Interview #2, Part One - Comfort
Part One of the next installment of Interview with the President. Part Two will be up later today or tomorrow.
Author’s Note: First of all, I want to thank everyone for the huge amount of support I’ve received for this story. My cup runneth over… seriously. I’ll try to make the rest of it equally as enjoyable.
Just wanted to explain a couple things though. As the storyline on BSG gets darker and darker (and it’s being done brilliantly, I’m not complaining) I find myself returning to earlier episodes and fanfic as I long for slightly better times. I say slightly because this show, by its nature, has always been dark.
While Mary McDonnell’s performance has been nothing short of incredible in this season’s episodes, I can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that Laura’s bald - OMGS, that hair is so beautiful! - and that we’re truly watching her slowly die a little more with each episode. So, for those who’ve wondered why I put these meetings with myself and President Roslin beginning just after the conclusion of Baltar’s trail - that’s why. I need a little of the lighter, happier, trade mark long haired Laura Roslin. And if you’re enjoying these stories, maybe you do too.
I know it’ll eventually lead to me writing scenes with bald, very sick Laura - who is equally as beautiful. And that’s okay, I can do that. I’m just not ready yet. Cuz then it’s real (even though it’s only a TV show).
Meeting Timeline: Crossroads Part 2-ish, beginning of season 4, sort of.
Comfort
After the glimpse of the President’s delightful sense of humor I’d seen the day before, I really shouldn’t have been surprised to see Colonel Tigh waiting to greet me when I arrived on Galactica. Could’ve been worse, I suppose. He could’ve had a parrot on his shoulder.
“If she’s really got me bunking with you, one of us is SO riding the sofa,” I mumbled.
“What?” Tigh groused, his mouth stuck in that perpetual frown he always seemed to be wearing. Clearly he wasn’t in on the joke, thank the Gods.
“I’ll need some help.” I changed the subject, glancing at the tattered bags that served as my luggage. Life on the run is a real bitch on your travel wear. “You know, with my crap…”
Tigh eyed it distastefully. “Has it been searched?” he asked the soldier to my right.
“Yes, Colonel. Before it was loaded on the Raptor, sir.”
“I was searched before I was loaded onto the Raptor, too,” I volunteered cheerfully. “It was more intimate than my last date, so that was nice.”
Perhaps Tigh had been forewarned of my blurt-o-rhea, because he just continued to stare at me with that frown. Which, unfortunately for everyone involved, only made me more nervous.
Hence, more babbling.
“Apparently, to your officers, I look like the kind of person who would stash some kind of weapon of mass destruction in her bra.”
Colonel Tigh actually looked at my cleavage for a moment, seeming to consider the possibility, and then he simply turned to the snickering Marines behind me and said, “Grab her ‘crap’ and let’s show her to her new luxury suite.”
I followed into step behind him. “Hey, as long as it’s not a cot in the latrine, I’m happy.”
Tigh turned to look at me, the brow above his eye patch rising slightly. “I never said there was a cot.”
And I swear, I SWEAR, for just a second before he turned away I saw those lips curve in a smile. The bastard could be cheeky. Who knew?
My temporary new home wasn’t in the latrine but it smelled like one. It was small but not cramped, and since it was just off the Officer’s Quarters, close enough that I could hear their boots thump on the deck plates if the hatch was slightly ajar, I decided I could live with it.
And that I’d probably be leaving my hatch ajar a lot.
I had started unpacking and was still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that Tigh actually had a personality, so when the black phone on my wall rang it startled me. Scared the shit out of me, to be more accurate, and I actually yelped and made a small, colorful satin explosion with all the undergarments I’d been about to stuff into a drawer. Bras and panties rained down from all over the place.
I stubbed my toe tripping over my own shoes in some weird spazoid ballet. So as I lifted the receiver I more fell and slammed the side of my face onto the phone rather than answered it. “Frak!”
There was a brief pause on the other end. And absolute horrification on mine as I realized I’d cursed aloud into the phone.
“The standard greeting on Galactica is usually ‘Hello’, but I realize you’re new around here so I’ll cut you some slack.”
Oh my Gods, no way! “Admiral Adama?” This could not be happening. Except it totally was.
“Just wanted to see how you were settling in.”
