FIC: My Hero (1/4)
Rating: MA
Genre: Romance, Smut, Humor, Angst
Word Count: 1,700
Summary: Roslin gives Adama his award early.
Setting: Post-Hero
Series: Love in a Time of War: 8
A/N: This is actually the first story I wrote in this series, because it seemed so incredibly obvious in the scene on Colonial One that there was an intimacy between Laura and Bill; that was the way an impatient wife talks to a stubborn husband. But then I realized I needed to write all the other stories to get to this one.
Chapter One:
Bill kept his focus on the crisp announcement card for this Medal of Distinction ceremony that Laura had decided to throw, and ignored the white heat of her pale gaze as she chewed his ear off. Once she was on a roll, his silence had no effect.
Sarcasm sharp-edged, she said, “I’d like to propose this. You seem hell bent on serving some sort of penance for whatever you think that you’ve done.” She squinted as though she could turn her eyes into lasers. “So instead of resigning, why don’t you get up and walk out of here, meet me on the port hanger deck tomorrow evening for the ceremony and let me put a frakkin’ medal to your chest.”
Bill started to say something, but all that came out was, “I can’t.”
Speaking clearly, as though to a slightly slow child, she explained, “It’s not for you; it’s for them. Stand up there, acknowledge your fleet and give them what they need; a hero. That’ll be your penance even if it kills you.” Resting her chin on her palm, she gave him the slightest of smirks.
Bill didn’t get up and walk out of there. He slumped in the chair, examining his right boot. There was a slight smudge of deck grease on the toe. He fought the temptation to clean it off with his sleeve, because then his sleeve would be dirty.
“Launch bay, this is the president,” Laura said into her phone. “Is the Admiral’s Raptor waiting?”
He looked at her now, but she was turned in her chair, twirling the cord around her finger in that way that annoyed him, because he knew it ruined the cord, and she’d been through four in two years, and there were no more to replace this one.
“Yes, please tell the pilot that the Admiral will be detained about two more hours.” He tried scuffing the grease off with the sole of his left boot. Great, now he would track dirt on her carpet. “She may return to Galactica; wait to be summoned. Thank you.”
She clicked the line, still not looking at him. “Tory, are you out there?” He cringed. Don’t bring that intense young woman in now. “No, no, I was just checking that everything was cleared from the board.” She drummed the desk with impatient fingers and he watched her silver bracelet dance. “Why don’t you go grab some dinner?” She cut her eyes at him, catching him rubbing his feet together like an impatient boy. “Because I know you haven’t had any dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
She hung the phone up and stood, smoothing her skirt. He didn’t look up, running his tongue around his mouth. His teeth still hurt. He was too old to get beaten up that way.
Using her special schoolteacher voice, she said, holding out her hand, “Come on, Bill. Come with me.”
He grunted as he rose from the chair and took her cool hand. Sure, it would be a pity frak, but as low as he felt, that seemed about right.
“He got me right in the liver,” he complained.
“Your face looks a mess; I can only imagine what your body looks like,” she said, hardly the soothing lover’s words.
He muttered, “Like rotten meat.”
She hummed noncommittally and pushed him through the curtain into her sleeping quarters. He hated the idea of fooling around here, waiting for someone to yank that curtain aside at any juncture, but he was too exhausted to go back to Galactica, too tired to think of some reason for the President to make a late night visit.
“Sit,” she ordered, pointing to the edge of her bed. “Take off your clothes.” He sighed and sat with a huff. She moved to the wireless and found some music, keeping it low. Next the lights were dimmed. “I’ll be right back,” she promised, disappearing into the bathroom.
He slowly pulled off his boots, and finally gave into temptation, wiping the grease from the right one with his sock. He got no further, and she found him, sock dangling from his fingertips, staring broodingly at the wall.
He smelled her first. He always smelled her now, like a dog that’s marked his territory, but she reserved perfume for their intimate moments. It was a lush scent, not flowery, but deep and primal, like the forest. He’d kept meaning to ask what it was, and then realized that would be pointless. At some time in the future it would run out and there would be no more.
She came around to stand in front of him, and he gulped. She plucked at her negligee, telling him, somewhat breathless, “I had some old items to trade, and I should have bought another pair of pants--“ He shook his head in dismay. “--but I saw this, and remembered that I owed you a present. Can’t imagine what the trader thought.”
