Homeworld of the Gods

It was cold. So cold, and damp.

Laura was going to be so glad when they got back to the fleet. She could could not get warm here and the cold seemed cumulative, making her colder by the day, so cold that she was almost resigned to never being warm again.

As she huddled, shivering under the makeshift tent, bundled in a single blanket and leaned against the tree and fell of limbs that was supposed to shelter her from some of the wind, she wondered if the weather had been better when the gods resided on this world. If so, she wished one of them would have mercy on their designated dying leader and turn up the heat a little and stop the rain for a night.

They didn’t. The gods loved torturing their servants it seemed, for it continued to rain and the temperature dropped as darkness descended in full.

She wished they could build a fire. The forest was inky black at night, only a great shadow filled with darker shadows. She could see nothing really unless it was directly in front of her, which made her start at every little sound that stood out against the fall of raindrops on the tarp over her head and the leaves in the canopy above and on the forest floor.

Not for the first time in the last few days did she wish Elosha was still with her. Something told her that the priest would have been a calming influence even under these conditions. She would miss the woman dearly and found tears welling at the unfairness of the gods having chosen another servant to die, rather than, say, Tom Zarek. Then Laura scolded herself for that thought.

He had lost on this world, too, a friend, even if that friend had meant to kill someone in their party. She suspected Tom was to blame for that on some level, the intent to assassinate, but she had no proof, and his surprise at his friend’s actions and shock of his death had been real enough. So had the cylon’s declaration of independence from programming as she’d pointed a gun at Bill Adama’s head.

Oh, gods, she could not have borne that, seeing him gunned down in front of her eyes, those of his son and Kara Thrace, or the others of his crew. If the cylon had succeeded, she wasn’t sure a part of her wouldn’t have begged for the same because she could not lead this fleet without him.

She needed him. She realized that now. She needed his strength, needed his wisdom, and the friendship he’d offered her on this world. He was changed somehow, his brush with death making him seem no longer brittle and unbendable, and yet he’d lost none of his strength of will.

Laura did not need a vision from the gods or chamallla to know that he would see the fleet to the end of the journey, with or without her. The gods had chosen wisely in him, and she now regretted their not having come to an understanding sooner. She would have liked to know him better than the time she had left was going to allow.

She liked this Commander Adama, though she supposed that was unfair to say. He was not an entirely different man than the one she’d known before, just no longer closed off and embittered. He had come here offering forgiveness to herself, his son, and Thrace, no strings attached.

That was a marvel to her, in some ways, more a marvel than what had happened today in the Tomb of Athena. Human beings rarely forgave so fully or without condition. But Bill Adama had yesterday. She was sure of that as she’d talked with him late into the night last night, while the others slept nearby save the sentry.

Exhausted, she’d fallen asleep to the sound of his voice but she’d woken alone the following morning, finding him up and about and conversing with his son, Thrace, and the cylon on how best to approach the Tomb. It had been a long walk to the top and back down, and she knew they’d made camp only because she’d grown weary and the commander … Bill, had noticed.

As a sudden gust of wind buffeted the wood behind her, she was grateful for the barrier it provided. Though not impenetrable, it kept most of it off her, keeping her from getting colder than she was.

The sound of footfalls accompanied the wind. Even though she knew it was likely the commander, Captain Apollo or Kara Thrace, because they were the only ones who would approach her, she still tensed, fearful after the day’s gunplay and still concerned about Zarek’s role. He would dare, she thought. Whether she was dying or not, he would dare.

A shadow fell across the open side of the shelter, darker than the blackness of the forest beyond, but she didn’t recognize who it was, the silhouette obscured by something the figure was carrying. She held still as the person placed their burden at the opposite end of the shelter — branches, she realized, to further shield the wind from another side. She knew from the heavy grunts and pauses as he worked that the person shoring up the shelter was Bill.

“Bill?” she said softly.

“It’s going to drop off colder tonight,” he rumbled in the darkness, his voice low so it wouldn’t carry far. “We’re insulating as much as possible.”

“Thank you,” she told him.

“You sleep on the inside tonight,” he said in reply. “I’m going to put more branches on that side.”

