better). He still looks beautiful to you. You try to shake that thought from your mind.
He leans around you and opens the hatch, ever the gentleman, reaching out a helping hand as you follow him. You take it, pulling your dignity around you.
"Thanks for the ride, Commander," you say, and then wince slightly at your unintended double entendre.
"It was my pleasure, Madam President," he replies, giving your hand a slight squeeze, and this time you both laugh softly.
You leave the hangar deck with a smile touching the corners of your lips.
* * *
You lean down and gently press your lips against his; it is the softest of touches, and you feel his breath mingle with your own.
"I'm sorry." You murmur the words against his mouth, though you don't know exactly what it is you're apologizing for. You're not sorry for what you've done, standing up to his orders; you know in your heart you did the right thing, you only hope he will see it that way too some day. But you are sorry for the rift you've probably caused between him and his all-but-daughter. You are sorry for the rift you've definitely caused between him and his son, even though Lee chose on his own to support you, and even though Bill certainly played his own part in that. You are sorry he's lying here right now and that there's nothing you can do to help him. But you can’t help smiling a little, because he’s alive and so are you.
It startles you when you realize you could love this man, if you’d allow yourself such a thing, but your responsibilities lie elsewhere, and ‘the rest of your life’ isn’t what it once used to be. There's no time for such a thing as 'love' in your life; there's no place for it.
“Madam President, we really need to leave now.”
Lee’s voice brings you back from your thoughts, and you throw him a quick glance, nodding your head. His eyes are still full of questions, but you once again ignore them. Instead you turn back to his father, allowing your fingers to run through his hair one last time.
“Don’t give up on me,” you whisper, before you straighten up and leave.
Fin.