fic-adjacent fic, part deux

[themonkeytwin]

Explanation and part one.


Laura blinked blearily, then jolted awake when she realized she had fallen asleep in the damn car. How tired was she?

She looked over at Bill, and felt her lips twitch in spite of herself. If she didn’t know he was a world-weary cynic and spare-time ladykilling tomcat, she’d say there was a hint of awe in his face. If getting in his passenger seat didn’t tell him she’d decided to trust him, taking an involuntary catnap while he drove evidently put it beyond any doubt.

“We’re here,” was all he said.

She opened her door and stood, letting the cool, wet breeze envelop her. It had stopped raining even before they left the diner, leaving the city feeling clean and new. Overhead the clouds were slowly clearing. They were at a vantage point above the city; the glow of it sprawled out below the lip of the lookout, and beyond it the water glimmered darkly.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

He nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon. “It’s where I come when I need to breathe.”

She stepped away from the car and inhaled deeply. She could feel her head clearing as she walked toward the fence, the city coming into view, bright and proud. The world expanded and her lungs opened with it, all its air and space, like she’d been trapped within her own chest for weeks. It felt like flying.

Bill joined her, leaning on the fence, ignoring the dampness, careful to leave enough room that he didn’t crowd her. Those positional skills again. Of course, he wasn’t the only one who had them.

She glanced his way, then moved until their elbows were only barely not touching. Their proximity didn’t take even a cubic inch from the sense of expanse around her, although logic told her it should. “Thank you,” she said, making no attempt to disguise anything in her tone.

He cleared his throat, sneaking a look back at her before nodding awkwardly. “You’re welcome.”

It was the awkwardness that did it, she could swear - the hint of nervousness under all that insolent charm, like he was sixteen years old on his first date - that made her curl her hand into the crook of his arm. He stared down at her, frozen, before breaking into a smile and tucking her more securely against him.

She was glad of it for more reasons than one; it wasn’t cold, but it was cool enough, and the water still in the air made itself felt. She couldn’t quite keep herself from shivering. Unfortunately. His face immediately took on that concerned look the male of the species got when he was going to fix the situation, come hell, high water, or the protests of the one he was fixing it for.

“You’re cold. Do you want to get back in the car? We don’t have to stay. We could -”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. I want to stay, out here. God, I need this.” It was the truth. Her whole being revolted at the thought of being back inside a car right now. She set her face firmly at him. “More than coffee, even. Okay?”

He stared. “More than coffee? Okay, you’ve convinced me. I think I have a coat in the car.”

Which is how she ended up sitting at a picnic table, sheltered under a little pavilion overlooking the spectacular view, wrapped in an overcoat that smelled of the man whose shoulder brushed against hers, all with the strangest sensation that this was the most reasonable thing possible. Not just reasonable but comfortable, and it was like they were in a conspiracy to keep it that way as time slid easily past them. They talked and lapsed into silence and talked again, as though they were just folks. Just normal people getting to know one other, talking about food and music and movies and travel, telling jokes and teasing and angling to make each other laugh for the sheer fun of it. He made her laugh so hard her ribs ached, harder and more freely than she’d laughed in ages, and looked so pleased with himself that it made it even harder to stop. They shared stories that were personal but not incriminating, and it seemed to her that the care they took was more about avoiding what would be compromising to the other than protecting themselves.

It took several hours of this before she shifted and laid her head against his shoulder. It wasn’t because she thought it was a good idea; in fact, they had also been careful about maintaining just enough distance, guarding against the physical current that had kindled between them in the diner, keeping from being carried away by it again. Their oft-bumping shoulders testified to just how well that was going, and the longer they talked and laughed and were quiet together, the more it felt wrong to not let her tired head rest against him. Eventually it became too wrong - and her head too tired - to fight any more, no matter what arguments self-control could offer against it. It wasn’t as if self-control had played any kind of helpful role so far this night anyway.

Her eyes closed, a sigh escaping as the effort of keeping her body sitting upright, separate from his, drained from her muscles. She could feel the hesitation in him, the readiness to stop at one sign of protest from her, in the way he turned and stretched his arm around her. She didn’t protest. She just closed her eyes again and let him pull her deeper into him, leaning back against the jut of the table behind them. She could hear his heartbeat; it felt fast. Slowly, refusing to let herself think about that, she brought her hand up to it, where she had caught herself on him in the diner. After a few moments she felt his head come to rest on the top of hers.

The minutes passed quietly and his heartbeat calmed, and she found herself opening her mouth.

