Happy birthday redrockcan!
Title: Moving Day
Author: afrakaday
Rating: T
Word count: 2200
A/N: redrockcan has inspired me, with her recent uncharacteristic foray into MA-rated fic, to commemorate her birthday with a divergence from my own ficcing tendencies toward cracky smutfluff and try something new. Thanks to nixmom for the beta.
Laura opened the drawer containing her panties and one extra bra with a vigor that surprised herself. Grabbing handfuls of threadbare silk and worn cotton, she grumbled with each deposit into the faded military-issue duffel bag she'd decided to steal.
"Stay in the room but get out of my head...right...as if I could...jerk."
She was antsy and angry and couldn't wait to get off his ship. Thankfully she wouldn't have to return until the day after next for a treatment. Given the previous night's events, she no longer had a problem with the thought of remaining in sickbay as long as the post-treatment nausea required. Maybe she'd even allow herself to partake in Cottle’s anemic supply of anti-emetics so she could return to Colonial One straightaway.
Because she sure as hell wouldn't be staying here any longer than necessary. "Get out of my head," indeed. The spacious head in his quarters was the main reason they'd gotten into this cohabitational farce to begin with. “So you can be comfortable while you recover between treatments,” he’d said casually. And she’d accepted against her better judgment, making noises about arranging for guest quarters as soon as possible so as to not wear out her welcome. But there weren’t any “guest quarters” available, not a week ago when she’d first moved in and not now; she’d obliquely checked with Tigh while it was still his watch. That had sealed her decision to leave.
Her hands shook as she pulled blouses and suit separates off hangers and stuffed the items in the bag. Tears pricked at her eyes as she remembered the excited look on his face when he'd showed her the space he'd cleared out for her things. Once she’d zipped the bag closed with a deafening note of finality she forced herself to stop and take a deep breath.
Her rage battled exhaustion; it had been a sleepless evening. After she’d cried herself out at his desk, she curled up into a corner of the couch, unable to face the idea of returning to his rack where just the previous night he’d held her like some treasure to be guarded, which she guessed was not entirely off base given the encounter with Kara that had preceded it. Every noise that wasn’t the background hum of the ship caused her to jump; every echo of boots against decking in the hall and every creak of shifting metal set her nerves on edge as she braced herself for his return. But he hadn’t come back.
The photo of the two of them, fractured by Laura’s own errant bullet, had stared out at her judgmentally as she tried to rest. She dreaded walking past it again on her way out. It was a glaring reminder of her failure to communicate with both Kara and Bill, her weakening strength and total lack of coordination--Diloxan really did frak with her aim--and the shattered understanding between them.
She felt her chest collapsing at the irreparability of it all. The anger she felt at him--for his increasing overindulgence in alcohol, his refusal to face some very unpleasant truths, and finally his scathing pronouncement regarding the meaningfulness vel non of her death--scared her in its depth. The converse of this capacity for rage, she feared, was something even more terrifying. And now, possibly lost.
Laura summoned her strength to pick up the bag and carry it into the head, gazing longingly at the shower stall before fetching her toothbrush and comb from the sink and putting them in the side compartment of the duffel. Taking a glance around, she cringed, thinking back to a scene just a few days ago when she and Bill had danced around one another in the small space, half-dressed and surreptitiously looking, exchanging shy smiles as they went about getting ready for their day.
This thing between them had imploded before it even began. She felt like a fool for letting herself think that moving in with him would just be an extension of the already substantial time she spent here, usually working, occasionally relaxing. Once in a while, even flirting. She straightened her spine and glanced in the mirror, hoping the President would be reflected back at her. Unfortunately, it was still a red-eyed Laura staring out from the glass. She looked like hell. But at least the realization reminded her to retrieve the small stick of concealer from the shelf behind the mirror. She applied some to the shadows beneath her eyes and stashed it in the bag with the rest of her meager toiletries.
Striding through his quarters to the hatch with the bag slung over her shoulder, Laura refused to let herself linger in the space or even look around, other than to locate her heels in their customary space next to the hatch. Once appropriately shod, she let herself out into the hallway and spun the hatch behind her. She could finally breathe again.