Wondering if it was the same old guy that he’d traded with, Bill said, “He thought you would look pretty in it,” reaching out to stroke her hip. It was deep red heavy satin, like a rich wine, as lush as her scent. A sheer robe draped her bare arms and shoulders.
She pushed her hair back. “Not like a President?”
“Hell, no,” he said fervently.
She laid her hands on his shoulders, moving between his knees. “That’s the idea. We’re not President and Admiral for the next few hours.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. That was right. Section 2, Article 9 of their agreement: she will not be the President, he will not be the Admiral for the time encompassed in the intimate act. No discussion of their work, or references to work-related issues or items are allowed.
“I know that’s going to be hard for you this time.” She still was only touching his shoulders. “I’ll start.” She gave him a peck on the cheek, and for a moment, he was surrounded by the sweet smell of her hair, swirling with her perfume. “How was your day, honey?” She pulled off his glasses.
He met her eyes, finally. “It was pretty shitty, babe.”
Putting his glasses on her bedside table, she then unbuttoned his tunic. “How can I make you feel better?”
He shrugged half-heartedly, and she pushed the jacket off. “I dunno,” he mumbled.
She made a tsking noise, and pulled him to his feet. “Pants off,” she ordered. He dropped them, staring down at his flat boxer front with despair as he twisted out of his tanks. So, it had finally happened. His age had caught up with him. Always had been as ready as a bull in the field, but now, he was just an old cow sniffing the flowers.
Her chin propped on his shoulder, she murmured in his ear, “Get on the bed, face down.”
He did, flopping with an oomph of air, now able to line himself up on the narrow cot comfortably. Practice was making some things come easier.
Satin stroked his ribs as she straddled him to rub his shoulders. Okay, that felt pretty damn good. Strong hands for such fine bones. He sighed deeply, content for the moment.
“You are so tense,” she said in his ear, her hair tenting over his head.
“I am,” he admitted.
“Does this hurt?” she asked, moving down his torso, being careful of the bruises on his ribs.
“Noooo...” he moaned, bucking slightly against the mattress from being ticklish, finally beginning to be aroused.
Her thumbs pressed along his backbone, to the apex of his spine and ass and he openly groaned in pleasure. She pulled down his boxers to bare his butt and vigorously massaged the large muscles there. “Oh...gods,” he enthused.
“Feel good?”
“Uh huh,” he bubbled, happy as a baby.
Her hands moved up to his back again, and at first he was disappointed until her mouth replaced her hands. Her tongue traced his spine, down, down, down--“Uh,” he protested, clamping his butt tight. “Uh, that’s not really my thing.”
She chuckled against one ass cheek. “Good to see you’re paying attention. I was just checking.”
He whimpered a bit. She was picking on him. How could he feel better if she made fun of him?
Her mouth moved back up, touching each scar with just the tip of her tongue. She’d already asked to origin of each one, and he heard her murmuring their story against his skin.
“Knife fight--“
“It wasn’t a knife fight,” he protested. “A guy in a bar poked me with a cocktail spear.”
She draped across his body, taking up his hand to massage the palm until he purred. “There’s no way a cocktail spear made this big of a scar.”
“Okay, this bar used real knives for their onions, but it wasn’t some barroom brawl,” he mumbled into the coverlet.
“You were fighting for Saul--“
“No, he’d gotten into a fight and I wandered into range,” he insisted. She just didn’t understand these sorts of things. Laura Roslin, Caprican schoolteacher, probably went to wine bars with ferns and wood paneling. Not outpost watering holes, with cheap whores and cheaper booze.
“Standing up for your buddy,” she said, kneading his arm, pulling it up to pop the shoulder.
Face pressed into the mattress, he said, “Cleaning up his shit as usual.”
Her thumbs along his hairline, circling. “He’s still not back in CIC?”
She knew; she didn’t need to ask. “No.”
“He stopped Bulldog from attacking you.” Fingers pushed through his hair, rubbing behind his ears.
“After he egged him into doing it.”
Her lips were right at his ear. “Saul’s in a lot of pain.”
He bellowed, blowing her back. “I’m in a lot of pain! Got a lead pipe to the gut!” Women just didn’t understand male relationships. Now she was going to tell him to talk to Saul--
“I think you and Saul just need to sit down and have a long chat--“
“Lords,” he groaned. “Just drop it. I thought you were going to frak me, not give me a lecture.” He said this just at a break in the wireless’ music, and a deadly silence fell over the room.