“Oh, fine,” I lied. Head slamming, fat lip quickly forming, and feet hopelessly tangled in my own bra straps, I tried desperately to drag myself to my feet. I scurried as though afraid the Admiral could see my disrespectful sprawl through the phone and finally managed to right myself.
And slammed the back of my head into the open cabinet door on my way up. It made a loud thwacking sound, like someone thumping a huge hollow melon. I saw stars and fireworks and little cartoon birdies…
“What’s all that slamming around? Sounds like you’re fighting a battle in there.”
“Yeah,” I snorted. “Attack of the killer undies.”
“What?”
Lords of Kobol, shut me up. “Uhm … the blurting thing again. I’m sorry, sir. I’m a little …” I glanced at my room, which looked like a tornado had blown through it, “… out of sorts at the moment.”
“I understand. Unpacking can be brutal.”
I laughed out loud, rubbing the back of my head. “So I’ve heard.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
I thanked him and then hung up, feeling slightly buzzed, though whether it was from the knock on the noggin or the personal phone call from the Admiral, I couldn’t say. I was on my hands and knees scooping up underwear when someone knocked on the hatch.
“Come in.”
I looked up to see Tory Foster stepping inside and looking as bedraggled as I felt. She looked like an unmade bed, and not in a sexy way.
“Your quarters kick the crap outta you too?” I blurted, arms filled with skibbies.
She wrinkled her nose at me like I was nuts, which I probably was. “What?”
“Nothing. Rough morning.” I shoved the clothing into the drawer and slammed it shut before they could leap out and, I dunno, wrap themselves around my face and strangle me to death or something.
She waited patiently until I turned my full attention to her and then extended her hand. “I’m Tory Foster, I’m Presi-“
“I know who you are,” I said, shaking her hand very briefly. And she knew me too if she just thought about it for a moment. Let’s just say that I knew her when she was just Tory, before she was Aide to the President of the Twelve Colonies, and that we tended to … hunt … for lack of a better word for similar type of prey. And every unattached woman knows that there’s only room for one hunter when the prey is scarce. I waited for recognition to hit her, and when it did her eyes took on a hard glint.
“I thought the name sounded familiar.” She smirked at me in that bitchy way women do when they’re trying to be smug and superior. “So I’m here to fetch you for your meeting with President Roslin.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Fetch me?” Like a DOG?
“The President’s waiting…”
“Okay, just give me one second.” I tried to ignore her eyes wandering over every inch of my new home as I attempted to tame my wild red hair and make myself presentable.
“There’s a pair of panties on the floor,” Tory said snidely, as though it would embarrass me.
“I know,” I replied with a smile. “I make it a habit to always know where I leave my panties.”
I followed a step behind Whory … er, Tory. Yeah, I’m catty like that. Meow. And while I was silently congratulating myself on not giving in to the very childish temptation to step on the back of her shiny black pump and give her a flat tire I lost track of where we were headed. So when we stopped outside Admiral Adama’s quarters I was caught completely off guard.
“I’m meeting with the President here? In the Admiral’s cabin?”
Tory turned to look at me. “Is there a problem?”
I felt a wicked grin crawl across my face before I could stop myself. “Hell no. It’s just … when she said she was staying on Galactica, I didn’t know she meant she was staying here.” I couldn’t help but chuckle appreciatively. “You go, Madame President!”
Tory rolled her huge eyes. “It isn’t like that. Not that I’m surprised you’d immediately jump to that conclusion.” Her tone was scathing. “Typical…”
“Oh, you wound me,” I mocked.
She ignored the comment. “She’s staying on Galactica while she undergoes treatment. For cancer. She’s bunking here until safe and suitable guest quarters can be set up.”
Well now don’t I feel like a frakking asshole? “Oh,” I said stupidly. “Well, that makes sense.”
“Uh huh,” she sneered, nodding at the armed guard to open the hatch.
We stepped inside and I couldn’t help but inhale deeply and fill my lungs with the scent. The smell was so different than the rest of the ship. A mixture of soap, aftershave, alcohol and something distinctly … male. Like the man himself, it did not disappoint.
President Roslin was seated at the table, her glasses perched on her nose as she shuffled through papers in a folder and tapped a pen distractedly against her cheek. I don’t think she even heard us enter the room.