She nodded curtly at her security detail, and they followed at a respectable distance as she stalked through the hall. Knowing Bill was on duty in CIC, she felt freed from any apprehension of running into him, and she found her Presidential facade returning with each click of her heels. Still, getting off this ship and back to her own would be a relief.
Laura wound her way through the labyrinthine halls of the battlestar almost without thinking, the path from Bill’s quarters to the hangar deck as familiar now to her as the route between her old apartment on Caprica and the Halls of Ministry had been. Her pace quickened, and she could hear her security detail match it, their footsteps urging her on even faster.
At last she arrived at her usual Raptor bay. She’d called for the transport at least twenty minutes ago, which should have given the pilot time enough to go through her checklist. Two of her marine guards stepped up the ramp to do their pre-flight security inspection while Laura tapped her foot impatiently on the deck.
They stepped down a few minutes later. “You can go ahead up, Madam President.”
Laura gave them a brief nod and sighed as she ascended. The Old Girl had been her temporary home, and she would have regretted this time coming to an end under amicable circumstances. But this...this was nearly intolerable. She forced herself to shrug it off. She’d be back, just not as a denizen of the luxuriously comfortable CO’s quarters. She thought back to sitting at Bill’s desk ten hours earlier. How could she have been so stupid? How could he?
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the absence of her marine guard when she cleared the hatch and the ramp came up.
“Laura.” The voice from the cockpit was gravelly, plaintive, full of regret.
Gods damn it. “You’re supposed to be in CIC.”
“High priority shuttle request came through. I volunteered. Gotta keep my flight hours up.”
She frowned at his attempt at levity. She and he were too far gone for him to be able to fix things by joking around. Still, she couldn’t help but peek into the pilot’s compartment.
Flight suit, no helmet. Of course. She looked away, and realized her guards must still be in the hangar bay. “Can we collect my detail and be on our way?” Her tone was clipped, warning him against any attempt at reconciliation.
“I asked ‘em to take a lap.”
“Did you, now.” She ducked her head and moved to the part of the ship where he sat in front of the controls. She wearily lowered herself to the ECO’s bench, setting the duffel across her lap.
“Bag looks familiar.”
“I needed it to move my things.”
A pained look crossed his face. “I was hoping this was just a shuttle over to Colonial One for you to attend some meetings.”
“I do have meetings there today,” she said slowly, before sticking the knife in. “But I’ll be staying there.” She hoped her words sounded as resolute as she’d rehearsed it in her head when she’d contemplated the inevitability of this moment.
“Laura.” His voice cracked, and she forced herself to look at his face. He’d found a razor in the duty locker, apparently, and despite their close proximity, didn’t seem to be emanating alcohol as she might have expected; other than the haunted look in his eyes, he seemed to be doing fairly well, all things considered.
She wondered if she looked the same. That thought reminded her that she wouldn’t be looking to be doing fairly well before long. She touched the ends of her hair reflexively and hoped she’d successfully rounded up and flushed all the stray strands she’d gathered in his quarters down the toilet. It wouldn’t do to have left pieces of herself behind for him to pick up.
“Bill. Let my detail back on this Raptor. I have to go.”
“You can’t leave like this. Please.” He started to reach his hand out toward her, but withdrew it instantly when her eyes narrowed at the gesture.
“No, Bill,” she said, addressing him as if he were a recalcitrant kindergartner resisting nap time. “I need to get back to my ship. I have things to do. I will return to Galactica as needed for my diloxan treatments, and for official business when necessary.”
“The next treatment’s in two days, right?” He looked resigned.
She thought quickly. “The details of my treatment schedule are on a need-to-know basis.” Damn, she’d have to tell Cottle she was modifying her patient confidentiality status again, this time to exclude Bill from the full access she’d granted him.
Bright blue eyes flashed. "Frak that, Laura, I do need to know. I care about you. I hate that I said those things last night. I never wanted...”
“What, Bill? Let me guess, you never wanted to hurt me. But you did. And I said hurtful things, too. And it’s over,” she said.
Bill sniffled quietly, looking out the windshield of the Raptor to the bustling deck below. “It can’t be over. We haven’t gotten to the really good part yet.” He turned back to her; she was watching him intently, cool and collected. Every bit the politician, and it drove him crazy.
“I can’t do this without you, Laura. Any of it.”
