Echoes for rococoms
Title: Echoes
Pairing: Adama/Roslin
Rating: M
Original fic: Release by rococoms
Word count: 1,770 words
Disclaimer: Not my characters or television show.
A/N: Thank you to afrakaday for her speedy beta.
I.
“You know, when I invited you down here, it wasn’t for you to play nurse,” she says, exasperated. He’s still half-hard, and she’s nowhere near done with him. “I told you, I’m fine. It was an accident.”
She doesn’t have time for tentative touches and soft caresses. She wants unforgiving, overwhelming, passionate, skin-on-skin, messy, sweaty, desperate lovemaking. She wants the bruises and cuts on her body to be a product of their frakking each other stupid, not from her own clumsiness, her own weakness. She wants to claim him with a ferocity that is at once foreign and frightening to her.
She straddles him, tossing the sweater she had put back on over and off her head. She grinds herself against his lap and leans forward so that her breasts brush against his chest.
“What did you invite me down here for then?” he asks softly as his hands happily resume their place on her breasts and she moans, half in pleasure, half in relief.
“I think you can figure it out. You’re a smart man.”
I.
“I specifically told Cottle not to call you,” his words are barely audible through the hiss of pain he emits as he attempts to remove his tanks. She’s standing in the doorway to the head, her gaze is all fire and determination and he almost gives up right then and there.
“I don’t know why I need to keep reminding you of this, but I am your boss as well as Cottle’s boss. So if you’re being a frakking idiot about your health, he knows specifically to call me.” Her response is clipped and clear as she forces him to lean against the edge of his sink. “Lift your arms slowly,” she says, much gentler.
With his bloodied tanks off, she’s able to survey the damage properly. The skin around his ribs is a dark purple and brown in colour, and she notices that his face is not the only part of his body that is covered in dried blood. He’s not steady on his feet, so she presses her body close to his, prepared to catch him should he tumble forward. She’s not strong enough to keep him off the ground, but she hopes that her own body might shield him from any further damage should they crash to the floor.
Cottle had briefed her about Bulldog’s attack on Bill; he’d been waiting for her in the hangar bay with a bottle of painkillers and an exhausted look on his face that could only be cause by dealing with a patient as obstinate as their Admiral. Now that she’s seeing the wounds in person, she realizes that not even Cottle’s most detailed descriptions could have prevented the wave of angry nausea that struck her upon seeing the damage.
“Oh Bill, what did you let him do to you?” she asks aloud.
He answers only with a shuddering sigh.
I.
“I’m fine,” she whispers gently as tender fingers trace the bruise on her upper arms yet again. He finds no comfort in her words, and instead continues his thorough inspection of the broken skin. She can see the grief clouding over in his deep blue eyes.
“Bill, stop it,” she demands, “I fell and bumped my arm. It’s no big deal.” She’s irritated. Angry. Embarrassed. The food and water supply on this frakking planet is so scarce, she’s been giving her rations to some of the younger children at the school tent. She’s lost a good deal of weight and muscle, her bones feel brittle and her limbs are shaky on most days. Her body is starting to rebel against her, again, and just when she was starting to enjoy it.
“Why didn’t you ask someone to help you carry it back if it was too heavy for you?” he asks quietly.
“I don’t need anyone’s help,” she huffs. “I was a bit tired, the water jug was full, and I tripped over my own frakking feet. I’m getting old you know, I’m allowed to have off days and stupid accidents every once and a while.”
“If you’re old, what does that make me then?” He kisses the words, the humor, his love into the purple and blue mark of her too-thin arm. “I’ve got eight years on you,” he reminds her. She sighs into his kisses, if only she could keep his mouth on her skin instead of talking about the disfigurements on her skin.
“It makes you…mature? Distinguished?” she giggles as his moustache tickles the skin of her collarbone, and moans when he scrapes the soft hairs against her nipple.
“Yeah?” he prompts as his tongue darts out to circle and tease the pebbled flesh.
“Oh frak, it makes you whatever you want. Stop teasing,” she hisses. He’s more than happy to comply.
I.
“We need to get you in the shower Bill. You’re covered in blood,” she says, wrinkling her nose in disgust. Not at him, never at him, but at the violence that stains his skin.
