New in Town, Part 22
Originally posted by fragrantwoods at New in Town, Part 22
Title: New in Town, Part 22
Author: fragrantwoods
Rating: T for language, adult situations
Word Count: 2465
Disclaimer: Don't own anything, not making anything
WIP Crossover: Deadwood/Battlestar Galactica
Spoilers for Deadwood S3
Setting: A/U that includes the American Old West (specifically, Deadwood): The Gem Saloon
Timeline: Post-Hearst, pre-fire, not congruent with the events of comm Deadwood S_4
Summary: Bill and Laura find themselves on Earth in 1879 in a Raptor jump gone wrong.
Previous chapter: New in Town, Chapter 21
Summary: Aftermath of the dinner party of awkward name-dropping and failed deception.
The night air felt damp and sticky as they walked back to the Grand Central Hotel, the foul odors of the street mixing with the smoke from still-burning cook-fires. Laura walked alongside Bill, only taking his arm when an evening rider came too close for comfort. Swearengen had shooed them back to their hotel as soon as they had come back inside. Looks like you two got a lot to talk about, he’d said as he had held the front door open for them.
Laura had seen the looks he and Mrs. Ellsworth had given each other throughout the evening, and even though she’d been preoccupied, she hadn’t failed to notice their disappearance into the kitchen. She wondered if it was feelings for the widow, or knowing the direction her and Bill’s conversation would take that had him slipping out of the dining room. Smart man.
Thank the Gods only Richardson was around when they reached the hotel. She suspected Bill would have blasted E.B. like a bumbling nugget if he had come sniffing around, asking how their evening went. Richardson, though, just nodded at them as they passed him in the lobby while he did the last sweeping up of the night. She paused at the foot of the stairs as Bill went on up.
“Richardson, could you fix us a pot of coffee? I know it’s late….”
The elderly man looked at her with his faded blue eyes that occasionally flickered with an eerie sharpness through his usual fog. “Yes, ma’am, I can do that if you want me to. Shame to ask for something that’s gonna keep you from your night’s rest, though.”
“My husband and I need this-the coffee, I mean. If it’s not too much trouble.” She heard the brass key rattle in the lock above her and started up the stairs again.
“No trouble to me, ma’am.” Richardson leaned his broom against the bannister and headed for the kitchen, shoulders slumping more than usual. She wondered if it was her imagination that made him sound a bit like an oracle at times. She was definitely getting ready to ask for something that would keep both her and Bill from their night’s rest, and it would have little to do with caffeine.
Once inside their rooms, both went through their undressing rituals in silence, other than a few “would you mind”s and “could you”s as they helped each other out of their fancy clothes that now seemed somewhat wilted. As Bill unfastened the buttons down the back of her dress, Laura looked down at the rounded tops of her breasts, soft ivory framed with silver-gray lace. They looked so innocent to be capable of harboring such deadly threats.
The wine-red fabric slipped off her shoulders and down her arms as Bill brought her a sturdy wooden hanger, wordlessly helping her manage the yards of silk as she stepped out of the rumpled gown and readied it to be put away.
“You looked so beautiful in that tonight.”
She made an appreciative humming sound before she could stop herself. She steeled herself against the memory of warmth and happiness she had felt at the start of the evening-the teasing, the innocent pleasure in dressing up.
“It was make-believe, Bill. It was fun, but it’s not real. Bacchanal was never meant to last for weeks. I thought you of all people would understand that.”
Bill turned at the soft knock on the door and went to the entrance of their rooms, returning with a tarnished silver coffee pot on a worn silver tray. He poured two cups as Laura finished undressing, unhooking the busks of her corset and taking a deep breath as it fell free. She watched him over her shoulder as she stood in front of the mirror, unpinning her thick twists of hair. The thought went through her mind that if she acted quickly enough, she could cut off enough hair to make the wig she’d eventually need. She bit her lip against the wave of self-pity as she watched Bill bring the cups over to the dresser and started taking off his shirt.
Hair down and brushed, her thin cotton chemise and petticoat feeling loose and light around her, she took the nearest cup and sat down in the straight-backed chair, her posture as Presidential as if she were sitting behind her desk on Colonial One.