She shook her head sadly. “I know, Bill. I can’t do this”--she waved her hand around, trying to indicate the Fleet--”without you, either. But we’re going to have to try, anyway.”
“You...I can’t lose you, Laura. I lo--”
Laura cut him off as soon as the sound waves crossed the short space. “Stop. Stop right there.”
“I--”
“Please don’t.” She resisted the urge to cover her ears with her hands and start singing to drown him out. He shouldn’t be doing this. He couldn’t be doing this.
He slid out of the pilot’s seat and knelt at her feet. The duffel bag on her lap made it hard for him to look up at her, so she begrudgingly tossed it off her lap and onto the floor beside him. She let her hands drift through his short hair, savoring the soft wiry texture, feeling them both relax at the contact.
He leaned in against her bare legs, pressing his cheek to her knees. “I love you. Love you, love you,” he murmured, almost too quietly for her to hear. Almost.
His confession made, he drew back slightly to look up at her, tears shining in his eyes. She let herself slide down to the floor to sit next to him.
“Please don’t leave,” he whispered.
She turned around so she was facing away from him and scooted herself in his direction until her back made contact with the distinctive polymer material of his flight suit. With a resigned hum, she let herself lean back against his chest. His arms wrapped around her and his chin came to rest on her shoulder.
“We’re going to fight if we live together, Bill. We can’t let it get like that every time.”
“No.” He squeezed her for emphasis.
“I’m going to be very ill, very soon.”
“I’ll take care of you.” She could feel his thoughts as he nuzzled her. Please let me take care of you.
She smiled. “Maybe we should just enjoy whatever time we have.” Laura twisted in his arms so she could look at his face. “Do you remember...?”
Bill leaned his forehead in to rest against hers. “Yeah.”
“I really do have meetings on Colonial One.”
“I really am cleared to fly you there.”
Her fingers danced along his chest, her eyes showing a deep appreciation for his suiting up to do so. She glanced over to the duffel beside them. “I’ll leave my bag with you as collateral.”
“You mean my bag.”
“You told me to make myself at home, remember? ‘What’s mine is yours’?”
“Always,” he breathed in her ear, placing his hand over her heart.
Author: afrakaday
Rating: T
Word count: 2200
A/N: redrockcan has inspired me, with her recent uncharacteristic foray into MA-rated fic, to commemorate her birthday with a divergence from my own ficcing tendencies toward cracky smutfluff and try something new. Thanks to nixmom for the beta.
Laura opened the drawer containing her panties and one extra bra with a vigor that surprised herself. Grabbing handfuls of threadbare silk and worn cotton, she grumbled with each deposit into the faded military-issue duffel bag she'd decided to steal.
"Stay in the room but get out of my head...right...as if I could...jerk."
She was antsy and angry and couldn't wait to get off his ship. Thankfully she wouldn't have to return until the day after next for a treatment. Given the previous night's events, she no longer had a problem with the thought of remaining in sickbay as long as the post-treatment nausea required. Maybe she'd even allow herself to partake in Cottle’s anemic supply of anti-emetics so she could return to Colonial One straightaway.
Because she sure as hell wouldn't be staying here any longer than necessary. "Get out of my head," indeed. The spacious head in his quarters was the main reason they'd gotten into this cohabitational farce to begin with. “So you can be comfortable while you recover between treatments,” he’d said casually. And she’d accepted against her better judgment, making noises about arranging for guest quarters as soon as possible so as to not wear out her welcome. But there weren’t any “guest quarters” available, not a week ago when she’d first moved in and not now; she’d obliquely checked with Tigh while it was still his watch. That had sealed her decision to leave.
Her hands shook as she pulled blouses and suit separates off hangers and stuffed the items in the bag. Tears pricked at her eyes as she remembered the excited look on his face when he'd showed her the space he'd cleared out for her things. Once she’d zipped the bag closed with a deafening note of finality she forced herself to stop and take a deep breath.
Her rage battled exhaustion; it had been a sleepless evening. After she’d cried herself out at his desk, she curled up into a corner of the couch, unable to face the idea of returning to his rack where just the previous night he’d held her like some treasure to be guarded, which she guessed was not entirely off base given the encounter with Kara that had preceded it. Every noise that wasn’t the background hum of the ship caused her to jump; every echo of boots against decking in the hall and every creak of shifting metal set her nerves on edge as she braced herself for his return. But he hadn’t come back.