She wore a burgundy silk shirt that buttoned delicately down the front and dark gray dress pants. A pair of black high heeled shoes sat neatly on the floor, her legs crossed elegantly, and one bare foot bounced as if tapping to music only she could hear. Her long hair tumbled down her back and around her shoulders and while she looked as lovely as before, I noticed she also looked pale and tired. Wiped out, I corrected when I looked at her eyes.
I recognized that look. A glass of water sat in front of her. Judging from the condensation dripping down the sides it looked untouched. She must be nauseated, I surmised. A piece of bandage tape held a small square of gauze in place just above her right wrist where I knew an IV must have recently been. I repressed a shudder at my own memories of poison pumping through my own veins and my body turning on me like a traitor. The doctors trying to find just the right balance - enough poison to kill the cancer without killing the patient, too.
I suddenly felt the weight of what I had been asked to do.
To tell the story of this extraordinary woman … it was both an honor and a rather onus challenge. One I hoped I was up to. I hoped I could find the words to do her justice.
“Madame President,” I said in greeting, hoping my voice didn’t show my rapidly shifting emotions.
She looked up from her paperwork and smiled at me as she removed her glasses. “Kris, good to see you. I thought we agreed you were going to call me Laura.”
Somehow it didn’t seem appropriate just then. I returned the smile. “I’m working on that one.”
“Fair enough I suppose.”
Tory apparently noticed the untouched water, too. “Can I get you some tea?” She didn’t say it, but I heard the implied with chamalla.
“Not just yet,” Roslin said. “I think anything that went down at this point would only make a reappearance.”
Been there. “Sucking,” I … ya know … blurted.
“What?” both Tory and Roslin chorused.
If I had a few cubits for every time I made a person exclaim WHAT? - Well, I’d have a lot of frakking cubits!
“A sucking candy, like maybe a mint, very helpful for the nausea,” I explained.
“Hangovers tend to make people nauseated,” Tory said snidely.
I shrugged. “If you say so.” Bitch. “But I was referring to chemical nausea. For some reason sucking on a piece of hard candy helps.”
President Roslin’s eyes searched mine for a very intense moment. “You know, don’t you? I mean personally.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re a survivor.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
And she gave me that look again. The one that’s as warm as a hug.
Apparently it bothered Tory, who cleared her throat somewhat obnoxiously. “You have just over an hour before your meeting with the Admiral, Madame President.”
Roslin nodded and gestured for me to join her at the table, which I did. “I assume your accommodations are comfortable.”
“Yes, thanks.”
“And they’re close enough that it will be easy for us to meet when I can fit it in?”
Tory answered for me before I could open my mouth. “They were arranged with exactly that in mind. Ms. Hill should be at your beckon call.”
I raised a snotty eyebrow at Tory. “Delighted as I am to be the President’s beck-n-call girl,” and I noticed that Roslin grinned briefly, but Tory did not, “I was under the impression these meetings were going to be informal.” I stabbed at Tory with a glare. “Will your aide be joining us now?”
“No, she has plenty of other work to do” Roslin said, her gaze shifting to Tory. “So I’ll let you get to it. Thank you, Tory. You can go.”
Tory looked a little huffy, like I’d just stolen her pinky-swear partner or something. But to her credit she excused herself in a dignified manner.
Roslin waited until the hatch closed behind her and then looked at me expectantly. “Something I should know?”
I shrugged. “Let’s just say she’s not a fan. She just came to my new quarters and fetched me. Like a dog.” And of course, I blurt things. “Also, she pretty much thinks I’m a big ho bag.”
She snorted. “I see.” She eyed me carefully but there was humor in her expression. “Are you?”
I considered it. “No more than she is.” Hardly a distinction, and I think Laura Roslin knew it.
She nodded. “Mmm.”
“I hope that doesn’t lessen your opinion of me, Madame President, because while I usually don’t give a damn what people think about me I find I do care how you see me. But the truth is if I’ve learned anything since the day I watched Caprica be nuked from the viewport of a spaceship it’s that life is fleeting, and human beings are here one moment and often gone the next. So if I need to take comfort in the arms of a man, find something beautiful and human in sharing a moment of intimacy with him, then I take it. If that makes me a slut, well then I guess I’m a slut. At least I’m honest.”
She was quiet for a minute, obviously pondering my words. Finally she said, “Can I ask you something? Something very personal?”
I’d just told the woman I was a big sleeze bag. How much more personal could it possibly get? “Of course.”