“Now then…explain your dereliction of duty, Admiral.”
Her eyes were so cold and distant. Bill sat in the facing chair, his hands wrapped around his cup. He could barely see the woman he’d been trying to protect within this judgmental politician who sat in front of him. He felt caught between being her lover, even her husband for a few weeks, and being the military arm of her office, the protector of the Fleet. His temper sparked as he realized she seemed to be telling him she wanted the Admiral more than the man. Part of him knew she was right…but the rest of him began to burn with hurt and grief for what they were getting ready to lose.
“It started a couple of weeks ago…” he began, laying out the story as dispassionately as he could. He left out the panicked tone of Doc Cottle’s questions, his own dread that kept him from communicating with Galactica at first. He skimmed over the excited hope that had come into the doctor’s voice when they talked about his testing. His recitation of Cottle’s findings, the recon landings of another Raptor high up in an isolated meadow ringed with thick old-growth trees…every word was delivered as dry as a tylium stores report.
“I didn’t want to put you through that uncertainty, Madam President. I felt the responsible thing to do, under the circumstances, was to have more data gathered so that we…you…could make an informed decision.”
“My decision, Admiral, would have been to return to Galactica immediately and then to expect you to have your crew repair and retrieve the downed Raptor. And you know that.”
“And if we’d returned, I’d probably be talking to Tom Zarek now about your state funeral.” He gripped his cup tighter to hide the shaking. He watched her lips tighten.
“Funerals don’t scare me, Bill, so if you think you’re going to score any points off me by bringing up that boogieman, you’re way off the mark.”
He set the empty cup down on the side table to keep from smashing it to the floor. He could feel the angry, ugly flush that had started creeping up his jaw. He couldn’t control that any better than he could control his bitter growling tone.
“Are you that in love with the idea of being a frakking myth, Laura? You’d rather be taught about in temple school as the great dying leader of the Scrolls of Pythia than live out a normal life? Being remembered as a woman who did a good job as President after the end of the worlds isn’t enough for you? How frakking special do you need to be?”
Her slight hunching told him he’d hit something that time, and for a split second, before the shame set in, it felt good.
Then she straightened again, the steel back in her spine.
“At least I’m still trying to do my job.”
“So am I,” he shot back. “And part of my job is to keep you safe.”
“Like you did on New Caprica?”
He rocked back in his chair like he’d been punched in the gut, barely registering that Laura had closed her eyes and seemed to be fighting back tears. Her eyes were glassy when she opened them again.
“I’m sorry, Bill. You didn’t deserve that.” She wiped her eyes with a fingertip. “You did the right thing there, protecting the Fleet instead of worrying about me. That’s what you’re supposed to do.” Another tear started to slip down her cheek.
He got up and crossed the few feet that separated them, hunkering down by her chair so he could look up at her. “And I told myself I’d never do that again. I’m a pretty smart guy, Laura. I’m trying to work out a way to take care of the Fleet and…if not take care of you, a least make sure you’ve got all the facts to make your decision.”
He felt her tentatively touch his hair, then start to wind her fingers into it like she did when they were reading…and other times. He looked at the sheen of her skin under the thin cotton, then leaned his cheek against her thigh. He had nothing left to say, and his worry, his fear for her was pushing the acidic coffee back up in his throat. Under that, though, was a feeling he had been afraid to hope for-a small surge of relief that he was finally telling her the truth.
His hand had started rubbing her ankle in a soothing rhythm when he realized she had started to shake a little. He stilled, waiting.
“Bill,” she whispered, “I love you.” He opened his mouth to respond, then shut it as she continued.
“But I don’t trust you right now. Not after all this.”
Bill wrapped her arms around her hips, her fingers still absently twining themselves into his hair.
“What can I do, Laura? Tell me what I can do to keep you from throwing this chance away.”
She tugged his hair to raise his face towards her. Her armor had softened…she was more like the Laura she’d been under the tarp on Kobol; strong, determined, but open to compromise. A tiny spark of hope started to flicker cautiously in his heart.
“Bring Doctor Cottle to me. I want to hear what he has to say for myself.”
