Stop the clocks and dress the public doves in white
for ar_drabbles challenge #11, Bill's Tauron heritage. And because I dared bsg_aussiegirl.
Kara Thrace's funeral was a dress grays, medals and gloves affair, even though the guest of honor was there in spirit only. Though protocol called for the admiral to escort the president off his ship at the end of the ceremony, Laura walked Bill back to his quarters.
She cleaned up the lingering traces of his drunken rage, picking up pieces of wood and gathering empty bottles.
He removed his sash, unfastened the top of his jacket, then joined her at the service cart and poured two glasses of water. He sipped his as he walked to the couch.
"You should take off your gloves," Laura reminded him.
"No."
She picked up her own glass and drank, waiting Bill out.
"When my mother and sister were killed, my father and I wore black gloves for weeks. Horrible, itchy things. As if it weren't hard enough being called a dirt-eater, having people stare at the poor boy whose family was torn apart…"
"I thought your father didn't do Tauron things."
"It was the first. Before he told me our real name. Even he didn't really understand it, something about keeping away the world."
She put a hand on his arm. He shrugged it off.
"Kara believed. I have to do something."
"It's time to take off the gloves."
"Not yet."
"You've been wearing them since you were eleven. You keep the world away and you grieve. How's that been working out for you, Bill?"
"It's all I know."
"Go with what you know until something better comes along?" she quoted him to himself.
"Yeah."
Laura closed the distance between them and took his hands in her own. She peeled the gloves off his left hand and then his right and pulled his head down to rest against her breasts. "Something has."
Kara Thrace's funeral was a dress grays, medals and gloves affair, even though the guest of honor was there in spirit only. Though protocol called for the admiral to escort the president off his ship at the end of the ceremony, Laura walked Bill back to his quarters.
She cleaned up the lingering traces of his drunken rage, picking up pieces of wood and gathering empty bottles.
He removed his sash, unfastened the top of his jacket, then joined her at the service cart and poured two glasses of water. He sipped his as he walked to the couch.
"You should take off your gloves," Laura reminded him.
"No."
She picked up her own glass and drank, waiting Bill out.
"When my mother and sister were killed, my father and I wore black gloves for weeks. Horrible, itchy things. As if it weren't hard enough being called a dirt-eater, having people stare at the poor boy whose family was torn apart…"
"I thought your father didn't do Tauron things."
"It was the first. Before he told me our real name. Even he didn't really understand it, something about keeping away the world."
She put a hand on his arm. He shrugged it off.
"Kara believed. I have to do something."
"It's time to take off the gloves."
"Not yet."
"You've been wearing them since you were eleven. You keep the world away and you grieve. How's that been working out for you, Bill?"
"It's all I know."
"Go with what you know until something better comes along?" she quoted him to himself.
"Yeah."
Laura closed the distance between them and took his hands in her own. She peeled the gloves off his left hand and then his right and pulled his head down to rest against her breasts. "Something has."