(TM) 189. Gods forbid you should read my mind right now ...
If you could read my mind right now… Talk about a conversation when what you said was not what you were thinking.
"So we have no idea how she got off Galactica." Laura Roslin smiles and nods at me as she accepts the glass of water I offer, but her gray eyes are pensive as I take a seat beside her on my couch.
She. Shelly Godfrey. Blond bombshell scientist, accuser of Gaius Baltar and now, by all the evidence, a Cylon agent. She vanished from my ship leaving nothing but a pair of glasses and Baltar's exoneration behind her.
"One idea," I reply. I have the President's full attention, and she commands all of mine, as usual. "If she intended to die and download to a new body, as the Leoben Cylon on Ragnar claimed they can do, she wouldn't have needed transport. Just one person willing to cycle an airlock."
"Or otherwise dispose of the body." Roslin grimaces slightly and takes a sip, shaking her head. "The entire series of events feels ... unfinished, somehow. As if ..." She makes a gesture like she's searching for words in midair.
"As if we're still ten steps behind and struggling to catch up," I growl, and she nods in wry agreement.
"Though it seems you weren't quite as far behind as the rest of us." I glance up from my own glass to find myself the focus of her quietly approving smile. "I thanked Lieutenant Gaeta earlier for making that in-depth check of Ms. Godfrey's evidence against Dr. Baltar. He told me you'd become suspicious of her after speaking with her privately, which in turn sharpened his own doubts. We're all extremely fortunate that you saw through her."
Outwardly I try for a gracious nod. Inwardly I brace myself for the question I know is coming next.
"I'm curious ... what exactly tipped you off?"
Frak.
I take a swallow of my own water as I compose my face in an attitude of thoughtful consideration. "Instincts, I guess. The outrage over Baltar, the weeping over Amarak ... her reactions were too practiced, like she was trying too hard to push certain buttons." I offer a slight smile. "I don't think I can get any more exact than that."
A lie, of course. I could get very exact. But I have no intention of telling anyone, least of all President Laura Roslin, exactly what buttons the leggy blonde tried to push.
My face remains impassive as the memory of Shelly Godfrey replays. One moment I was dealing with a young woman weeping over the loss of her lover, and the next ... that same woman was leaning against me, speaking softly to me with a voice designed to be a siren's call.
You must have times when ... when you feel alone. When the thought of another body next to yours seems like something out of a dream ...
And then warm breasts pressed into my shoulder, and warm lips pressed against my own in a sensuous, response-seeking kiss.
No, Laura Roslin has no need-to-know about that.
I look up to meet her eyes and find them probing me, still curious. For a split-second I wonder what she's picked up on-- the woman has some frakking uncanny instincts of her own --but in the next instant awareness sweeps over me, unexpected and uncontrolled.
She's sitting almost exactly where Godfrey was. Her elegant legs are crossed at the knee; her body leans just a bit toward mine. Her soft lips are slightly parted -- and I slam the door soundly on where my imagination wants to go from there.
Roslin's eyes widen briefly, a startled flicker in their depths. With another mental curse, I reorder my impassive mask and set my glass on the table. "My apologies, Madam President ... but I still have a pile of work to get through this evening."
"Oh ... certainly." She finishes her own water and rises to leave. After I open the hatch for her, she clasps my hand for a moment. "Thank you for your time, Commander. And your instincts."
"Of course." As she exits, my instincts apparently want to drink in the feminine lines of her ass and legs, and I grit my teeth while I close the hatch on the sight of her. Leaning against the bulkhead, I rub the bridge of my nose as I confront the unwelcome truth.
If it had been Laura Roslin's breasts against my shoulder, her lips against mine ... the situation would have ended very differently.
The last damn thing I need ... Out loud I mutter, "Don't be more of a fool than you can help, Old Man," as I cross back to the table and knock back the rest of my water.
Wishing it was hard liquor ... or a bucket of ice I could dump over myself.