***************************************
“I should be goin’.” Al leaned his head back against the fancy carved headboard as he stroked the sleek chestnut waves that spilled across his chest. It felt odd to be away from the Gem for so long.
“If you must,” a sleepy, satiated Alma Ellsworth murmured against his skin. “I must say, you were in rare form this evening.”
He smirked as he looked down at her. “Twice in one day ain’t beyond my capabilities quite yet, it would seem.”
She rolled onto her back next to him. “I don’t mean that. I mean you stirring up a hornet’s nest between the Adamas. Have you any idea why mentioning this Doctor…Cottle, was it? Why that would set Mrs. Adama off so?”
He slipped down in the soft feather bed and turned her on her side so she was facing him. The clearness of her deep brown eyes fascinated him, so different from the cloudiness that had filled them when she had slipped back into opiate use. And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t check once in a while to reassure himself she hadn’t backslid again.
“I have no fuckin’-sorry, Alma. I have no idea why. Her troubles didn’t sound like they involved a doctor, not as far as I could tell.”
She toyed with the thick hair on his chest, tracing a finger down his ribs, and smiled. “Perhaps he’s a gunslinger, Like Doc Holliday...and he’s been hired to…to….” Her voice trailed off.
“What, do for her, on an aggrieved family’s orders? Adama sounded in favor of this doctor, and I can’t see that being the case if this Cottle guy posed a threat.”
“Well, maybe he knows something that could clear her from whatever you think she did.” She propped herself up on one elbow as he got out of her bed and began quietly dressing.
“More likely, he’s a doctor willing to swear an oath, for money or friendship, that there’s some error in the facts tyin’ her to a murder back where they’re from. How many times has Doc Cochran tilted the scales one way or another for the greater good, hmm?” He mimicked holding a skull in his hand. “Oh, look…my medical trainin’ tells me there was no murder at all, but a self-inflicted bullet wound motivated by despair over the human condition.” He snorted as he slipped his suspenders over his shoulders.
“Laura Adama strikes me as someone who would not be happy at the idea of suborning perjury,” Alma said.
“And maybe that’s what got her nose out of joint, that Adama’s in negotiations or whatever the fuck he’s doing with this doctor, and he ain’t been keepin’ her apprised so as not to have her fuck things up before they’ve started.”
“Albert, please….” Her forehead wrinkled with disapproval.
Swearengen picked up her white batiste nightgown from the side chair and tossed it in her direction. “Frakkin’ mystery it is, that you can love the act and hate the word in such equal measure.”
She caught the gown with her free hand. “My mother at least made the attempt to raise me as a lady, and-wait…what did you just say?” The wrinkle deepened.
He laughed quietly. “His missus apparently shares your distaste for nasty language, so the poor bastard has to use made-up words when he curses. Creative fuckin’ solution for being around refined ladies and needin’ to spare their…frakkin’ sensibilities, you ask me.”
“Oh, really, Albert, you sound ridiculous.” She smiled as she sat up and pulled her nightgown over her head.” You’ll wait to put your boots on until you’re on the porch, so as not to wake Sofia?”
He nodded, boots in hand, as he leaned over and kissed the corner of her mouth. “Tell that chi-tell Sofia I enjoyed playin’ checkers with her. Might be back to do it again.”
Alma pulled the covers to her shoulders and curled up on her side, covering her mouth as she yawned. ”I certainly shall. Lock up when you leave, please. I find myself quite enervated from our evening.” She gave him a sleepy smile as she adjusted her pillow.
He nodded. He had the feeling the Adamas might be similarly exhausted tonight, though hardly from the same cause.
His old cutthroat stealth came in handy, he thought to himself as he made his way down the stairs without a single creak of the steps. Locking the door behind him, he leaned against the porch railing and slipped into his boots. The streets were still active, even at this late hour, a few riders moving through the foot traffic, men coming and going between poker tables, saloons and whorehouses.
He paused before going through the open doors of his Gem and looked at the Grand Central hotel across the street, soft yellow light spilling out of the upstairs windows. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. 2:00 am and they were still up. Remembering the determination and steel he’d noticed in both Bill and Laura Adama from the first time they met, he couldn’t say he was surprised.