Laura nodded even though she knew he couldn’t see her. He proceeded as if he had, though, telling her that he would be bringing rations when he was done but to stay warm until then.

“Okay,” she answered into the darkness and clutched the Book of Pythia tightly to her as she huddled her body tighter for warmth.

She listened then as he came back and forth to the shelter, laying more branches behind her, and the wind was cut further by his doing so. She sent up a prayer of thanks to the gods, feeling the drafts lessen by the minute as he moved quietly around outside, even laying branches against the side of the tarp that was staked to the ground, insulating from that side as well.

More branches were added at the opposite end again. Then she heard a tarp being unfolded, the sound of the material sliding against itself distinct in the night. The material above her bowed and flexed as he affixed the new tarp over the top of the one already in place, adding more insulation and a flap over the front side. She was thankful for the loss of the draft from that side, but sad at knowing her gain was due to the loss of life on this journey. That she lamented, even Myers, Zarek’s man.

If they could make it back to the fleet with no more loss of life, she would be grateful beyond words. She sent up a prayer to the gods that they would grant that, not for her personal joy but because the human race needed every soul that was left.

It was quiet after a bit, as Bill’s footsteps moved away from the shelter. She could tell by his gait as he trudged up the hill — it was slower than usual. She hoped he would rest soon. He undoubtedly needed to. He couldn’t possibly have been back on his feet for more than a few days after very nearly lost his own life to a pair of bullets from a cylon assassin. She’d seen the wound on his chest in sickbay. He’d been sawed practically in half in the effort to save him. He had to be hurting from all the exertion he’d just put out to make the shelter as warm as possible for the night.

She chided herself as she thought about it. She should have gotten up and helped him. She might be dying, but she didn’t have a big, barely healed gash down her chest. Most she could cop to at the moment was a bit of an ache in her left breast and being cold, and neither of those should have stopped her from helping, and it might have even helped the latter.

When Laura heard Bill’s footfalls approaching again, she found herself letting out a sigh of relief and she felt herself relax even further when he pulled the flap aside and passed a pair of blankets to her before easing inside himself.

They had a fair amount of room for the two of them, but she stayed against the tree while he pulled the flap back down and moved to the far end of the shelter to secure it with a stake, using a rock to beat the stake into the ground. He then shifted to secure the other end with the rock, weighing down the end.

When he was done, he moved shifted away from the tarp then and began to shed his jacket. It was wet. He tossed it to the lower end of the shelter so the water would run off it and out. His outer shirt went next, then the dark turtleneck, until he was bare-chested.

He handed her the clothing, which smelled of the woods and him.

She wasn’t sure why he was stripping down, but she didn’t say a word, just held the garments, keeping them off the floor of the shelter so they wouldn’t soak up the wetness coming off his outer clothing, waiting in the darkness as he shed his boots, then finally his pants, handing them to her as well, and tanks.

He was winded by the time he was done but gave her an explanation. “I need to cool down and dry off before I put them back on,” he said on huffing breaths. “Or I’ll end up with hypothermia.”

With the flap closed, it was dark, darker than it had been before, and it took several minutes for her eyes to adjust enough to make out the details of him.

He was sitting not far from her, his hands braced on his knees, his head hanging as he slowly regained control of his breathing. He had smudges of dirt here and there on his face, and a cut on his cheek, probably from one of the branches. She wondered if he had a first aid kit, asked.

He looked over at her. His brow was knitted in concern. “You need one?”

She smiled at that, shook her head, even if she wasn’t sure he could see her or not. “You do,” she said. “Your cheek is cut.”

His frown fell away and he let out a little chuckle. “That’s nothing,” his voice rumbled in the darkness and she watched his hand move to his chest, touch it gingerly, his dog tags jingling as they swayed from his neck.

Even in the dark, she could see the scar, it was darker than the rest of his skin. She imagined it a bright pink weal in the light of day and winced at the prospect.

“Hurting?” she asked.

“It’s just an ache,” he said, his tone one of dismissal. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it. He looked back over at her. “There are rations and a canteen wrapped up in the blankets,” his tone softer now, but annoyed when he added, “I need to take something,” as he reached for his trousers, which she held in her hands.