The photo of the two of them, fractured by Laura’s own errant bullet, had stared out at her judgmentally as she tried to rest. She dreaded walking past it again on her way out. It was a glaring reminder of her failure to communicate with both Kara and Bill, her weakening strength and total lack of coordination--Diloxan really did frak with her aim--and the shattered understanding between them.
She felt her chest collapsing at the irreparability of it all. The anger she felt at him--for his increasing overindulgence in alcohol, his refusal to face some very unpleasant truths, and finally his scathing pronouncement regarding the meaningfulness vel non of her death--scared her in its depth. The converse of this capacity for rage, she feared, was something even more terrifying. And now, possibly lost.
Laura summoned her strength to pick up the bag and carry it into the head, gazing longingly at the shower stall before fetching her toothbrush and comb from the sink and putting them in the side compartment of the duffel. Taking a glance around, she cringed, thinking back to a scene just a few days ago when she and Bill had danced around one another in the small space, half-dressed and surreptitiously looking, exchanging shy smiles as they went about getting ready for their day.
This thing between them had imploded before it even began. She felt like a fool for letting herself think that moving in with him would just be an extension of the already substantial time she spent here, usually working, occasionally relaxing. Once in a while, even flirting. She straightened her spine and glanced in the mirror, hoping the President would be reflected back at her. Unfortunately, it was still a red-eyed Laura staring out from the glass. She looked like hell. But at least the realization reminded her to retrieve the small stick of concealer from the shelf behind the mirror. She applied some to the shadows beneath her eyes and stashed it in the bag with the rest of her meager toiletries.
Striding through his quarters to the hatch with the bag slung over her shoulder, Laura refused to let herself linger in the space or even look around, other than to locate her heels in their customary space next to the hatch. Once appropriately shod, she let herself out into the hallway and spun the hatch behind her. She could finally breathe again.
She nodded curtly at her security detail, and they followed at a respectable distance as she stalked through the hall. Knowing Bill was on duty in CIC, she felt freed from any apprehension of running into him, and she found her Presidential facade returning with each click of her heels. Still, getting off this ship and back to her own would be a relief.
Laura wound her way through the labyrinthine halls of the battlestar almost without thinking, the path from Bill’s quarters to the hangar deck as familiar now to her as the route between her old apartment on Caprica and the Halls of Ministry had been. Her pace quickened, and she could hear her security detail match it, their footsteps urging her on even faster.
At last she arrived at her usual Raptor bay. She’d called for the transport at least twenty minutes ago, which should have given the pilot time enough to go through her checklist. Two of her marine guards stepped up the ramp to do their pre-flight security inspection while Laura tapped her foot impatiently on the deck.
They stepped down a few minutes later. “You can go ahead up, Madam President.”
Laura gave them a brief nod and sighed as she ascended. The Old Girl had been her temporary home, and she would have regretted this time coming to an end under amicable circumstances. But this...this was nearly intolerable. She forced herself to shrug it off. She’d be back, just not as a denizen of the luxuriously comfortable CO’s quarters. She thought back to sitting at Bill’s desk ten hours earlier. How could she have been so stupid? How could he?
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the absence of her marine guard when she cleared the hatch and the ramp came up.
“Laura.” The voice from the cockpit was gravelly, plaintive, full of regret.
Gods damn it. “You’re supposed to be in CIC.”
“High priority shuttle request came through. I volunteered. Gotta keep my flight hours up.”
She frowned at his attempt at levity. She and he were too far gone for him to be able to fix things by joking around. Still, she couldn’t help but peek into the pilot’s compartment.
Flight suit, no helmet. Of course. She looked away, and realized her guards must still be in the hangar bay. “Can we collect my detail and be on our way?” Her tone was clipped, warning him against any attempt at reconciliation.
“I asked ‘em to take a lap.”
“Did you, now.” She ducked her head and moved to the part of the ship where he sat in front of the controls. She wearily lowered herself to the ECO’s bench, setting the duffel across her lap.
“Bag looks familiar.”
“I needed it to move my things.”