Title: New in Town, Part 22
Author: fragrantwoods
Rating: T for language, adult situations
Word Count: 2465
Disclaimer: Don't own anything, not making anything
WIP Crossover: Deadwood/Battlestar Galactica
Spoilers for Deadwood S3
Setting: A/U that includes the American Old West (specifically, Deadwood): The Gem Saloon
Timeline: Post-Hearst, pre-fire, not congruent with the events of comm Deadwood S_4
Summary: Bill and Laura find themselves on Earth in 1879 in a Raptor jump gone wrong.
Previous chapter: New in Town, Chapter 21
Summary: Aftermath of the dinner party of awkward name-dropping and failed deception.
The night air felt damp and sticky as they walked back to the Grand Central Hotel, the foul odors of the street mixing with the smoke from still-burning cook-fires. Laura walked alongside Bill, only taking his arm when an evening rider came too close for comfort. Swearengen had shooed them back to their hotel as soon as they had come back inside. Looks like you two got a lot to talk about, he’d said as he had held the front door open for them.
Laura had seen the looks he and Mrs. Ellsworth had given each other throughout the evening, and even though she’d been preoccupied, she hadn’t failed to notice their disappearance into the kitchen. She wondered if it was feelings for the widow, or knowing the direction her and Bill’s conversation would take that had him slipping out of the dining room. Smart man.
Thank the Gods only Richardson was around when they reached the hotel. She suspected Bill would have blasted E.B. like a bumbling nugget if he had come sniffing around, asking how their evening went. Richardson, though, just nodded at them as they passed him in the lobby while he did the last sweeping up of the night. She paused at the foot of the stairs as Bill went on up.
“Richardson, could you fix us a pot of coffee? I know it’s late….”
The elderly man looked at her with his faded blue eyes that occasionally flickered with an eerie sharpness through his usual fog. “Yes, ma’am, I can do that if you want me to. Shame to ask for something that’s gonna keep you from your night’s rest, though.”
“My husband and I need this-the coffee, I mean. If it’s not too much trouble.” She heard the brass key rattle in the lock above her and started up the stairs again.
“No trouble to me, ma’am.” Richardson leaned his broom against the bannister and headed for the kitchen, shoulders slumping more than usual. She wondered if it was her imagination that made him sound a bit like an oracle at times. She was definitely getting ready to ask for something that would keep both her and Bill from their night’s rest, and it would have little to do with caffeine.
Once inside their rooms, both went through their undressing rituals in silence, other than a few “would you mind”s and “could you”s as they helped each other out of their fancy clothes that now seemed somewhat wilted. As Bill unfastened the buttons down the back of her dress, Laura looked down at the rounded tops of her breasts, soft ivory framed with silver-gray lace. They looked so innocent to be capable of harboring such deadly threats.
The wine-red fabric slipped off her shoulders and down her arms as Bill brought her a sturdy wooden hanger, wordlessly helping her manage the yards of silk as she stepped out of the rumpled gown and readied it to be put away.
“You looked so beautiful in that tonight.”
She made an appreciative humming sound before she could stop herself. She steeled herself against the memory of warmth and happiness she had felt at the start of the evening-the teasing, the innocent pleasure in dressing up.
“It was make-believe, Bill. It was fun, but it’s not real. Bacchanal was never meant to last for weeks. I thought you of all people would understand that.”
Bill turned at the soft knock on the door and went to the entrance of their rooms, returning with a tarnished silver coffee pot on a worn silver tray. He poured two cups as Laura finished undressing, unhooking the busks of her corset and taking a deep breath as it fell free. She watched him over her shoulder as she stood in front of the mirror, unpinning her thick twists of hair. The thought went through her mind that if she acted quickly enough, she could cut off enough hair to make the wig she’d eventually need. She bit her lip against the wave of self-pity as she watched Bill bring the cups over to the dresser and started taking off his shirt.
Hair down and brushed, her thin cotton chemise and petticoat feeling loose and light around her, she took the nearest cup and sat down in the straight-backed chair, her posture as Presidential as if she were sitting behind her desk on Colonial One.