End (1/4) Chapter 2>>>
Genre: Romance, Smut, Humor, Angst
Word Count: 1,700
Summary: Roslin gives Adama his award early.
Setting: Post-Hero
Series: Love in a Time of War: 8
A/N: This is actually the first story I wrote in this series, because it seemed so incredibly obvious in the scene on Colonial One that there was an intimacy between Laura and Bill; that was the way an impatient wife talks to a stubborn husband. But then I realized I needed to write all the other stories to get to this one.
Chapter One:
Bill kept his focus on the crisp announcement card for this Medal of Distinction ceremony that Laura had decided to throw, and ignored the white heat of her pale gaze as she chewed his ear off. Once she was on a roll, his silence had no effect.
Sarcasm sharp-edged, she said, “I’d like to propose this. You seem hell bent on serving some sort of penance for whatever you think that you’ve done.” She squinted as though she could turn her eyes into lasers. “So instead of resigning, why don’t you get up and walk out of here, meet me on the port hanger deck tomorrow evening for the ceremony and let me put a frakkin’ medal to your chest.”
Bill started to say something, but all that came out was, “I can’t.”
Speaking clearly, as though to a slightly slow child, she explained, “It’s not for you; it’s for them. Stand up there, acknowledge your fleet and give them what they need; a hero. That’ll be your penance even if it kills you.” Resting her chin on her palm, she gave him the slightest of smirks.
Bill didn’t get up and walk out of there. He slumped in the chair, examining his right boot. There was a slight smudge of deck grease on the toe. He fought the temptation to clean it off with his sleeve, because then his sleeve would be dirty.
“Launch bay, this is the president,” Laura said into her phone. “Is the Admiral’s Raptor waiting?”
He looked at her now, but she was turned in her chair, twirling the cord around her finger in that way that annoyed him, because he knew it ruined the cord, and she’d been through four in two years, and there were no more to replace this one.
“Yes, please tell the pilot that the Admiral will be detained about two more hours.” He tried scuffing the grease off with the sole of his left boot. Great, now he would track dirt on her carpet. “She may return to Galactica; wait to be summoned. Thank you.”
She clicked the line, still not looking at him. “Tory, are you out there?” He cringed. Don’t bring that intense young woman in now. “No, no, I was just checking that everything was cleared from the board.” She drummed the desk with impatient fingers and he watched her silver bracelet dance. “Why don’t you go grab some dinner?” She cut her eyes at him, catching him rubbing his feet together like an impatient boy. “Because I know you haven’t had any dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
She hung the phone up and stood, smoothing her skirt. He didn’t look up, running his tongue around his mouth. His teeth still hurt. He was too old to get beaten up that way.
Using her special schoolteacher voice, she said, holding out her hand, “Come on, Bill. Come with me.”
He grunted as he rose from the chair and took her cool hand. Sure, it would be a pity frak, but as low as he felt, that seemed about right.
“He got me right in the liver,” he complained.
“Your face looks a mess; I can only imagine what your body looks like,” she said, hardly the soothing lover’s words.
He muttered, “Like rotten meat.”
She hummed noncommittally and pushed him through the curtain into her sleeping quarters. He hated the idea of fooling around here, waiting for someone to yank that curtain aside at any juncture, but he was too exhausted to go back to Galactica, too tired to think of some reason for the President to make a late night visit.
“Sit,” she ordered, pointing to the edge of her bed. “Take off your clothes.” He sighed and sat with a huff. She moved to the wireless and found some music, keeping it low. Next the lights were dimmed. “I’ll be right back,” she promised, disappearing into the bathroom.
He slowly pulled off his boots, and finally gave into temptation, wiping the grease from the right one with his sock. He got no further, and she found him, sock dangling from his fingertips, staring broodingly at the wall.
He smelled her first. He always smelled her now, like a dog that’s marked his territory, but she reserved perfume for their intimate moments. It was a lush scent, not flowery, but deep and primal, like the forest. He’d kept meaning to ask what it was, and then realized that would be pointless. At some time in the future it would run out and there would be no more.
She came around to stand in front of him, and he gulped. She plucked at her negligee, telling him, somewhat breathless, “I had some old items to trade, and I should have bought another pair of pants--“ He shook his head in dismay. “--but I saw this, and remembered that I owed you a present. Can’t imagine what the trader thought.”
