fic: What They Don't Say the Military Will Teach You
Title: What They Don't Say the Military Will Teach You
Rating: T
Spoilers: through 4x04
Summary: "He's frakkin' her. Been at it for weeks now."
A/N: For angiescully, who wanted Bill and Laura and their relationship viewed through someone else's eyes (or them getting caught). And somehow this is what my brain morphed that into. So... fair warning.
What They Don't Say the Military Will Teach You
***
Etiquette
***
The official spiel was pretty much what you had expected: responsibility, loyalty, discipline-all the things you should have learned in grade school, except this time they give you a weapon that actually fires without you making a popping noise while brandishing thumb and forefinger.
The unofficial spiel is much more enlightening (and something of a pissing contest).
“He’s frakkin’ her,” the corporal to your left mumbles with his mouth full-the algae takes the form of noodles tonight, no more or less appetizing partially chewed. He says it simply, as if it’s part of the first-day-on-the-job tour: on your left, we have the DRADIS console; to the right, the strategy table and the Admiral frakking the President; and straight ahead…. “Been at it for weeks now.”
“You blame him?” someone you recognize from CIC detail chimes in. Brave of him to interject on this particular subject (rumor is the Admiral handpicks the President’s guard-unconfirmed, but still a source of contention). “Old lady’s not half bad.”
“That “old lady’s” your President.”
“So? The old man’s got the right idea. I wouldn’t mind a piece of-”
Talks-with-His-Mouth-Full’s fork pauses mid-air. “You watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” CIC tilts back in his chair, arms crossed as his feet come to rest on the table. “Your precious President’ll-”
“He loves her.”
This soft-spoken admission from the baby-faced private to your right somehow rings clearly across the entire table. Mouth-Full coughs (his neighbor thumping his back) and CIC’s chair slams to the floor-both of them staring, as if confused (or embarrassed) by that second word. Love has no business in war (so you thought) or over algae-noodles amongst Marines in the mess hall. Still, everyone’s pointedly not denying the fact; no one’s laughing it away.
“Gods, you always hafta be such a frakkin’ pansy?” Mouth-Full finally spits (along with some bits of noodles), glaring. You nearly land face-first in your plate as he nudges you with his elbow. “Whatever you do, don’t take after this guy.” He waves his fork at Babyface, who looks as though he’s trying to figure out how to dive into his plate. “Next thing you know you’ll be in frakkin’ Baltar’s sex lair giving that freak head.”
“Oh, you’d know all about that….” Fighting words, maybe, but it’s all in (relatively) good humor now. And after that, you’re a page right out of the frakking military brochure: posed laughter and backslapping, and though the caption will ooze camaraderie, the discussion itself will never in hell come into print.
Babyface makes eye contact, then quickly looks away. Mouth-Full has grown tired of harassing CIC and is continuing his version of everything-you-didn’t-know-you-needed-to-know (you should be paying attention-how the President takes her coffee may very well save the Fleet one day).
They love her-or think they do. Of course, they would never admit to it. Underneath the harsh words and territory-marking, there’s something almost like adoration that radiates in varying degrees from those assigned to her guard (you have half an idea that when they show you to your rack later, there’ll be a framed portrait straight across from the hatch; maybe some military flares as an offering on the floor underneath). She has to have them under some sort of spell-the Presidential glamour.
You vow not to let it affect you (and achieve a personal record by breaking it in eleven hours).
***
Anatomy
***
“Bill have you seen my-”
“Madam President!”
There are certainly more scientific names for it-something in some almost-dead medical language that makes it sound like a disease-but what it all comes down to is that the President, the fearless leader, the woman you’ve sworn to protect, has a great rack.
You are qualified to make such assertions because you’re currently staring at it-and averting your eyes quickly enough, you hope, but that doesn’t prevent the image from sending a surge from your brain straight down just below your waist. It’s ridiculous. The woman could be your mother (is, in effect-it’s not like you have one anymore), and you focus on the image of your own mother (swimsuit-clad that post-failed-diet-number-seven vacation to the Caprican beaches) to will your libido into check.