“Now then…explain your dereliction of duty, Admiral.”
Her eyes were so cold and distant. Bill sat in the facing chair, his hands wrapped around his cup. He could barely see the woman he’d been trying to protect within this judgmental politician who sat in front of him. He felt caught between being her lover, even her husband for a few weeks, and being the military arm of her office, the protector of the Fleet. His temper sparked as he realized she seemed to be telling him she wanted the Admiral more than the man. Part of him knew she was right…but the rest of him began to burn with hurt and grief for what they were getting ready to lose.
“It started a couple of weeks ago…” he began, laying out the story as dispassionately as he could. He left out the panicked tone of Doc Cottle’s questions, his own dread that kept him from communicating with Galactica at first. He skimmed over the excited hope that had come into the doctor’s voice when they talked about his testing. His recitation of Cottle’s findings, the recon landings of another Raptor high up in an isolated meadow ringed with thick old-growth trees…every word was delivered as dry as a tylium stores report.
“I didn’t want to put you through that uncertainty, Madam President. I felt the responsible thing to do, under the circumstances, was to have more data gathered so that we…you…could make an informed decision.”
“My decision, Admiral, would have been to return to Galactica immediately and then to expect you to have your crew repair and retrieve the downed Raptor. And you know that.”
“And if we’d returned, I’d probably be talking to Tom Zarek now about your state funeral.” He gripped his cup tighter to hide the shaking. He watched her lips tighten.
“Funerals don’t scare me, Bill, so if you think you’re going to score any points off me by bringing up that boogieman, you’re way off the mark.”
He set the empty cup down on the side table to keep from smashing it to the floor. He could feel the angry, ugly flush that had started creeping up his jaw. He couldn’t control that any better than he could control his bitter growling tone.
“Are you that in love with the idea of being a frakking myth, Laura? You’d rather be taught about in temple school as the great dying leader of the Scrolls of Pythia than live out a normal life? Being remembered as a woman who did a good job as President after the end of the worlds isn’t enough for you? How frakking special do you need to be?”
Her slight hunching told him he’d hit something that time, and for a split second, before the shame set in, it felt good.
Then she straightened again, the steel back in her spine.
“At least I’m still trying to do my job.”
“So am I,” he shot back. “And part of my job is to keep you safe.”
“Like you did on New Caprica?”
He rocked back in his chair like he’d been punched in the gut, barely registering that Laura had closed her eyes and seemed to be fighting back tears. Her eyes were glassy when she opened them again.
“I’m sorry, Bill. You didn’t deserve that.” She wiped her eyes with a fingertip. “You did the right thing there, protecting the Fleet instead of worrying about me. That’s what you’re supposed to do.” Another tear started to slip down her cheek.
He got up and crossed the few feet that separated them, hunkering down by her chair so he could look up at her. “And I told myself I’d never do that again. I’m a pretty smart guy, Laura. I’m trying to work out a way to take care of the Fleet and…if not take care of you, a least make sure you’ve got all the facts to make your decision.”
He felt her tentatively touch his hair, then start to wind her fingers into it like she did when they were reading…and other times. He looked at the sheen of her skin under the thin cotton, then leaned his cheek against her thigh. He had nothing left to say, and his worry, his fear for her was pushing the acidic coffee back up in his throat. Under that, though, was a feeling he had been afraid to hope for-a small surge of relief that he was finally telling her the truth.
His hand had started rubbing her ankle in a soothing rhythm when he realized she had started to shake a little. He stilled, waiting.
“Bill,” she whispered, “I love you.” He opened his mouth to respond, then shut it as she continued.
“But I don’t trust you right now. Not after all this.”
Bill wrapped her arms around her hips, her fingers still absently twining themselves into his hair.
“What can I do, Laura? Tell me what I can do to keep you from throwing this chance away.”
She tugged his hair to raise his face towards her. Her armor had softened…she was more like the Laura she’d been under the tarp on Kobol; strong, determined, but open to compromise. A tiny spark of hope started to flicker cautiously in his heart.
“Bring Doctor Cottle to me. I want to hear what he has to say for myself.”
