Slide 12: Of Giving and Gifts

Laura Roslin sat at the back of Bill Adama’s rack, her back against the bulkheads, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Her toes just peeked out from under the hem of her robe, which pooled around her.

Bill sat near, at the edge of the bed, turned slightly toward her. His gaze was downcast, his shoulders bowed with tension, and his heart … it was obviously heavy.

Laura understood why. It had been a difficult day. Four of the five of his crew injured in the raptor crash had died or succumbed to injuries. One remained in sickbay, hanging on by a thread and Cottle didn’t expect him to last the night.

Bill hated losing any one of his crew, but especially like this, in a non-combat situation. It just seemed so senseless.

“Do you know what happened?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. “Nothing confirmed yet. The chief’s working on the details,” he replied. “But it appears to have been an engine malfunction. I’ve grounded all raptor flights until I can have them checked out.”

“Bet that went over well with Baltar.”

“Frak, Baltar,” Bill muttered harshly then glanced at her and offered his apologies.

“My fault,” Laura conceded as she reached out a hand and touched his arm. “I shouldn’t have brought him up.” And she shouldn’t have. The so-called president had no place here now, not even by mention of name.

Bill’s gaze drifted away from her again and refocused on the floor. He took a slow, deep breath and sighed heavily on exhale. A hand came up then and he rubbed his brow before pulling off his glasses.

Laura watched him, her heart breaking at seeing a tear suddenly slip from his eye. He viciously wiped it away before it made it very far then quickly put his spectacles back on. He was up on his feet in the seconds that followed, made his way over to the service cart and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He downed it in two swallows, refilled the glass and stared into the amber liquid, looking for what, she did not know.

When he continued to just stand there, she ventured a soft “Bill?”

In response, he sighed and downed the whiskey again, grimacing at the burning trail it undoubtedly made down his throat. He then returned the glass to the cart and wandered to the lavatory, unbuttoning his jacket as he went.

From her perch on the bed, Laura watched him toss his glasses on the counter. He then reached for the door as if to shut it, but didn’t. Instead he resumed disrobing, hands going for the buckle on his belt as he stepped further into the small bathroom and out of view.

Laura waited only a few minutes before rising to follow him, recognizing his unspoken need and invitation, and that she could only accept.

He’d shed his boots and was stripping off his tanks when she entered. She stepped up behind him and lent a hand. Once the shirts were off and discarded in the direction of the hamper, he turned to face her.

His eyes searched hers, stormy blue seas seeking understanding, permission. She gave both without hesitation and was quickly swallowed up in a kiss and strong arms. She could taste his grief and swallowed his fury. She understood both, her experience in sickbay having left her equally raw emotionally, and just as hungry for a connection.

It began like their first time, needful, emotionally taut. But in time it eased, gentled and became something else. Something soft … so soft.

Thick fingers diligently unbelted her robe, guided it down and off her shoulders, let it drop to the floor. Broad hands then rose over her back to the straps of her nightgown. Ever so slowly, he eased them down her arms, the rest of the garment following a similar course from her body, falling to join her robe.

His warm mouth descended to her breasts, found her ready. She melted on his tongue, delved her hands into his hair with a breathy moan of his name.

He took her mouth again, a hand gently laid aside her face, caressing as his lips slid over hers. Gratitude flavored this kiss, and desire, and more. And then they were moving, not to the shower as she’d expected, but out of the lavatory and toward his bed.

Yes, she thought. “Yes,” she murmured, hands taking hold of his face, eyes seeking out his and finding them open and unguarded, filled with…

“Yes,” he echoed, arms winding around her, drawing her against him and into yet another kiss, deep and fevered.

Laura welcomed the feel of his bed at her back and of him above her, the feel of his emerging stubble against the sensitive skin of her neck and breasts, and the bold caresses of his hands to every place he could reach. She clutched at his back and arms as heat rushed through her, relished the strength she felt in him, the smoothness of his skin. She arched under him when he grasped her hips and angled her and gasped loudly when he pushed inside.

He watched her as he moved, a hand aside her face, the other taking station at her waist, steadying her against his repeated invasions. Laura accepted each one, surrendered without condition, letting him take what he wanted and give them what they both needed.

It still wasn’t how she always imagined it would be, but it was what the gods allowed them and it was beautiful in its own right, a physical manifestation of the trust that bound them, an altar for the feelings they kept so closely guarded around others. There would be no regrets, no awkwardness when it was done because it was fitting. It was exactly as it should be, an answer to a yet-to-be-uttered prayer.

Hands sliding up and into his hair, Laura lifted her head and captured his lips in a kiss, the act sending him careening into her one last time. They both cried out, mouths breaking apart, bodies shuddering with enough force to rattle their aging bones. With a long, deep moan, she let her head fall back and he followed, burying his face in her neck with a rasp of her name.

Sometime later, Laura lay awake in the small bunk with Bill spooned at her back. They had been that way for a while, hands linked and cradled between her breasts. He rested his head close to hers, chin on her shoulder. Every now and then, he would nuzzle into her neck and deposit a soft kiss, a sweetness in the act that stirred Laura in more ways than she could count.

Feeling him move from his perch, she prepared herself for the warm rush of his breath across her skin then the gentle pressing of his lips. Instead, she heard a whisper.

“I saw you earlier in sickbay.”

“You did?” she replied. “I didn’t know you were there.”

The kiss came then, to the rim of her ear. It was followed by another, to her cheek as he craned to reach her face. He tightened his fingers around hers.

“Thank you,” he murmured. The words were heartfelt.

Laura turned her head toward him, touched and yet not entirely comfortable with the gratitude he expressed. She hadn’t really done much and she told Bill so.

His hand leaving hers, he touched her face, fingers skimming along her cheek. Gently, he cupped her jaw and pressed his brow to her temple, whispered, “You did more than you know.”

“Bill…” she began only to have him silence her with a brush of his thumb across her lips.

He spoke low then, directly into her ear, his voice nigh unto breaking with emotion. “Laura Roslin,” he rasped, “you could have given him no greater gift.”

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