Fic: Shadow Twists (BSG: Bill Adama; K+, 1/5)
Title: Shadow Twists (1/5)
Author: Trialia
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Rating: K+
Word Count (ch1): 190
Beta: cincoflex
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Bill Adama. Implied Roslin/Adama for this chapter.
Spoilers (ch1): Resurrection Ship
Summary: Five times Bill Adama prayed to the gods he didn't believe existed. (For unavitasegreta.)
A/N: Took my new meds before bed, and somehow, as I was feeling like a smushed pancake, I had a little spark of inspiration. I'm working on four stories at once here - this is not a good thing in my eyes! ;-P But posting this doesn't mean I'm not going to finish the other fics I'm writing. Title is from Pablo Neruda's A Song of Despair.
It's hard not to stare at her. She makes a pretty picture, curled into her leather armchair, arms wrapped around herself, with those sublime legs (you know she's caught you looking) drawn up, shoes long discarded. She always takes them off as soon as opportunity allows (you tried high heels at a party once, years ago, so you can understand why).
Her posture betrays how tired she is; she leans heavily against the back of the tall seat. She looks cold, tiny frame huddled inside her draping brown suit jacket. If you could, you'd offer to go over there (so near, so far) and warm her.
Her grey-green eyes still hold their impish, youthful sparkle; her warm, sensually-curved lips still turn up in that lovely smile. There's a slight pallor to her skin. Aside from that, she looks almost the picture of health.
How can someone so vivid, so beautifully alive, be dying?
You've never believed in the gods, but here, looking at Laura, you can't help wishing you could ask them for just one thing. (However inappropriate.)
Lords of Kobol, please, don't take her away from me. Not yet.
-tbc
Author: Trialia
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Rating: K+
Word Count (ch1): 190
Beta: cincoflex
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Bill Adama. Implied Roslin/Adama for this chapter.
Spoilers (ch1): Resurrection Ship
Summary: Five times Bill Adama prayed to the gods he didn't believe existed. (For unavitasegreta.)
A/N: Took my new meds before bed, and somehow, as I was feeling like a smushed pancake, I had a little spark of inspiration. I'm working on four stories at once here - this is not a good thing in my eyes! ;-P But posting this doesn't mean I'm not going to finish the other fics I'm writing. Title is from Pablo Neruda's A Song of Despair.
It's hard not to stare at her. She makes a pretty picture, curled into her leather armchair, arms wrapped around herself, with those sublime legs (you know she's caught you looking) drawn up, shoes long discarded. She always takes them off as soon as opportunity allows (you tried high heels at a party once, years ago, so you can understand why).
Her posture betrays how tired she is; she leans heavily against the back of the tall seat. She looks cold, tiny frame huddled inside her draping brown suit jacket. If you could, you'd offer to go over there (so near, so far) and warm her.
Her grey-green eyes still hold their impish, youthful sparkle; her warm, sensually-curved lips still turn up in that lovely smile. There's a slight pallor to her skin. Aside from that, she looks almost the picture of health.
How can someone so vivid, so beautifully alive, be dying?
You've never believed in the gods, but here, looking at Laura, you can't help wishing you could ask them for just one thing. (However inappropriate.)
Lords of Kobol, please, don't take her away from me. Not yet.
-tbc