Wondering if it was the same old guy that he’d traded with, Bill said, “He thought you would look pretty in it,” reaching out to stroke her hip. It was deep red heavy satin, like a rich wine, as lush as her scent. A sheer robe draped her bare arms and shoulders.
She pushed her hair back. “Not like a President?”
“Hell, no,” he said fervently.
She laid her hands on his shoulders, moving between his knees. “That’s the idea. We’re not President and Admiral for the next few hours.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. That was right. Section 2, Article 9 of their agreement: she will not be the President, he will not be the Admiral for the time encompassed in the intimate act. No discussion of their work, or references to work-related issues or items are allowed.
“I know that’s going to be hard for you this time.” She still was only touching his shoulders. “I’ll start.” She gave him a peck on the cheek, and for a moment, he was surrounded by the sweet smell of her hair, swirling with her perfume. “How was your day, honey?” She pulled off his glasses.
He met her eyes, finally. “It was pretty shitty, babe.”
Putting his glasses on her bedside table, she then unbuttoned his tunic. “How can I make you feel better?”
He shrugged half-heartedly, and she pushed the jacket off. “I dunno,” he mumbled.
She made a tsking noise, and pulled him to his feet. “Pants off,” she ordered. He dropped them, staring down at his flat boxer front with despair as he twisted out of his tanks. So, it had finally happened. His age had caught up with him. Always had been as ready as a bull in the field, but now, he was just an old cow sniffing the flowers.
Her chin propped on his shoulder, she murmured in his ear, “Get on the bed, face down.”
He did, flopping with an oomph of air, now able to line himself up on the narrow cot comfortably. Practice was making some things come easier.
Satin stroked his ribs as she straddled him to rub his shoulders. Okay, that felt pretty damn good. Strong hands for such fine bones. He sighed deeply, content for the moment.
“You are so tense,” she said in his ear, her hair tenting over his head.
“I am,” he admitted.
“Does this hurt?” she asked, moving down his torso, being careful of the bruises on his ribs.
“Noooo...” he moaned, bucking slightly against the mattress from being ticklish, finally beginning to be aroused.
Her thumbs pressed along his backbone, to the apex of his spine and ass and he openly groaned in pleasure. She pulled down his boxers to bare his butt and vigorously massaged the large muscles there. “Oh...gods,” he enthused.
“Feel good?”
“Uh huh,” he bubbled, happy as a baby.
Her hands moved up to his back again, and at first he was disappointed until her mouth replaced her hands. Her tongue traced his spine, down, down, down--“Uh,” he protested, clamping his butt tight. “Uh, that’s not really my thing.”
She chuckled against one ass cheek. “Good to see you’re paying attention. I was just checking.”
He whimpered a bit. She was picking on him. How could he feel better if she made fun of him?
Her mouth moved back up, touching each scar with just the tip of her tongue. She’d already asked to origin of each one, and he heard her murmuring their story against his skin.
“Knife fight--“
“It wasn’t a knife fight,” he protested. “A guy in a bar poked me with a cocktail spear.”
She draped across his body, taking up his hand to massage the palm until he purred. “There’s no way a cocktail spear made this big of a scar.”
“Okay, this bar used real knives for their onions, but it wasn’t some barroom brawl,” he mumbled into the coverlet.
“You were fighting for Saul--“
“No, he’d gotten into a fight and I wandered into range,” he insisted. She just didn’t understand these sorts of things. Laura Roslin, Caprican schoolteacher, probably went to wine bars with ferns and wood paneling. Not outpost watering holes, with cheap whores and cheaper booze.
“Standing up for your buddy,” she said, kneading his arm, pulling it up to pop the shoulder.
Face pressed into the mattress, he said, “Cleaning up his shit as usual.”
Her thumbs along his hairline, circling. “He’s still not back in CIC?”
She knew; she didn’t need to ask. “No.”
“He stopped Bulldog from attacking you.” Fingers pushed through his hair, rubbing behind his ears.
“After he egged him into doing it.”
Her lips were right at his ear. “Saul’s in a lot of pain.”
He bellowed, blowing her back. “I’m in a lot of pain! Got a lead pipe to the gut!” Women just didn’t understand male relationships. Now she was going to tell him to talk to Saul--
“I think you and Saul just need to sit down and have a long chat--“
“Lords,” he groaned. “Just drop it. I thought you were going to frak me, not give me a lecture.” He said this just at a break in the wireless’ music, and a deadly silence fell over the room.
End (1/4) Chapter 2>>>