Obviously that crumpled, slightly crusted calendar shoved in the back of your locker isn’t quite doing the trick anymore-you need to get laid.
You had entered the Admiral’s quarters on the heels of the President’s aide, as she had (rudely) instructed. When the President had stepped into view-skirt, shoes, even hair so perfectly in place, it took you a moment (and an obvious double-take) to realize she’s missing any kind of top garment-you nearly choked on your own saliva.
Babyface looks about ready to shit himself (you have a feeling the last time he saw a pair of breasts, he appreciated them only in terms of their nutritional value).
The President handles the situation as she does just about everything else. Problem: solution-too quick even for that frakking annoying aide of hers to be of any assistance aside from the unnecessary shouting. The Admiral’s dress grays are slung over a nearby chair, and she shrugs into the jacket as if she does it all the time (1630: sign official documents; 1705: meet with the Quorum; 1900: change into nothing but the Admiral’s tanks and strut through the halls-it’s a schedule you think would work well for everyone).
“Forgive me, gentlemen, Tory.” A nod in your direction and that smooth, politically-honeyed tone. “I seem to be running late.”
“Laura? I heard….” The Admiral has his razor in hand, one cheek still slathered in shaving cream, a few drops of blood trickling from underneath his jaw.
“I’m fine. Just… entertaining the guards.”
It’s natural that it only takes the Admiral half-a-second to size up the situation. His eyes darken (protectiveness, humor, something like desire-and no wonder; his jacket looks damned good on her). Crossing the quarters, he picks up something from behind the desk (white, lacy-your pants tighten a little at the idea that you may have just had a glimpse of the Presidential undergarments) and grabs a pink shirt hanging amongst his pants and jackets in the closet.
A hand on the small of her back, head dipping down to hers, voice just loud enough to carry. “Gray’s a nice color on you.”
(A nice color off her, too.)
She reaches up to swipe at a renegade dollop of shaving cream with her thumb, wiping it on the towel slung over his shoulder and pressing her fingers to the cut on his jaw, murmuring concern. He’s batting her hand away (with a smile) as the hatch to the head shuts with both of them safely behind it-she responds with something almost a giggle that sneaks its way through.
The aide is already starting some rant about how if any of you so much as breathe a word of this….
You’re still staring at the closed hatch. They may as well have been the only ones in the room.
***
Foreign Languages
***
Either they make it look ridiculously easy or it’s really not all that difficult to begin with.
The Admiral nods as he passes you on his way into sickbay, quickens his step when he sees that she’s already packing her things, and though he’s trying to be nonchalant, the disappointment rings clear in his tone when he asks if he’s too late. He must have all her appointment times charted somewhere, never misses one unless it’s a matter of life or death. Still, there’s always surprise, almost a childish delight, in her tone when she greets him-as if she steels herself for the disappointment of loneliness so that his (more than) companionship is all the sweeter.
Their voices echo so that you only catch odd words-his favorite, her breathless Searider Falcon (you think you remember paging through that once in the War College library; some frakking idiot had torn out the end)-but that hardly matters. You wonder what they’d say if they knew you’ve spent enough time following them around (or that they’ve spent enough time together) that you can read the two of them just as well as he can any of his books.
There’s a second of silence, the awkward moment obviously carrying, because they’re discussing Baltar when they step out into the hallway. He’s carrying his book and her bag-a schoolboy-ish gesture-and their arms brush and bump without either of them giving it any thought (or maybe craving the contact) as they continue down the hall.
They speak of insurrection, religion (skewed semantics: what they say and what they are saying is not the same thing); they move with comfortable care, practiced affection. She calls him Bill, takes his arm as they mount a small staircase and then must forget to let go-it makes sense: there are more stairs further on (it makes sense: neither of them seem to want to).
When you arrive at his (their) quarters, she remains only a moment, finishing their conversation and then brushing against you as she ascends that final step and turns down the hall, murmuring an apology. Dear Diary, writes the thirteen-year-old girl that seems to have taken up residence more and more inside you lately, Today the President touched my arm. Touched it. My arm.
The butt of a rifle hits against your side-it’s probably a good thing Mouth-Full is with you today, glaring disapproval in this moment but otherwise fully focused on his work (and yours).