“I was thirteen years old when my father went away.” The quality of his silence intensified, told her he was listening. “Well. He went away all the time; he was away more than he was at home. But I was thirteen when he went away and never came back.”

Bill’s arm around her tightened. She could feel the vibrations of his voice in his chest. “He left you?”

“I thought so. Mom wouldn’t say anything for a while. Couldn’t, I don’t think. Or maybe she didn’t know herself. A few months later she told me he’d got into an accident and died. We had a ceremony, the two of us, but there was no body. It was like he’d just disappeared from the surface of the earth.”

She fell silent, then found her thumb had shifted up, was working the bone-firm skin above his shirt button in agitation. When she realized she was doing it, she stopped, tensed, only to have his hand come up and cover hers. She took a breath and continued.

“It turns out, I was right. Two years later I discovered that all that was left of him was a gold star on a wall.”

It took a moment to sink in. “He was CIA? I … didn’t know that.”

“Almost no one does. I use my mother’s maiden name.” She shrugged. “Security.”

“That’s why you joined?”

“I needed to know why he died. I mean - not why or how it happened, that wasn’t as important. But I needed to know what he believed was worth giving his life for. My father … he believed the strong are answerable for how they use their strength. That it’s incumbent on us to use it on behalf of those who have none. He always said that’s the measure of a person.” She laughed suddenly. “I mean, he said it was the measure of a man, but if he were around today, Mom and I would’ve made sure his beliefs caught up with the times.”

“I have no doubt,” he said, complete with an unrepentant grin when she gave him a look.

“Anyway,” she said pointedly, then paused, trying to figure out what she was actually trying to say. “He was a good man. I … I know there are problems with the Agency, but I know why he believed in it. Why I believe in it. Why it needs people who believe in what it can do, what it should do, for the country, not just a tool for coercion.”

His silence felt oddly somber, but when he spoke it was teasing. “Ever thought of being a politician?” He only laughed when she smacked him awkwardly with the hand that was half-trapped between their sides. “Seriously. That was some lofty rhetoric, people really eat that stuff up. Plus you actually believe it, a nice bonus for your constituents.”

“Hmph.” She briefly debated freeing the hand he was still holding against his chest so that she could smack him harder, but decided she really kind of preferred where it was. “No. Frak no. I have principles, thank you.”

She grinned up at him, but it dropped when she saw the look under the smile on his face. “What?”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes, fixing his gaze down on their hands. “I know you do.”

She frowned, sitting up so she could get a better look at his face, scanning it for a clue. “This is suddenly a bad thing? You have principles - not exactly the same as me, maybe, but -”

“Laura.” Hearing him say her name for the first time sent an utterly unreasonable thrill through her. It took him a moment, but he finally sat straighter too, looked her in the eye. The arm around her shoulders suddenly felt uneasy there and dropped away, the nervous lick of his lip a prelude to a confession. He couldn’t seem to relinquish her other hand, though, the weight of his keeping it trapped against him. “I - I do know why I did this.”

The path of the thrill through her became cold, a bolt of reality. She tensed, but the look in his eyes was enough to keep her from pulling back. Yet.

“I wanted -” He stopped. Tried again. “I read, in your file, that you were … idealistic. I thought you were … young, and,” he twisted his face apologetically, “naive.”

Her eyebrows went up. This wasn’t quite what she was expecting, but the array of suspicions had abated somewhat. “Naive?”

He didn’t look away. “I’m a jackass, what can I say? I just … you were young and … beautiful - and had these stupid beliefs, and I wanted to shake that up.” He paused, searching her eyes, bracing for a reaction. “I wanted to shake you up. Play with your shiny patriotic world and pull it apart … destroy it for the illusion it was.”

She had to ask. “Turn me?”

He still didn’t look away. “It would have been … a nice bonus,” he admitted. “Although I didn’t really think I’d pull that off that in one sitting. Of course, if I could convince you to come out with me again. . . .”

She still didn’t pull back; she didn’t have to ask. But she was curious. “How?”

His hand tightened on hers, and his eyes flashed in a way that made her suddenly very aware of how close their faces were. He wouldn’t have to do more than angle his head down to close the distance. His eyes flashed again in response to the realization in her, openly traveling down to her mouth. He swallowed, and it was like a strike of a match across her nerves. “I thought I’d - flirt with you.”

“Flirt with me?” she murmured, fairly certain the hesitation had meant to say seduce, but distracted by the knowledge that she would only have to angle her head up.

The wry smile he gave her was tiny, but impossible to miss from this range. “Whatever you want to call it. I thought I’d make conversation - laugh with you - smile at you just so - tempt you … touch you. . . .” His free hand rose until the fingers could land softly on her cheek. They were trembling slightly, the sheer force of control he was exerting revealed when her eyes snapped up to his. Her mouth dropped open just a little, and with aching slowness he brushed his thumb along her lower lip.