While he fished in his pockets for what she assumed was medication, she patted the area beside her, making sure it was dry enough to lay their things. It was, and she set them beside her, tilting on her hip to reach further over to gauge how far it extended. It was dry as far as she could reach. That was good.

Setting his clothes over behind him, she opened the blankets beside her and found the rations and the canteen. She unscrewed the cap on the canteen when she heard him opening a bottle of medication, a sound she was all too familiar with, then handed it to him. He took it and drank, washing the medicine down.

He let out a huge sigh afterward and handed the canteen back to her. She traded a ration for it, drinking as he opened the nondescript packet and bit into a wafer.

Capping the canteen, she opened her own ration and devoured it, hungrier than she’d apparently thought.

“How are you feeling?” he asked suddenly in the shadows.

“I’m okay,” she told him, but she felt his eyes on her, assessing. He knew she wasn’t okay, just as she did. He was trying to determine how big of a lie she’d just told.

“Are you dry?” he asked then.

She was, except for her feet and she told him. In response, he reached for the foot nearest him, took it in a gentle grip and began unlacing her boot. “Need to get them dry so you don’t catch cold,” he rumbled, as he slipped it off, then her sock. He briskly rubbed her bare toes in his hands, working his way down to her heel. He tucked it against the blessed warmth of his body then, slipping her toes beneath his bare thigh as he lowered it.

It felt good and Laura’s heart fluttered at his attentiveness. She didn’t know what to say, if she should anything. He was just taking care of her. It was a necessity, not a seduction. But there was something also surprisingly intimate about it in the darkness, how his fingers were now warming the toes of her other foot, the arch and heel between his palms.

She had never thought about this with him. Well, that wasn’t exactly, true. She’d had a flash or two in the last few months of a hot and needful frakking over that magnificent desk of his, but not this. Not gentleness, not caring.

They hadn’t been close enough, hadn’t known each other well enough for her thoughts to go there, and if they had, she’d have run from them, from him. That’s how it always was for her. When things got personal, really personal for her, she got out.

But she couldn’t get out right now. She was trapped with him in a makeshift tent on a cold and dark night on the homeworld of the gods, cylons out there somewhere in the darkness. There was nowhere to go. That should have frightened her, but it didn’t. No, what frightened her was that she didn’t want to run — and it wasn’t because of the darkness or the weather or the presence of a hostile enemy. She just didn’t want to run because … she just didn’t.

Laura held her breath when his hand slid higher, up to her ankle, then the base of her calf.

“More than your feet are wet,” he rumbled again and she felt her body responding to both the touch and the sound of his voice.

She didn’t know what to do or think as his words became truth in way he hadn’t expected. Gods, she hadn’t felt that in so long, that sudden rush of want, the swell and throb of desire. It had been ages since Richard, or any other man, had inspired that in her and she welcomed it now, grieved when this man’s touch moved to the outside of her clothing, touching her shin, then her knee, sliding to her thigh. He was obviously feeling the material of her pants, but she trembled all the same, her breaths quickening.

“You’re soaked,” he declared, reaching for her hands, then sliding up the sleeve of her jacket as far as he could reach. “You need to get out of those things,” he rasped softly.

She should protest. Prudence and propriety dictated she should protest the very suggestion of her shedding her clothing, even in the dark, even if it had everything to do with good common sense and not desire. She should say no or demand he leave.

But she didn’t do either of those things.

She didn’t even ask him to turn away when she shifted and rose onto her knees, her head mere inches from the tarp above them as she unzipped her jacket and shed it, tossing it down with his at the bottom of the tent.

He watched her, saying not a word as she unbuttoned her trousers and pushed them down her hips. When she sat, he helped her pull them off, experienced hands guiding them down her legs slowly, gently, like a lover, making her body thrum with want of him.

She wondered if he knew, if he’d guessed. He surely had to be able to hear her breaths, rapid and shallow. He surely had caught her scent by now, as he leaned over and touched her sweater, feeling if it had gotten wet. She touched it, too, her hand brushing against his before moving over the coarse weave of her sweater. She felt a little tremble, mourned when his hand moved away.

The sweater was only damp, but she pulled it off anyway, drawing it up her body, watching him as she did. His eyes never left hers, making her wonder if he realized if she could see him. But then they were there, waiting on her after the material was pulled over her head.