“Do you find it? The comfort, I mean. When you’re in the arms of a man and you let yourself go, just let go and be together with another human being, do you truly find comfort? Even if it’s only temporary?”
I had to have been reading the signs wrong because I was barely getting to know Laura Roslin, and I was sure there was no way she was letting me even peek into something so personal this early in our relationship. But I could’ve sworn she was looking for someone to tell her it was okay for her to take that comfort in Adama.
Or it was just me being a hopeless romantic. But I didn’t think so.
“Sometimes,” I answered honestly.
“And what makes the difference?” she pressed on. “Is it the man or the sex?”
I raised my eyebrows, wondering if she’d already been into the chamalla and if we were really having this conversation. “You are direct, aren’t you?”
“I’m dying,” she said wryly, “I don’t have time to be polite.”
Wow. Definitely direct. “Maybe. But I’m supposed to be interviewing you, not the other way around, remember?”
She smiled again, a smile that made me a little nervous. “Humor me. I just want to hear your take on love and comfort.” Then she played the You’re a Redhead card, which is so unfair, by the way. “Why? Are you afraid to tell me?”
“No,” I said too quickly because I can’t resist a challenge or a dare. And I think she knew it. “First of all, comfort is a state of mind like anything else. It doesn’t matter how handsome the man is, or how good the sex is. If you can’t get yourself in the right frame of mind then none of it matters. But if you can and it helps, and you’re not hurting anybody, then what’s the harm in taking it? It’s fleeting at best so I take it where, when, and in whom I can.”
“And that’s why Tory dislikes you?”
I laughed. “Yes. It’s slim pickings and I’m competition.”
She folded her arms and studied me. “Of that I have no doubt. Well you know what they say. Love is war and all that.”
I met her eyes carefully. “I’m sure you already know this one, but love and sex are two very different things. You don’t necessarily have to have one to have the other. I don’t know if you asked about this for personal reasons or if the freak show that is my life just amuses you. You certainly wouldn’t be the first. But I will tell you this, Laura,” I said, using her given name on purpose even though it still felt unnatural on my tongue, “if you’ve managed to find someone who can give you both - the love and the sex - and you believe there’s even a chance you’ll find some comfort in this person, you should take it. That’s a precious and all too rare combination under the best of circumstances and as you pointed out, you don’t have time to be polite.”
The expression on her face grew so serious that I actually thought I could hear the hiss of an airlock in my near future and I wondered where in this huge cabin Adama stashed his alcohol. But when she finally spoke her voice was light and charming. “That was pretty smooth, Kris. You ever consider a career in politics?”
I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. “No offense, Madame President, but never even for a second. I prefer to know who’s screwing me.”
And I was rewarded with the beautiful sound of her unrestrained laughter, which was infectious. “You’re pretty direct yourself,” she finally said.
“You asked,” I said between giggles.
“True enough.”
“As for Tory,” I offered when we calmed down, “I promise you that I’ll try my hardest not to scratch her eyeballs out. She looks like she’s been ridden hard and put up wet as it is anyway.” Blurt.
“I have to admit,” she nodded thoughtfully, “Tory does seem distracted lately.”
“Yeah, and she keeps humming some weird tune that’s almost a song, but not quite. It’s creepy.”
“Maybe it gives her … comfort,” Roslin said, humor lighting her eyes.
“Good,” I returned, giggling. “More pilots for me then!”
“Don’t be so certain,” she volleyed. “Maybe I’ll have you bring me one. A strapping, handsome young thing…”
And I swear to the Gods this time she waited for me to drink deep of my water.
“With rippling muscles and a big, bulging Viper of his own.”
And there it went. Pffffftttt! I shot ice cold water out my nose and mouth with enough force to make my eyes run with tears and my lungs protest violently. My body jerked, an encore performance of my earlier spazoid ballet, as I fought between fits of giggles and coughs.
The hatch spun open and a wary Marine stepped in, gun at the ready, to find the President of the Twelve Colonies patting me gently but firmly on the back as I turned an interesting shade of purple. “Everything okay in here, Madame President?”
“Yes,” she said calmly. “She’s okay, she’s just choking.”
Apparently assured that President Roslin was safe, and completely unconcerned if I died right there at the table, the young soldier turned and closed the hatch behind him.
“Well,” said Roslin coyly, “I guess he won’t be invited to comfort you any time soon.”