She stared up at him until she could barely stand the lightness of his touch on her a second longer. “Is that still the plan?” she asked, breathlessly. She’d be embarrassed by that, but he was pressing her other hand to his chest like he wanted to fuse it there and she could feel just how hard he was breathing too. The question swept through his body, pulling it taut, his thumb on her lip becoming heavy, possessive. She may have whimpered; he definitely shuddered.

“I don’t know,” he whispered helplessly. “I … can’t let you regret this.”

She froze, feeling reality rush in at his words, the world outside their touch beating against the walls of their own. She realized she could see him better; the dark hours were melting away and the dim predawn light was catching the downturn at the sides of his mouth, anxious lines around his eyes. She drew a jagged breath, lifting her free hand to overlay his at her face, and they sat that way, caught between worlds while the promise of dawn glowed brighter from minute to minute.

She could make out black eyelashes, and the gleam of cobalt in eyes too close to miss it, before he closed them with a groan. He refused to look at her as he fought for inches to put between them, the growing light showing the struggle to move away rather than toward all too clearly. After a minute, their hands fell from her face; finally, after what seemed like ages, their other hands dropped away from his chest. It felt like amputation, something terribly missing from her palm, and it convulsed around his desperately. He clutched right back, not meeting her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s not -” she started automatically, but broke off when she remembered that, actually, it was his fault. She thought for a moment, then squeezed his hand in hers. “I’m not,” she said instead.

He squeezed back and finally looked up, smiling, but with a rueful slant. “Not yet.”

She laughed softly, and the sky around them caught her attention. She looked over, startled, and he followed her gaze to the rain-washed, flame-colored horizon, clouds of brilliant gold scattering up into the vibrant blue above. Calm water and skyscraper windows bounced light and color like repeater stations. The beauty of it was vast, encompassing and even hushing the conflict of their worlds for a moment. It let her move back until her shoulder rested against the curve of his once more, and left her hand stretched over in his. “Not yet.”

They watched the rest of the sunrise in silence until warmth bathed them and the day’s brightness invaded everything. It was in silence that they stood, hands letting go too fast, walking back to his car too separately. She shivered, but not from cold, and when they got there she took off his overcoat and resolutely held it out to him. He didn’t meet her eyes, taking it from her too slowly, throwing it in the trunk too quickly.

It seemed like the whole ride back would be silent, until she surprised them both by saying, “Would we have to?”

“Have to what?” he asked, although she had a feeling that he knew exactly what she was asking.

“Regret it,” she said anyway.

“Laura -” he said it softly, like he was savoring the sound of it. But there was a helpless undercurrent to it, and to his sardonic snort. “This doesn’t work, you and me. Not like this. You know that. And we both know you’re not going to switch sides, so. . . .”

Her heart was pounding harder than any other time in the whole night. “Would you?”

She was glad the streets were mostly empty; the car nearly swerved, and he looked like she’d taken a baseball bat to him. His snort was more shocked than anything else, this time. “What?”

“Would you,” she repeated, flying in the face of any good sense at all.

“You … have got to be kidding.” He stopped at a red light and turned to stare at her, flushed with disbelief and hints of anger. “You - you want me to betray my father -”

“No! No, no -” she shook her head emphatically. “No. Never. Not like that. No, I mean -” She frowned, searching for the words, as he sat back, slightly mollified, and accelerated at the green. “I mean … can’t there be some way to - to not betray your father, but still use your family’s power and reach to - to do good?” she finished lamely.

His laughter was bitter, and this time it stung. “Oh, there’s the pompom-waving Miss Idealism I thought you were.” He shook his head. “I thought you got it. Using my father’s assets for anything but for my father is to betray him! And for what?”

“For others,” she said stubbornly. “For good.”

“For good? Or for you?” The scorn was palpable, but there was more to it when he looked away, shaking. “Crazy bitch,” he muttered, not quietly enough.

She froze, before wrapping her arms tightly around herself. “You’re better than that, Bill,” she said, voice small but almost firm.

His shoulders rose defensively, and the look he gave her tried to be aggressive but came out stricken. “No, I’m not,” he answered, his voice even smaller.

“Then go home and put another frakking notch on your belt, because you sure convinced me!” she snapped, and loudly. She turned and glared out of the window, refusing to meet his startled look, refusing to acknowledge him for the rest of the drive, even as his side of the car just kept feeling heavier and heavier.