One last glance back: the Admiral has approached the hatch-to shut it, you think, but he hasn’t yet; just waits and watches her walk away.
If you didn’t know any better or believed in such things… this would be lo-
Mouth-Full’s rifle makes contact again, harder. The frakker. You’ll have a bruise.
***
Aesthetics
***
It’s unlike the President to not be at the ready, immediately answering the hatch at that first knock when there’s a scheduled pick-up. You try again, wait, glance to the quarter’s guards, who only shrug. Maybe you should call, come back later. The hatch opens when you try it. Babyface refuses to follow.
“Oh!”
Your brain splits-two thoughts simultaneously: Frak, not again and please dear Gods, yes…. And still you’re able to bolt to attention, stammer out the beginnings of an apology and ready yourself for the zing of her eyes first landing on you (and your father thought you’d never learn to multitask). Except, you suddenly realize, there’s a good chance she hasn’t even noticed you’re there.
The scene falls together piece by piece-a work of art that is too overwhelming in its energy and composition to be grasped all at once. The sections of the triptych are this: sight blending with sound and tumbling away to realization.
(Frame One: Leaning) The President of the Twelve Colonies is perched on the edge of the Admiral’s rack, one hand behind her, supporting her weight as her head tips back, the other still holding a shoe she must not have had time to put on. Your eyes follow the long line of her neck, skimming over the two still-done buttons at the top of her blouse to the expanse laid bare by the gap (and the hand) below.
(Frame Two: Aural Introduction) That hand drawing soft patterns, slowly working its way up her stomach, the other on her knee, squeezing tenderly. Jerking but not losing its grip on her shoe, her hand comes to rest on the side of his head, stroking through the hair there, and he makes a low sound of approval that she echoes in a hum. Not a mirage, then-this is real, this is-
(Frame Three: Legs) Fully-uniformed, the Admiral is kneeling between the President’s thighs, tasting the skin there, lifting her shoeless foot (tickling, because she laughs softly), he raises it onto his shoulder. You’ve never been much of one for legs, but you’ve also never had the pleasure of seeing this far up a certain President’s thighs. You’re thinking of changing religions: Our Lady of the Gams-you can probably have a few thousand followers within the hour (Baltar will be jealous).
“I’m going to be late.”
And you get the sex voice? Dear Gods….
“So?”
The Admiral’s isn’t half bad either, though Gods forbid anyone else discovers that thought.
“The Quor-” A hitching breath easing into laughter. “-rum will be waiting.”
“So let them.”
“Politicians aren’t the most patient-”
“Ow!” The Admiral lifts a hand to his neck, rubbing at the spot where her shoe clipped him as it fell from her hand and clattered to the floor. “Forget the closet-you should keep those in an arms locker.”
Her eyes are open-shock and a hint of embarrassment melting almost immediately to court martials and airlocks-boring straight through you. Whether it’s that look or her sudden tenseness or that they’ve probably managed to have a conversation in complete sentences without saying a word-the Admiral understands, quickly standing and turning to shield her with a protectiveness fiercer than any found in the wild (and you’re such a frakking moron, you don’t even have the presence of mind to stutter out an explanation or turn away). The President appreciates the gesture (almost a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth as she rises behind him, bending to retrieve her shoe, a hand on his elbow to steady herself as she puts it on), but she’s not about to let herself seem vulnerable in any situation.
That their combined glare hasn’t yet destroyed the Cylons is unfathomable (that you’ve managed to keep control of your bladder, equally so). The Admiral’s voice is dangerously calm (his hand on her elbow now, whispering something no one can hear and only they understand). “Come back in twenty. Not a minute before.”
Your voice, when you find it and manage to mumble an affirmation, cracks like a teenager’s-which might help your case, because the President’s frown seems to soften. Twenty minutes. Not five or two or we’ll be out in a moment. You risk a glance behind you on your way out the hatch-he has one of her hands in both of his, tugs the palm to his lips; she caresses his cheek, presses her face to his chest.
You shut the hatch with surprisingly steady hands, shaking off Babyface’s questions as you take up a post on the opposite side of the hall.