He has the good sense not to argue with her when she bends to help him unlace his boots and pull down his pants. Her hair brushes against the inside of his thighs and he has to hold in his groan of pleasure. It’s been months since he’s been this close to her. He hasn’t so much as held her hand since his last trip to New Caprica; despite his age, despite his fatigue, his body can’t help but react to her proximity.
He’s never felt embarrassed of his body’s reaction to her, until now. She sees the emotions play out across his face; arousal, affection, anger, shame, and fear.
“Relax, Bill,” she soothes, “I’ve missed you too.” The soft kiss to his forehead is meant to calm, to relax. Instead it makes his body and heart yearn to be back on New Caprica with her, his body tangled up in her threadbare sheets, her endlessly long legs, her riotous curls.
The water runs in rivulets down the broken skin of his body, he can see the diluted blood running down his body to swirl in the drain at his feet. There is something comforting in the sight; he can almost pretend that his blood is carrying his sins away.
I.
She’s covered in sweat, her thighs are sticky and sore, and her mouth is as dry as the soil on this forsaken planet, but she refuses to move. He’s snoring softly, next to her. The heat of his chest against her back has prevented her from cooling down at all after their romp.
It’s been like this for the last few months now. He comes to see her for one day and one night, they spend all of said day and night making love like they are starved for each other. It’s intoxicating; he stirs something primal and fierce from the depths of her locked heart. When he leaves, she feels as though something is missing. The inside of her second-hand tent feels less like the home it becomes when he’s here, and more like the flimsy shell that it truly is. His departure brings with it an abrupt, agonizing dose of their ever-pessimistic reality.
This is a fantasy, she thinks. I’m living a fairy tale when he’s here.
She has to remind herself that not all fairy tales have happy endings.
I.
“You need stitches back here. The cut between your shoulder blades is deep. You should have let Cottle stitch you up.”
He feels her fingers lightly touch the nape of his neck. He has to remind himself to breathe when he feels the warm weight of her soft breasts and slight belly against his side. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her reach for the bar of rationed soap and moments later he feels her delicate hands sweep across his skin.
She is gentle and efficient with him and there is an affection that colours her actions that he’s never experienced before. When her fingers sink into his hair, and start to gently but firmly massage his scalp, he can’t hold back his groan.
“Mmm, you always did like that,” she recalls softly. Sometimes he’d fall asleep with his head in her lap and she’d play with his hair, scratch his scalp. He always slept easier under her ministrations.
“I liked everything,” he says. A heavy silence hangs between them.
He reaches behind him, tugging her hips so that she’s flush against his back. Her hands travel carefully down his body, pausing to rest on either side of his hips. She buries her quivering lips in the crook of his neck.
“Me too,” she says, as the water starts to run cold.
I.
She always refrains from airing out her sheets with the rest of her laundry for as long as possible after he leaves. His scent clung to the pillow and blanket, if she was lucky, for days after he left. At night she held the pillow tight, burying her nose in the scratchy material of the rough cotton.
The Cylons come the morning after his last visit. The sound of marching metal echoes all around as she tries to sleep that night, making her blood run cold. She holds the pillow to her a little tighter, curls her body around it a little more.
She breathes in, deeply, and imagines that she can hear his steady heartbeat, that she can feel the warmth of his chest against her cheek.
She closes her eyes and remembers how lovingly his fingers had trailed across the bruise on her arm.
I.
He wakes up with a full heart, in an empty bed.
“Stay with me? ”he asked as she helped him into the rack.
“Bill,” she admonished, “you know we can’t.”
“Just to sleep,” he promised.
What he didn’t realize was that she could handle the sex, she could handle his kisses, it was waking up next to him that terrified her. But she stayed with him, against all common sense.
She wanted to relive their fairytale for one last time, before it turns sour.
There is still a slight dip in the mattress next to him; a faint trace of her scent still clings to the sheets. He allows himself a moment of indulgence, and caresses the space next to him.
He imagines that she’s there, her wild hair tickling his nose, her cold feet wedging between his calves. He can still feel the slight weight of her body next to his.