“Not helping,” I gasped between giggles.
*~*~*~*
Author’s Note: First of all, I want to thank everyone for the huge amount of support I’ve received for this story. My cup runneth over… seriously. I’ll try to make the rest of it equally as enjoyable.
Just wanted to explain a couple things though. As the storyline on BSG gets darker and darker (and it’s being done brilliantly, I’m not complaining) I find myself returning to earlier episodes and fanfic as I long for slightly better times. I say slightly because this show, by its nature, has always been dark.
While Mary McDonnell’s performance has been nothing short of incredible in this season’s episodes, I can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that Laura’s bald - OMGS, that hair is so beautiful! - and that we’re truly watching her slowly die a little more with each episode. So, for those who’ve wondered why I put these meetings with myself and President Roslin beginning just after the conclusion of Baltar’s trail - that’s why. I need a little of the lighter, happier, trade mark long haired Laura Roslin. And if you’re enjoying these stories, maybe you do too.
I know it’ll eventually lead to me writing scenes with bald, very sick Laura - who is equally as beautiful. And that’s okay, I can do that. I’m just not ready yet. Cuz then it’s real (even though it’s only a TV show).
Meeting Timeline: Crossroads Part 2-ish, beginning of season 4, sort of.
Comfort
After the glimpse of the President’s delightful sense of humor I’d seen the day before, I really shouldn’t have been surprised to see Colonel Tigh waiting to greet me when I arrived on Galactica. Could’ve been worse, I suppose. He could’ve had a parrot on his shoulder.
“If she’s really got me bunking with you, one of us is SO riding the sofa,” I mumbled.
“What?” Tigh groused, his mouth stuck in that perpetual frown he always seemed to be wearing. Clearly he wasn’t in on the joke, thank the Gods.
“I’ll need some help.” I changed the subject, glancing at the tattered bags that served as my luggage. Life on the run is a real bitch on your travel wear. “You know, with my crap…”
Tigh eyed it distastefully. “Has it been searched?” he asked the soldier to my right.
“Yes, Colonel. Before it was loaded on the Raptor, sir.”
“I was searched before I was loaded onto the Raptor, too,” I volunteered cheerfully. “It was more intimate than my last date, so that was nice.”
Perhaps Tigh had been forewarned of my blurt-o-rhea, because he just continued to stare at me with that frown. Which, unfortunately for everyone involved, only made me more nervous.
Hence, more babbling.
“Apparently, to your officers, I look like the kind of person who would stash some kind of weapon of mass destruction in her bra.”
Colonel Tigh actually looked at my cleavage for a moment, seeming to consider the possibility, and then he simply turned to the snickering Marines behind me and said, “Grab her ‘crap’ and let’s show her to her new luxury suite.”
I followed into step behind him. “Hey, as long as it’s not a cot in the latrine, I’m happy.”
Tigh turned to look at me, the brow above his eye patch rising slightly. “I never said there was a cot.”
And I swear, I SWEAR, for just a second before he turned away I saw those lips curve in a smile. The bastard could be cheeky. Who knew?
My temporary new home wasn’t in the latrine but it smelled like one. It was small but not cramped, and since it was just off the Officer’s Quarters, close enough that I could hear their boots thump on the deck plates if the hatch was slightly ajar, I decided I could live with it.
And that I’d probably be leaving my hatch ajar a lot.
I had started unpacking and was still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that Tigh actually had a personality, so when the black phone on my wall rang it startled me. Scared the shit out of me, to be more accurate, and I actually yelped and made a small, colorful satin explosion with all the undergarments I’d been about to stuff into a drawer. Bras and panties rained down from all over the place.
I stubbed my toe tripping over my own shoes in some weird spazoid ballet. So as I lifted the receiver I more fell and slammed the side of my face onto the phone rather than answered it. “Frak!”
There was a brief pause on the other end. And absolute horrification on mine as I realized I’d cursed aloud into the phone.
“The standard greeting on Galactica is usually ‘Hello’, but I realize you’re new around here so I’ll cut you some slack.”
Oh my Gods, no way! “Admiral Adama?” This could not be happening. Except it totally was.
“Just wanted to see how you were settling in.”
“Oh, fine,” I lied. Head slamming, fat lip quickly forming, and feet hopelessly tangled in my own bra straps, I tried desperately to drag myself to my feet. I scurried as though afraid the Admiral could see my disrespectful sprawl through the phone and finally managed to right myself.