***************************************
“I should be goin’.” Al leaned his head back against the fancy carved headboard as he stroked the sleek chestnut waves that spilled across his chest. It felt odd to be away from the Gem for so long.
“If you must,” a sleepy, satiated Alma Ellsworth murmured against his skin. “I must say, you were in rare form this evening.”
He smirked as he looked down at her. “Twice in one day ain’t beyond my capabilities quite yet, it would seem.”
She rolled onto her back next to him. “I don’t mean that. I mean you stirring up a hornet’s nest between the Adamas. Have you any idea why mentioning this Doctor…Cottle, was it? Why that would set Mrs. Adama off so?”
He slipped down in the soft feather bed and turned her on her side so she was facing him. The clearness of her deep brown eyes fascinated him, so different from the cloudiness that had filled them when she had slipped back into opiate use. And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t check once in a while to reassure himself she hadn’t backslid again.
“I have no fuckin’-sorry, Alma. I have no idea why. Her troubles didn’t sound like they involved a doctor, not as far as I could tell.”
She toyed with the thick hair on his chest, tracing a finger down his ribs, and smiled. “Perhaps he’s a gunslinger, Like Doc Holliday...and he’s been hired to…to….” Her voice trailed off.
“What, do for her, on an aggrieved family’s orders? Adama sounded in favor of this doctor, and I can’t see that being the case if this Cottle guy posed a threat.”
“Well, maybe he knows something that could clear her from whatever you think she did.” She propped herself up on one elbow as he got out of her bed and began quietly dressing.
“More likely, he’s a doctor willing to swear an oath, for money or friendship, that there’s some error in the facts tyin’ her to a murder back where they’re from. How many times has Doc Cochran tilted the scales one way or another for the greater good, hmm?” He mimicked holding a skull in his hand. “Oh, look…my medical trainin’ tells me there was no murder at all, but a self-inflicted bullet wound motivated by despair over the human condition.” He snorted as he slipped his suspenders over his shoulders.
“Laura Adama strikes me as someone who would not be happy at the idea of suborning perjury,” Alma said.
“And maybe that’s what got her nose out of joint, that Adama’s in negotiations or whatever the fuck he’s doing with this doctor, and he ain’t been keepin’ her apprised so as not to have her fuck things up before they’ve started.”
“Albert, please….” Her forehead wrinkled with disapproval.
Swearengen picked up her white batiste nightgown from the side chair and tossed it in her direction. “Frakkin’ mystery it is, that you can love the act and hate the word in such equal measure.”
She caught the gown with her free hand. “My mother at least made the attempt to raise me as a lady, and-wait…what did you just say?” The wrinkle deepened.
He laughed quietly. “His missus apparently shares your distaste for nasty language, so the poor bastard has to use made-up words when he curses. Creative fuckin’ solution for being around refined ladies and needin’ to spare their…frakkin’ sensibilities, you ask me.”
“Oh, really, Albert, you sound ridiculous.” She smiled as she sat up and pulled her nightgown over her head.” You’ll wait to put your boots on until you’re on the porch, so as not to wake Sofia?”
He nodded, boots in hand, as he leaned over and kissed the corner of her mouth. “Tell that chi-tell Sofia I enjoyed playin’ checkers with her. Might be back to do it again.”
Alma pulled the covers to her shoulders and curled up on her side, covering her mouth as she yawned. ”I certainly shall. Lock up when you leave, please. I find myself quite enervated from our evening.” She gave him a sleepy smile as she adjusted her pillow.
He nodded. He had the feeling the Adamas might be similarly exhausted tonight, though hardly from the same cause.
His old cutthroat stealth came in handy, he thought to himself as he made his way down the stairs without a single creak of the steps. Locking the door behind him, he leaned against the porch railing and slipped into his boots. The streets were still active, even at this late hour, a few riders moving through the foot traffic, men coming and going between poker tables, saloons and whorehouses.
He paused before going through the open doors of his Gem and looked at the Grand Central hotel across the street, soft yellow light spilling out of the upstairs windows. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. 2:00 am and they were still up. Remembering the determination and steel he’d noticed in both Bill and Laura Adama from the first time they met, he couldn’t say he was surprised.