A pained look crossed his face. “I was hoping this was just a shuttle over to Colonial One for you to attend some meetings.”
“I do have meetings there today,” she said slowly, before sticking the knife in. “But I’ll be staying there.” She hoped her words sounded as resolute as she’d rehearsed it in her head when she’d contemplated the inevitability of this moment.
“Laura.” His voice cracked, and she forced herself to look at his face. He’d found a razor in the duty locker, apparently, and despite their close proximity, didn’t seem to be emanating alcohol as she might have expected; other than the haunted look in his eyes, he seemed to be doing fairly well, all things considered.
She wondered if she looked the same. That thought reminded her that she wouldn’t be looking to be doing fairly well before long. She touched the ends of her hair reflexively and hoped she’d successfully rounded up and flushed all the stray strands she’d gathered in his quarters down the toilet. It wouldn’t do to have left pieces of herself behind for him to pick up.
“Bill. Let my detail back on this Raptor. I have to go.”
“You can’t leave like this. Please.” He started to reach his hand out toward her, but withdrew it instantly when her eyes narrowed at the gesture.
“No, Bill,” she said, addressing him as if he were a recalcitrant kindergartner resisting nap time. “I need to get back to my ship. I have things to do. I will return to Galactica as needed for my diloxan treatments, and for official business when necessary.”
“The next treatment’s in two days, right?” He looked resigned.
She thought quickly. “The details of my treatment schedule are on a need-to-know basis.” Damn, she’d have to tell Cottle she was modifying her patient confidentiality status again, this time to exclude Bill from the full access she’d granted him.
Bright blue eyes flashed. "Frak that, Laura, I do need to know. I care about you. I hate that I said those things last night. I never wanted...”
“What, Bill? Let me guess, you never wanted to hurt me. But you did. And I said hurtful things, too. And it’s over,” she said.
Bill sniffled quietly, looking out the windshield of the Raptor to the bustling deck below. “It can’t be over. We haven’t gotten to the really good part yet.” He turned back to her; she was watching him intently, cool and collected. Every bit the politician, and it drove him crazy.
“I can’t do this without you, Laura. Any of it.”
She shook her head sadly. “I know, Bill. I can’t do this”--she waved her hand around, trying to indicate the Fleet--”without you, either. But we’re going to have to try, anyway.”
“You...I can’t lose you, Laura. I lo--”
Laura cut him off as soon as the sound waves crossed the short space. “Stop. Stop right there.”
“I--”
“Please don’t.” She resisted the urge to cover her ears with her hands and start singing to drown him out. He shouldn’t be doing this. He couldn’t be doing this.
He slid out of the pilot’s seat and knelt at her feet. The duffel bag on her lap made it hard for him to look up at her, so she begrudgingly tossed it off her lap and onto the floor beside him. She let her hands drift through his short hair, savoring the soft wiry texture, feeling them both relax at the contact.
He leaned in against her bare legs, pressing his cheek to her knees. “I love you. Love you, love you,” he murmured, almost too quietly for her to hear. Almost.
His confession made, he drew back slightly to look up at her, tears shining in his eyes. She let herself slide down to the floor to sit next to him.
“Please don’t leave,” he whispered.
She turned around so she was facing away from him and scooted herself in his direction until her back made contact with the distinctive polymer material of his flight suit. With a resigned hum, she let herself lean back against his chest. His arms wrapped around her and his chin came to rest on her shoulder.
“We’re going to fight if we live together, Bill. We can’t let it get like that every time.”
“No.” He squeezed her for emphasis.
“I’m going to be very ill, very soon.”
“I’ll take care of you.” She could feel his thoughts as he nuzzled her. Please let me take care of you.
She smiled. “Maybe we should just enjoy whatever time we have.” Laura twisted in his arms so she could look at his face. “Do you remember...?”
Bill leaned his forehead in to rest against hers. “Yeah.”
“I really do have meetings on Colonial One.”
“I really am cleared to fly you there.”
Her fingers danced along his chest, her eyes showing a deep appreciation for his suiting up to do so. She glanced over to the duffel beside them. “I’ll leave my bag with you as collateral.”
“You mean my bag.”
“You told me to make myself at home, remember? ‘What’s mine is yours’?”
“Always,” he breathed in her ear, placing his hand over her heart.