And slammed the back of my head into the open cabinet door on my way up. It made a loud thwacking sound, like someone thumping a huge hollow melon. I saw stars and fireworks and little cartoon birdies…
“What’s all that slamming around? Sounds like you’re fighting a battle in there.”
“Yeah,” I snorted. “Attack of the killer undies.”
“What?”
Lords of Kobol, shut me up. “Uhm … the blurting thing again. I’m sorry, sir. I’m a little …” I glanced at my room, which looked like a tornado had blown through it, “… out of sorts at the moment.”
“I understand. Unpacking can be brutal.”
I laughed out loud, rubbing the back of my head. “So I’ve heard.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
I thanked him and then hung up, feeling slightly buzzed, though whether it was from the knock on the noggin or the personal phone call from the Admiral, I couldn’t say. I was on my hands and knees scooping up underwear when someone knocked on the hatch.
“Come in.”
I looked up to see Tory Foster stepping inside and looking as bedraggled as I felt. She looked like an unmade bed, and not in a sexy way.
“Your quarters kick the crap outta you too?” I blurted, arms filled with skibbies.
She wrinkled her nose at me like I was nuts, which I probably was. “What?”
“Nothing. Rough morning.” I shoved the clothing into the drawer and slammed it shut before they could leap out and, I dunno, wrap themselves around my face and strangle me to death or something.
She waited patiently until I turned my full attention to her and then extended her hand. “I’m Tory Foster, I’m Presi-“
“I know who you are,” I said, shaking her hand very briefly. And she knew me too if she just thought about it for a moment. Let’s just say that I knew her when she was just Tory, before she was Aide to the President of the Twelve Colonies, and that we tended to … hunt … for lack of a better word for similar type of prey. And every unattached woman knows that there’s only room for one hunter when the prey is scarce. I waited for recognition to hit her, and when it did her eyes took on a hard glint.
“I thought the name sounded familiar.” She smirked at me in that bitchy way women do when they’re trying to be smug and superior. “So I’m here to fetch you for your meeting with President Roslin.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Fetch me?” Like a DOG?
“The President’s waiting…”
“Okay, just give me one second.” I tried to ignore her eyes wandering over every inch of my new home as I attempted to tame my wild red hair and make myself presentable.
“There’s a pair of panties on the floor,” Tory said snidely, as though it would embarrass me.
“I know,” I replied with a smile. “I make it a habit to always know where I leave my panties.”
I followed a step behind Whory … er, Tory. Yeah, I’m catty like that. Meow. And while I was silently congratulating myself on not giving in to the very childish temptation to step on the back of her shiny black pump and give her a flat tire I lost track of where we were headed. So when we stopped outside Admiral Adama’s quarters I was caught completely off guard.
“I’m meeting with the President here? In the Admiral’s cabin?”
Tory turned to look at me. “Is there a problem?”
I felt a wicked grin crawl across my face before I could stop myself. “Hell no. It’s just … when she said she was staying on Galactica, I didn’t know she meant she was staying here.” I couldn’t help but chuckle appreciatively. “You go, Madame President!”
Tory rolled her huge eyes. “It isn’t like that. Not that I’m surprised you’d immediately jump to that conclusion.” Her tone was scathing. “Typical…”
“Oh, you wound me,” I mocked.
She ignored the comment. “She’s staying on Galactica while she undergoes treatment. For cancer. She’s bunking here until safe and suitable guest quarters can be set up.”
Well now don’t I feel like a frakking asshole? “Oh,” I said stupidly. “Well, that makes sense.”
“Uh huh,” she sneered, nodding at the armed guard to open the hatch.
We stepped inside and I couldn’t help but inhale deeply and fill my lungs with the scent. The smell was so different than the rest of the ship. A mixture of soap, aftershave, alcohol and something distinctly … male. Like the man himself, it did not disappoint.
President Roslin was seated at the table, her glasses perched on her nose as she shuffled through papers in a folder and tapped a pen distractedly against her cheek. I don’t think she even heard us enter the room.
She wore a burgundy silk shirt that buttoned delicately down the front and dark gray dress pants. A pair of black high heeled shoes sat neatly on the floor, her legs crossed elegantly, and one bare foot bounced as if tapping to music only she could hear. Her long hair tumbled down her back and around her shoulders and while she looked as lovely as before, I noticed she also looked pale and tired. Wiped out, I corrected when I looked at her eyes.