Responsibility, loyalty, discipline-
***
Love.
Rating: T
Spoilers: through 4x04
Summary: "He's frakkin' her. Been at it for weeks now."
A/N: For angiescully, who wanted Bill and Laura and their relationship viewed through someone else's eyes (or them getting caught). And somehow this is what my brain morphed that into. So... fair warning.
What They Don't Say the Military Will Teach You
***
Etiquette
***
The official spiel was pretty much what you had expected: responsibility, loyalty, discipline-all the things you should have learned in grade school, except this time they give you a weapon that actually fires without you making a popping noise while brandishing thumb and forefinger.
The unofficial spiel is much more enlightening (and something of a pissing contest).
“He’s frakkin’ her,” the corporal to your left mumbles with his mouth full-the algae takes the form of noodles tonight, no more or less appetizing partially chewed. He says it simply, as if it’s part of the first-day-on-the-job tour: on your left, we have the DRADIS console; to the right, the strategy table and the Admiral frakking the President; and straight ahead…. “Been at it for weeks now.”
“You blame him?” someone you recognize from CIC detail chimes in. Brave of him to interject on this particular subject (rumor is the Admiral handpicks the President’s guard-unconfirmed, but still a source of contention). “Old lady’s not half bad.”
“That “old lady’s” your President.”
“So? The old man’s got the right idea. I wouldn’t mind a piece of-”
Talks-with-His-Mouth-Full’s fork pauses mid-air. “You watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” CIC tilts back in his chair, arms crossed as his feet come to rest on the table. “Your precious President’ll-”
“He loves her.”
This soft-spoken admission from the baby-faced private to your right somehow rings clearly across the entire table. Mouth-Full coughs (his neighbor thumping his back) and CIC’s chair slams to the floor-both of them staring, as if confused (or embarrassed) by that second word. Love has no business in war (so you thought) or over algae-noodles amongst Marines in the mess hall. Still, everyone’s pointedly not denying the fact; no one’s laughing it away.
“Gods, you always hafta be such a frakkin’ pansy?” Mouth-Full finally spits (along with some bits of noodles), glaring. You nearly land face-first in your plate as he nudges you with his elbow. “Whatever you do, don’t take after this guy.” He waves his fork at Babyface, who looks as though he’s trying to figure out how to dive into his plate. “Next thing you know you’ll be in frakkin’ Baltar’s sex lair giving that freak head.”
“Oh, you’d know all about that….” Fighting words, maybe, but it’s all in (relatively) good humor now. And after that, you’re a page right out of the frakking military brochure: posed laughter and backslapping, and though the caption will ooze camaraderie, the discussion itself will never in hell come into print.
Babyface makes eye contact, then quickly looks away. Mouth-Full has grown tired of harassing CIC and is continuing his version of everything-you-didn’t-know-you-needed-to-know (you should be paying attention-how the President takes her coffee may very well save the Fleet one day).
They love her-or think they do. Of course, they would never admit to it. Underneath the harsh words and territory-marking, there’s something almost like adoration that radiates in varying degrees from those assigned to her guard (you have half an idea that when they show you to your rack later, there’ll be a framed portrait straight across from the hatch; maybe some military flares as an offering on the floor underneath). She has to have them under some sort of spell-the Presidential glamour.
You vow not to let it affect you (and achieve a personal record by breaking it in eleven hours).
***
Anatomy
***
“Bill have you seen my-”
“Madam President!”
There are certainly more scientific names for it-something in some almost-dead medical language that makes it sound like a disease-but what it all comes down to is that the President, the fearless leader, the woman you’ve sworn to protect, has a great rack.
You are qualified to make such assertions because you’re currently staring at it-and averting your eyes quickly enough, you hope, but that doesn’t prevent the image from sending a surge from your brain straight down just below your waist. It’s ridiculous. The woman could be your mother (is, in effect-it’s not like you have one anymore), and you focus on the image of your own mother (swimsuit-clad that post-failed-diet-number-seven vacation to the Caprican beaches) to will your libido into check.
Obviously that crumpled, slightly crusted calendar shoved in the back of your locker isn’t quite doing the trick anymore-you need to get laid.