He can still recall the feel of her hands on his skin.
Pairing: Adama/Roslin
Rating: M
Original fic: Release by rococoms
Word count: 1,770 words
Disclaimer: Not my characters or television show.
A/N: Thank you to afrakaday for her speedy beta.
I.
“You know, when I invited you down here, it wasn’t for you to play nurse,” she says, exasperated. He’s still half-hard, and she’s nowhere near done with him. “I told you, I’m fine. It was an accident.”
She doesn’t have time for tentative touches and soft caresses. She wants unforgiving, overwhelming, passionate, skin-on-skin, messy, sweaty, desperate lovemaking. She wants the bruises and cuts on her body to be a product of their frakking each other stupid, not from her own clumsiness, her own weakness. She wants to claim him with a ferocity that is at once foreign and frightening to her.
She straddles him, tossing the sweater she had put back on over and off her head. She grinds herself against his lap and leans forward so that her breasts brush against his chest.
“What did you invite me down here for then?” he asks softly as his hands happily resume their place on her breasts and she moans, half in pleasure, half in relief.
“I think you can figure it out. You’re a smart man.”
I.
“I specifically told Cottle not to call you,” his words are barely audible through the hiss of pain he emits as he attempts to remove his tanks. She’s standing in the doorway to the head, her gaze is all fire and determination and he almost gives up right then and there.
“I don’t know why I need to keep reminding you of this, but I am your boss as well as Cottle’s boss. So if you’re being a frakking idiot about your health, he knows specifically to call me.” Her response is clipped and clear as she forces him to lean against the edge of his sink. “Lift your arms slowly,” she says, much gentler.
With his bloodied tanks off, she’s able to survey the damage properly. The skin around his ribs is a dark purple and brown in colour, and she notices that his face is not the only part of his body that is covered in dried blood. He’s not steady on his feet, so she presses her body close to his, prepared to catch him should he tumble forward. She’s not strong enough to keep him off the ground, but she hopes that her own body might shield him from any further damage should they crash to the floor.
Cottle had briefed her about Bulldog’s attack on Bill; he’d been waiting for her in the hangar bay with a bottle of painkillers and an exhausted look on his face that could only be cause by dealing with a patient as obstinate as their Admiral. Now that she’s seeing the wounds in person, she realizes that not even Cottle’s most detailed descriptions could have prevented the wave of angry nausea that struck her upon seeing the damage.
“Oh Bill, what did you let him do to you?” she asks aloud.
He answers only with a shuddering sigh.
I.
“I’m fine,” she whispers gently as tender fingers trace the bruise on her upper arms yet again. He finds no comfort in her words, and instead continues his thorough inspection of the broken skin. She can see the grief clouding over in his deep blue eyes.
“Bill, stop it,” she demands, “I fell and bumped my arm. It’s no big deal.” She’s irritated. Angry. Embarrassed. The food and water supply on this frakking planet is so scarce, she’s been giving her rations to some of the younger children at the school tent. She’s lost a good deal of weight and muscle, her bones feel brittle and her limbs are shaky on most days. Her body is starting to rebel against her, again, and just when she was starting to enjoy it.
“Why didn’t you ask someone to help you carry it back if it was too heavy for you?” he asks quietly.
“I don’t need anyone’s help,” she huffs. “I was a bit tired, the water jug was full, and I tripped over my own frakking feet. I’m getting old you know, I’m allowed to have off days and stupid accidents every once and a while.”
“If you’re old, what does that make me then?” He kisses the words, the humor, his love into the purple and blue mark of her too-thin arm. “I’ve got eight years on you,” he reminds her. She sighs into his kisses, if only she could keep his mouth on her skin instead of talking about the disfigurements on her skin.
“It makes you…mature? Distinguished?” she giggles as his moustache tickles the skin of her collarbone, and moans when he scrapes the soft hairs against her nipple.
“Yeah?” he prompts as his tongue darts out to circle and tease the pebbled flesh.
“Oh frak, it makes you whatever you want. Stop teasing,” she hisses. He’s more than happy to comply.
I.
“We need to get you in the shower Bill. You’re covered in blood,” she says, wrinkling her nose in disgust. Not at him, never at him, but at the violence that stains his skin.