I recognized that look. A glass of water sat in front of her. Judging from the condensation dripping down the sides it looked untouched. She must be nauseated, I surmised. A piece of bandage tape held a small square of gauze in place just above her right wrist where I knew an IV must have recently been. I repressed a shudder at my own memories of poison pumping through my own veins and my body turning on me like a traitor. The doctors trying to find just the right balance - enough poison to kill the cancer without killing the patient, too.
I suddenly felt the weight of what I had been asked to do.
To tell the story of this extraordinary woman … it was both an honor and a rather onus challenge. One I hoped I was up to. I hoped I could find the words to do her justice.
“Madame President,” I said in greeting, hoping my voice didn’t show my rapidly shifting emotions.
She looked up from her paperwork and smiled at me as she removed her glasses. “Kris, good to see you. I thought we agreed you were going to call me Laura.”
Somehow it didn’t seem appropriate just then. I returned the smile. “I’m working on that one.”
“Fair enough I suppose.”
Tory apparently noticed the untouched water, too. “Can I get you some tea?” She didn’t say it, but I heard the implied with chamalla.
“Not just yet,” Roslin said. “I think anything that went down at this point would only make a reappearance.”
Been there. “Sucking,” I … ya know … blurted.
“What?” both Tory and Roslin chorused.
If I had a few cubits for every time I made a person exclaim WHAT? - Well, I’d have a lot of frakking cubits!
“A sucking candy, like maybe a mint, very helpful for the nausea,” I explained.
“Hangovers tend to make people nauseated,” Tory said snidely.
I shrugged. “If you say so.” Bitch. “But I was referring to chemical nausea. For some reason sucking on a piece of hard candy helps.”
President Roslin’s eyes searched mine for a very intense moment. “You know, don’t you? I mean personally.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re a survivor.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
And she gave me that look again. The one that’s as warm as a hug.
Apparently it bothered Tory, who cleared her throat somewhat obnoxiously. “You have just over an hour before your meeting with the Admiral, Madame President.”
Roslin nodded and gestured for me to join her at the table, which I did. “I assume your accommodations are comfortable.”
“Yes, thanks.”
“And they’re close enough that it will be easy for us to meet when I can fit it in?”
Tory answered for me before I could open my mouth. “They were arranged with exactly that in mind. Ms. Hill should be at your beckon call.”
I raised a snotty eyebrow at Tory. “Delighted as I am to be the President’s beck-n-call girl,” and I noticed that Roslin grinned briefly, but Tory did not, “I was under the impression these meetings were going to be informal.” I stabbed at Tory with a glare. “Will your aide be joining us now?”
“No, she has plenty of other work to do” Roslin said, her gaze shifting to Tory. “So I’ll let you get to it. Thank you, Tory. You can go.”
Tory looked a little huffy, like I’d just stolen her pinky-swear partner or something. But to her credit she excused herself in a dignified manner.
Roslin waited until the hatch closed behind her and then looked at me expectantly. “Something I should know?”
I shrugged. “Let’s just say she’s not a fan. She just came to my new quarters and fetched me. Like a dog.” And of course, I blurt things. “Also, she pretty much thinks I’m a big ho bag.”
She snorted. “I see.” She eyed me carefully but there was humor in her expression. “Are you?”
I considered it. “No more than she is.” Hardly a distinction, and I think Laura Roslin knew it.
She nodded. “Mmm.”
“I hope that doesn’t lessen your opinion of me, Madame President, because while I usually don’t give a damn what people think about me I find I do care how you see me. But the truth is if I’ve learned anything since the day I watched Caprica be nuked from the viewport of a spaceship it’s that life is fleeting, and human beings are here one moment and often gone the next. So if I need to take comfort in the arms of a man, find something beautiful and human in sharing a moment of intimacy with him, then I take it. If that makes me a slut, well then I guess I’m a slut. At least I’m honest.”
She was quiet for a minute, obviously pondering my words. Finally she said, “Can I ask you something? Something very personal?”
I’d just told the woman I was a big sleeze bag. How much more personal could it possibly get? “Of course.”
“Do you find it? The comfort, I mean. When you’re in the arms of a man and you let yourself go, just let go and be together with another human being, do you truly find comfort? Even if it’s only temporary?”