You had entered the Admiral’s quarters on the heels of the President’s aide, as she had (rudely) instructed. When the President had stepped into view-skirt, shoes, even hair so perfectly in place, it took you a moment (and an obvious double-take) to realize she’s missing any kind of top garment-you nearly choked on your own saliva.
Babyface looks about ready to shit himself (you have a feeling the last time he saw a pair of breasts, he appreciated them only in terms of their nutritional value).
The President handles the situation as she does just about everything else. Problem: solution-too quick even for that frakking annoying aide of hers to be of any assistance aside from the unnecessary shouting. The Admiral’s dress grays are slung over a nearby chair, and she shrugs into the jacket as if she does it all the time (1630: sign official documents; 1705: meet with the Quorum; 1900: change into nothing but the Admiral’s tanks and strut through the halls-it’s a schedule you think would work well for everyone).
“Forgive me, gentlemen, Tory.” A nod in your direction and that smooth, politically-honeyed tone. “I seem to be running late.”
“Laura? I heard….” The Admiral has his razor in hand, one cheek still slathered in shaving cream, a few drops of blood trickling from underneath his jaw.
“I’m fine. Just… entertaining the guards.”
It’s natural that it only takes the Admiral half-a-second to size up the situation. His eyes darken (protectiveness, humor, something like desire-and no wonder; his jacket looks damned good on her). Crossing the quarters, he picks up something from behind the desk (white, lacy-your pants tighten a little at the idea that you may have just had a glimpse of the Presidential undergarments) and grabs a pink shirt hanging amongst his pants and jackets in the closet.
A hand on the small of her back, head dipping down to hers, voice just loud enough to carry. “Gray’s a nice color on you.”
(A nice color off her, too.)
She reaches up to swipe at a renegade dollop of shaving cream with her thumb, wiping it on the towel slung over his shoulder and pressing her fingers to the cut on his jaw, murmuring concern. He’s batting her hand away (with a smile) as the hatch to the head shuts with both of them safely behind it-she responds with something almost a giggle that sneaks its way through.
The aide is already starting some rant about how if any of you so much as breathe a word of this….
You’re still staring at the closed hatch. They may as well have been the only ones in the room.
***
Foreign Languages
***
Either they make it look ridiculously easy or it’s really not all that difficult to begin with.
The Admiral nods as he passes you on his way into sickbay, quickens his step when he sees that she’s already packing her things, and though he’s trying to be nonchalant, the disappointment rings clear in his tone when he asks if he’s too late. He must have all her appointment times charted somewhere, never misses one unless it’s a matter of life or death. Still, there’s always surprise, almost a childish delight, in her tone when she greets him-as if she steels herself for the disappointment of loneliness so that his (more than) companionship is all the sweeter.
Their voices echo so that you only catch odd words-his favorite, her breathless Searider Falcon (you think you remember paging through that once in the War College library; some frakking idiot had torn out the end)-but that hardly matters. You wonder what they’d say if they knew you’ve spent enough time following them around (or that they’ve spent enough time together) that you can read the two of them just as well as he can any of his books.
There’s a second of silence, the awkward moment obviously carrying, because they’re discussing Baltar when they step out into the hallway. He’s carrying his book and her bag-a schoolboy-ish gesture-and their arms brush and bump without either of them giving it any thought (or maybe craving the contact) as they continue down the hall.
They speak of insurrection, religion (skewed semantics: what they say and what they are saying is not the same thing); they move with comfortable care, practiced affection. She calls him Bill, takes his arm as they mount a small staircase and then must forget to let go-it makes sense: there are more stairs further on (it makes sense: neither of them seem to want to).
When you arrive at his (their) quarters, she remains only a moment, finishing their conversation and then brushing against you as she ascends that final step and turns down the hall, murmuring an apology. Dear Diary, writes the thirteen-year-old girl that seems to have taken up residence more and more inside you lately, Today the President touched my arm. Touched it. My arm.
The butt of a rifle hits against your side-it’s probably a good thing Mouth-Full is with you today, glaring disapproval in this moment but otherwise fully focused on his work (and yours).