They pulled up back at the diner and she was opening the car door almost before they stopped, ready to put this bizarre night and the infuriating, disappointing man as many miles in her rear-view mirror as possible. His door opened only seconds behind hers, though.

“Laura!”

She stopped, hand on the door, about to slam it. “What?” she bit out instead, keeping her back to him.

“Just -” That helpless tone was back, and God help her but she wanted to turn around and just find some way to make it all okay. “I know I don’t -” He stopped himself again. Finally, with the kind of miserable simplicity a man might use to address his own firing squad, he asked, “Do you regret it?”

She flinched, briefly squeezing her eyes shut, clenching her hand to the point of pain where it still rested on the open car door. His car door. It wasn’t fair. William Adama shouldn’t be able to make her feel that way. Even so, she couldn’t keep from turning toward him, bracing herself to see the slightest trace of mocking in him.

There was none.

Even more unfairly, if she was honest, seeing it wouldn’t have changed her answer one bit. “No,” she said quietly, chin lifted. She shut the door with all the dignity she could muster. “Are we done, here?”

He stood straighter, came around her side slowly, holding eye contact like she might bolt if he didn’t. Which was very possible. He stopped a pace away, her personal space respectfully intact. “Do we have to be?”

It was her turn to give him a disbelieving stare.

“I know, I - this is - I’d apologize, but you’d only think I’m trying to pressure you -” He took a deep breath, then shook his head. “No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, any of it, and I’m sorry and I want you to know that no matter what.”

She nodded stiffly.

His nod was sad. “Okay. Look, I’m not … not a good man.” It was clear it hurt him to say it. “I’m not the kind of man your father believed in … that you believe in. That’s not my - my measure. I don’t know if I believe that kind of man is even possible. . . . And even if it is, I - it’s not possible for me.” He dropped her gaze with the admission, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He cleared his throat, making to turn away. “You know what, never mind.”

“Bill.” Just like her, the sound of his name stopped him in his tracks. “Tell me.”

He closed his eyes, breathing hard. “I want to know. I think I have to know - if it’s possible.”

For me, he didn’t have to say.

“I think it is,” she said, and she didn’t have to say for you. His eyes flew open, searching hers. “Just because you’ve always done something, doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it.”

“Yeah, but … you don’t know me,” he said, and no matter how cautious he was trying to be, there was a note of hope to it.

She nodded thoughtfully. “So what do you suggest?”

He bit his lip, then looked over at the diner. “Next week? Just coffee. I swear.” He laughed weakly, unable to mask the entreaty that it was.

She paused, then very deliberately reached out her hand to him. Nothing about this was simple, and maybe not even smart, but they were a fair way beyond that. He snatched it up as though she’d take it back any second, eyes catching alight, but then paused himself. “Are you sure?” he asked - visibly made himself ask.

She tightened her grip, then was struck by a teasing impulse. “I guess you’ll find out next week.”

He stared for a second before that irresistibly honest laugh sounded once more. “I guess I will,” he said, a wealth of thanks in his dark eyes, and the hint of blue in them felt like a secret just for her. She grinned helplessly, then swallowed as his expression became serious. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t seem to make a sound. Finally he shrugged deprecatingly and just added his other hand to hers, as though that would help him find a way to let go.

She didn’t know how either, and sympathy tugged at the side of her mouth. He nodded, and she braced to lose his touch, when he stopped. Looked down at her hand, rubbed it delicately with his thumb. Then, with a look both penitent and fierce, brought it up to his lips. He pressed it there for a long moment in which she could neither see nor hear anything else, then dropped it hastily, a clean break where nothing else could work. “Until next time, Laura Roslin,” he said, voice almost steady.

“Until next time, Bill Adama,” she said, forcing herself to take a step back. And then another. And another, until she could turn and make for her car as fast as she could go, just to avoid going back and throwing herself into his arms and demanding he finish what he started. It wasn’t until she actually opened her door that she allowed herself to look back at him, still standing there, arms tucked around himself as though holding himself in place. She raised her hand and he raised his, and then she got into her car and made herself drive away.

Six days later, someone put a folder of fresh crime scene photos in her hand. Words like “the son” and “stepping up his role in the organization” and “three, so far” swirled around her, but even before that she knew what she was looking at. Her body was demanding a compromise between holding on to the photos and staying upright, and she landed on her chair before it could make the more incriminating decision for her.

She stared, and stared, at the grimy black and white pictures, jaw painfully tight but also somehow numb. The blow was too deep to feel, yet; too deep for betrayal or rage or humiliation. The only thing she knew for sure was that there would be no meeting in any diner tonight.