Muse: Admiral William Adama
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica '03
Word count: 754
Please comment to admiral_adama
"So we have no idea how she got off Galactica." Laura Roslin smiles and nods at me as she accepts the glass of water I offer, but her gray eyes are pensive as I take a seat beside her on my couch.
She. Shelly Godfrey. Blond bombshell scientist, accuser of Gaius Baltar and now, by all the evidence, a Cylon agent. She vanished from my ship leaving nothing but a pair of glasses and Baltar's exoneration behind her.
"One idea," I reply. I have the President's full attention, and she commands all of mine, as usual. "If she intended to die and download to a new body, as the Leoben Cylon on Ragnar claimed they can do, she wouldn't have needed transport. Just one person willing to cycle an airlock."
"Or otherwise dispose of the body." Roslin grimaces slightly and takes a sip, shaking her head. "The entire series of events feels ... unfinished, somehow. As if ..." She makes a gesture like she's searching for words in midair.
"As if we're still ten steps behind and struggling to catch up," I growl, and she nods in wry agreement.
"Though it seems you weren't quite as far behind as the rest of us." I glance up from my own glass to find myself the focus of her quietly approving smile. "I thanked Lieutenant Gaeta earlier for making that in-depth check of Ms. Godfrey's evidence against Dr. Baltar. He told me you'd become suspicious of her after speaking with her privately, which in turn sharpened his own doubts. We're all extremely fortunate that you saw through her."
Outwardly I try for a gracious nod. Inwardly I brace myself for the question I know is coming next.
"I'm curious ... what exactly tipped you off?"
Frak.
I take a swallow of my own water as I compose my face in an attitude of thoughtful consideration. "Instincts, I guess. The outrage over Baltar, the weeping over Amarak ... her reactions were too practiced, like she was trying too hard to push certain buttons." I offer a slight smile. "I don't think I can get any more exact than that."
A lie, of course. I could get very exact. But I have no intention of telling anyone, least of all President Laura Roslin, exactly what buttons the leggy blonde tried to push.
My face remains impassive as the memory of Shelly Godfrey replays. One moment I was dealing with a young woman weeping over the loss of her lover, and the next ... that same woman was leaning against me, speaking softly to me with a voice designed to be a siren's call.
You must have times when ... when you feel alone. When the thought of another body next to yours seems like something out of a dream ...
And then warm breasts pressed into my shoulder, and warm lips pressed against my own in a sensuous, response-seeking kiss.
No, Laura Roslin has no need-to-know about that.
I look up to meet her eyes and find them probing me, still curious. For a split-second I wonder what she's picked up on-- the woman has some frakking uncanny instincts of her own --but in the next instant awareness sweeps over me, unexpected and uncontrolled.
She's sitting almost exactly where Godfrey was. Her elegant legs are crossed at the knee; her body leans just a bit toward mine. Her soft lips are slightly parted -- and I slam the door soundly on where my imagination wants to go from there.
Roslin's eyes widen briefly, a startled flicker in their depths. With another mental curse, I reorder my impassive mask and set my glass on the table. "My apologies, Madam President ... but I still have a pile of work to get through this evening."
"Oh ... certainly." She finishes her own water and rises to leave. After I open the hatch for her, she clasps my hand for a moment. "Thank you for your time, Commander. And your instincts."
"Of course." As she exits, my instincts apparently want to drink in the feminine lines of her ass and legs, and I grit my teeth while I close the hatch on the sight of her. Leaning against the bulkhead, I rub the bridge of my nose as I confront the unwelcome truth.
If it had been Laura Roslin's breasts against my shoulder, her lips against mine ... the situation would have ended very differently.
The last damn thing I need ... Out loud I mutter, "Don't be more of a fool than you can help, Old Man," as I cross back to the table and knock back the rest of my water.
Wishing it was hard liquor ... or a bucket of ice I could dump over myself.
Muse: Admiral William Adama
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica '03
Word count: 754
Please comment to admiral_adama