One last glance back: the Admiral has approached the hatch-to shut it, you think, but he hasn’t yet; just waits and watches her walk away.
If you didn’t know any better or believed in such things… this would be lo-
Mouth-Full’s rifle makes contact again, harder. The frakker. You’ll have a bruise.
***
Aesthetics
***
It’s unlike the President to not be at the ready, immediately answering the hatch at that first knock when there’s a scheduled pick-up. You try again, wait, glance to the quarter’s guards, who only shrug. Maybe you should call, come back later. The hatch opens when you try it. Babyface refuses to follow.
“Oh!”
Your brain splits-two thoughts simultaneously: Frak, not again and please dear Gods, yes…. And still you’re able to bolt to attention, stammer out the beginnings of an apology and ready yourself for the zing of her eyes first landing on you (and your father thought you’d never learn to multitask). Except, you suddenly realize, there’s a good chance she hasn’t even noticed you’re there.
The scene falls together piece by piece-a work of art that is too overwhelming in its energy and composition to be grasped all at once. The sections of the triptych are this: sight blending with sound and tumbling away to realization.
(Frame One: Leaning) The President of the Twelve Colonies is perched on the edge of the Admiral’s rack, one hand behind her, supporting her weight as her head tips back, the other still holding a shoe she must not have had time to put on. Your eyes follow the long line of her neck, skimming over the two still-done buttons at the top of her blouse to the expanse laid bare by the gap (and the hand) below.
(Frame Two: Aural Introduction) That hand drawing soft patterns, slowly working its way up her stomach, the other on her knee, squeezing tenderly. Jerking but not losing its grip on her shoe, her hand comes to rest on the side of his head, stroking through the hair there, and he makes a low sound of approval that she echoes in a hum. Not a mirage, then-this is real, this is-
(Frame Three: Legs) Fully-uniformed, the Admiral is kneeling between the President’s thighs, tasting the skin there, lifting her shoeless foot (tickling, because she laughs softly), he raises it onto his shoulder. You’ve never been much of one for legs, but you’ve also never had the pleasure of seeing this far up a certain President’s thighs. You’re thinking of changing religions: Our Lady of the Gams-you can probably have a few thousand followers within the hour (Baltar will be jealous).
“I’m going to be late.”
And you get the sex voice? Dear Gods….
“So?”
The Admiral’s isn’t half bad either, though Gods forbid anyone else discovers that thought.
“The Quor-” A hitching breath easing into laughter. “-rum will be waiting.”
“So let them.”
“Politicians aren’t the most patient-”
“Ow!” The Admiral lifts a hand to his neck, rubbing at the spot where her shoe clipped him as it fell from her hand and clattered to the floor. “Forget the closet-you should keep those in an arms locker.”
Her eyes are open-shock and a hint of embarrassment melting almost immediately to court martials and airlocks-boring straight through you. Whether it’s that look or her sudden tenseness or that they’ve probably managed to have a conversation in complete sentences without saying a word-the Admiral understands, quickly standing and turning to shield her with a protectiveness fiercer than any found in the wild (and you’re such a frakking moron, you don’t even have the presence of mind to stutter out an explanation or turn away). The President appreciates the gesture (almost a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth as she rises behind him, bending to retrieve her shoe, a hand on his elbow to steady herself as she puts it on), but she’s not about to let herself seem vulnerable in any situation.
That their combined glare hasn’t yet destroyed the Cylons is unfathomable (that you’ve managed to keep control of your bladder, equally so). The Admiral’s voice is dangerously calm (his hand on her elbow now, whispering something no one can hear and only they understand). “Come back in twenty. Not a minute before.”
Your voice, when you find it and manage to mumble an affirmation, cracks like a teenager’s-which might help your case, because the President’s frown seems to soften. Twenty minutes. Not five or two or we’ll be out in a moment. You risk a glance behind you on your way out the hatch-he has one of her hands in both of his, tugs the palm to his lips; she caresses his cheek, presses her face to his chest.
You shut the hatch with surprisingly steady hands, shaking off Babyface’s questions as you take up a post on the opposite side of the hall.
Responsibility, loyalty, discipline-
***
Love.