He has the good sense not to argue with her when she bends to help him unlace his boots and pull down his pants. Her hair brushes against the inside of his thighs and he has to hold in his groan of pleasure. It’s been months since he’s been this close to her. He hasn’t so much as held her hand since his last trip to New Caprica; despite his age, despite his fatigue, his body can’t help but react to her proximity.
He’s never felt embarrassed of his body’s reaction to her, until now. She sees the emotions play out across his face; arousal, affection, anger, shame, and fear.
“Relax, Bill,” she soothes, “I’ve missed you too.” The soft kiss to his forehead is meant to calm, to relax. Instead it makes his body and heart yearn to be back on New Caprica with her, his body tangled up in her threadbare sheets, her endlessly long legs, her riotous curls.
The water runs in rivulets down the broken skin of his body, he can see the diluted blood running down his body to swirl in the drain at his feet. There is something comforting in the sight; he can almost pretend that his blood is carrying his sins away.
I.
She’s covered in sweat, her thighs are sticky and sore, and her mouth is as dry as the soil on this forsaken planet, but she refuses to move. He’s snoring softly, next to her. The heat of his chest against her back has prevented her from cooling down at all after their romp.
It’s been like this for the last few months now. He comes to see her for one day and one night, they spend all of said day and night making love like they are starved for each other. It’s intoxicating; he stirs something primal and fierce from the depths of her locked heart. When he leaves, she feels as though something is missing. The inside of her second-hand tent feels less like the home it becomes when he’s here, and more like the flimsy shell that it truly is. His departure brings with it an abrupt, agonizing dose of their ever-pessimistic reality.
This is a fantasy, she thinks. I’m living a fairy tale when he’s here.
She has to remind herself that not all fairy tales have happy endings.
I.
“You need stitches back here. The cut between your shoulder blades is deep. You should have let Cottle stitch you up.”
He feels her fingers lightly touch the nape of his neck. He has to remind himself to breathe when he feels the warm weight of her soft breasts and slight belly against his side. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her reach for the bar of rationed soap and moments later he feels her delicate hands sweep across his skin.
She is gentle and efficient with him and there is an affection that colours her actions that he’s never experienced before. When her fingers sink into his hair, and start to gently but firmly massage his scalp, he can’t hold back his groan.
“Mmm, you always did like that,” she recalls softly. Sometimes he’d fall asleep with his head in her lap and she’d play with his hair, scratch his scalp. He always slept easier under her ministrations.
“I liked everything,” he says. A heavy silence hangs between them.
He reaches behind him, tugging her hips so that she’s flush against his back. Her hands travel carefully down his body, pausing to rest on either side of his hips. She buries her quivering lips in the crook of his neck.
“Me too,” she says, as the water starts to run cold.
I.
She always refrains from airing out her sheets with the rest of her laundry for as long as possible after he leaves. His scent clung to the pillow and blanket, if she was lucky, for days after he left. At night she held the pillow tight, burying her nose in the scratchy material of the rough cotton.
The Cylons come the morning after his last visit. The sound of marching metal echoes all around as she tries to sleep that night, making her blood run cold. She holds the pillow to her a little tighter, curls her body around it a little more.
She breathes in, deeply, and imagines that she can hear his steady heartbeat, that she can feel the warmth of his chest against her cheek.
She closes her eyes and remembers how lovingly his fingers had trailed across the bruise on her arm.
I.
He wakes up with a full heart, in an empty bed.
“Stay with me? ”he asked as she helped him into the rack.
“Bill,” she admonished, “you know we can’t.”
“Just to sleep,” he promised.
What he didn’t realize was that she could handle the sex, she could handle his kisses, it was waking up next to him that terrified her. But she stayed with him, against all common sense.
She wanted to relive their fairytale for one last time, before it turns sour.
There is still a slight dip in the mattress next to him; a faint trace of her scent still clings to the sheets. He allows himself a moment of indulgence, and caresses the space next to him.
He imagines that she’s there, her wild hair tickling his nose, her cold feet wedging between his calves. He can still feel the slight weight of her body next to his.
He can still recall the feel of her hands on his skin.