I had to have been reading the signs wrong because I was barely getting to know Laura Roslin, and I was sure there was no way she was letting me even peek into something so personal this early in our relationship. But I could’ve sworn she was looking for someone to tell her it was okay for her to take that comfort in Adama.
Or it was just me being a hopeless romantic. But I didn’t think so.
“Sometimes,” I answered honestly.
“And what makes the difference?” she pressed on. “Is it the man or the sex?”
I raised my eyebrows, wondering if she’d already been into the chamalla and if we were really having this conversation. “You are direct, aren’t you?”
“I’m dying,” she said wryly, “I don’t have time to be polite.”
Wow. Definitely direct. “Maybe. But I’m supposed to be interviewing you, not the other way around, remember?”
She smiled again, a smile that made me a little nervous. “Humor me. I just want to hear your take on love and comfort.” Then she played the You’re a Redhead card, which is so unfair, by the way. “Why? Are you afraid to tell me?”
“No,” I said too quickly because I can’t resist a challenge or a dare. And I think she knew it. “First of all, comfort is a state of mind like anything else. It doesn’t matter how handsome the man is, or how good the sex is. If you can’t get yourself in the right frame of mind then none of it matters. But if you can and it helps, and you’re not hurting anybody, then what’s the harm in taking it? It’s fleeting at best so I take it where, when, and in whom I can.”
“And that’s why Tory dislikes you?”
I laughed. “Yes. It’s slim pickings and I’m competition.”
She folded her arms and studied me. “Of that I have no doubt. Well you know what they say. Love is war and all that.”
I met her eyes carefully. “I’m sure you already know this one, but love and sex are two very different things. You don’t necessarily have to have one to have the other. I don’t know if you asked about this for personal reasons or if the freak show that is my life just amuses you. You certainly wouldn’t be the first. But I will tell you this, Laura,” I said, using her given name on purpose even though it still felt unnatural on my tongue, “if you’ve managed to find someone who can give you both - the love and the sex - and you believe there’s even a chance you’ll find some comfort in this person, you should take it. That’s a precious and all too rare combination under the best of circumstances and as you pointed out, you don’t have time to be polite.”
The expression on her face grew so serious that I actually thought I could hear the hiss of an airlock in my near future and I wondered where in this huge cabin Adama stashed his alcohol. But when she finally spoke her voice was light and charming. “That was pretty smooth, Kris. You ever consider a career in politics?”
I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. “No offense, Madame President, but never even for a second. I prefer to know who’s screwing me.”
And I was rewarded with the beautiful sound of her unrestrained laughter, which was infectious. “You’re pretty direct yourself,” she finally said.
“You asked,” I said between giggles.
“True enough.”
“As for Tory,” I offered when we calmed down, “I promise you that I’ll try my hardest not to scratch her eyeballs out. She looks like she’s been ridden hard and put up wet as it is anyway.” Blurt.
“I have to admit,” she nodded thoughtfully, “Tory does seem distracted lately.”
“Yeah, and she keeps humming some weird tune that’s almost a song, but not quite. It’s creepy.”
“Maybe it gives her … comfort,” Roslin said, humor lighting her eyes.
“Good,” I returned, giggling. “More pilots for me then!”
“Don’t be so certain,” she volleyed. “Maybe I’ll have you bring me one. A strapping, handsome young thing…”
And I swear to the Gods this time she waited for me to drink deep of my water.
“With rippling muscles and a big, bulging Viper of his own.”
And there it went. Pffffftttt! I shot ice cold water out my nose and mouth with enough force to make my eyes run with tears and my lungs protest violently. My body jerked, an encore performance of my earlier spazoid ballet, as I fought between fits of giggles and coughs.
The hatch spun open and a wary Marine stepped in, gun at the ready, to find the President of the Twelve Colonies patting me gently but firmly on the back as I turned an interesting shade of purple. “Everything okay in here, Madame President?”
“Yes,” she said calmly. “She’s okay, she’s just choking.”
Apparently assured that President Roslin was safe, and completely unconcerned if I died right there at the table, the young soldier turned and closed the hatch behind him.
“Well,” said Roslin coyly, “I guess he won’t be invited to comfort you any time soon.”
“Not helping,” I gasped between giggles.
*~*~*~*