He knew. Gods, he knew.

And he knew what she was feeling. She knew because he reached for her, his broad hand, calloused and dirty curled around her waist and pulled gently.

She supposed she should have been angry at his presumptuousness, but she couldn’t be when her sex was heavy with desire, when she found herself wanting whatever he was willing to give her, believing that it might be the very last chance she had to know the touch of a man, to feel a cock in her pussy, to have a lover kiss her and cum inside her.

She wanted it. She wanted it so much she could barely breathe.

It didn’t matter to her that he had spent the last several months infuriating her as much as he’d surprised her, that he’d thrown her into his brig just days ago.

Here and now, in the darkness, all she could see was the one person she had learned she could depend on to do the hard things, make the hard choices. She saw a man who’d only just escaped the clutches of death while she was rushing headlong to its embrace. She saw a friend, a partner, a would-be lover who knew that a rot lay in her breast and still might want her, who might give her what she desired and remember her as more than a president and possible prophet.

Trembling, she surrendered to the selfishness of her want, rising onto her knees, the ground hard and unforgiving beneath the tarp under them. She ignored the blunt jab of rocks and sticks and moved astride him, humming softly at feeling him hard under her as she settled into his lap.

He reached for her face without a word and drew her down to him. His lips were chapped but warm, tender in how they touched and tugged at hers.

She took his face in her hands tentatively, gently, wonder filling her at being welcomed so warmly and without question, at having her needs and desires acknowledged without a word being spoken, without having to ask and risk rejection.

She didn’t know why he was so accommodating, a part of her fearing pity a motive. But that fear melted away when his hands slid into her hair and tugged her head back, and when his mouth fell upon her neck in slow, warm kisses that drove the cold from her body as effectively as a campfire.

Gods, it felt good. So very, very good. She moaned and his fingers loosely covered her mouth to muffle the sound. She licked them, tasting earth and blood and pine on the thick digits, longing to suckle them, to feel them on her skin.

“Touch me,” she pleaded on a labored breath, her eyes staring up into the darkness above them. “Please, touch me.”

He did, hands sliding down to cover her breasts, to mold them to his palms, to pull her bra down and spill them out as fodder for his hungry mouth.

At the first deep, suckling draw, she arched with a rasp of his name, caught his fingers and bought them back to her mouth, held them there as she panted and moaned and whispered of wants and needs, telling him what she wanted.

He listened, to every word, would meet every request before the night was done.

For now, though, just now, he nursed at her breasts. Her buttoned nipples, her pebbled areoles, her flesh he owned with the heat of his mouth. He licked, he sucked, he nipped and claimed while his hands mapped the smooth expanse of her back.

She shivered atop him, lost in sensation, grateful to leave thought behind for the fire of passion. She wanted this so much, so much, so much….

Her bra was shed, cast up with their other clothes, and then his hands were on her breasts, molding and shaping them again, tugging her nipples, twisting and plucking them. Her hands covered his, caressed them as he played her, slid down to his forearms to stroke the solid and flexing warmth.

He was not a beautiful man. He did not have the lithe body of an athlete, the svelteness of the men who dotted her past. But he was strong and he was alive and he was passionate and he wanted her. She could trust him, had entrusted him with the fate of humanity, and now in this, with her life and with her body, with her pleasure and erotic demise.

Laura watched his face as he played with her breasts, touched his cheeks with her fingertips. He winced when she brushed the cut along his cheekbone, looked up at her. She bent and kissed the wound, feathering lips and tongue over it, tasting him, and his arms came around her and pulled her close, pressing her breasts against his chest.

Gods, he was so warm and solid, the metal of his dog tags hot with his body heat.

She buried her face in his neck as he nuzzled into hers. Her hands made their home in his hair and low on his back, while his slid up beneath her hair and held her near.

“You feel so good,” she heard him whisper and smiled.

“So do you,” she breathed, kissing his ear, whispering, “I want this.” Then, resolutely. “I want this.”

“I know” was all he said.

Then he was kissing her again, taking her mouth slow and deep, hands moving over her, everywhere he could reach. Her back and arms, her chest and belly, her legs. Then his fingers were there, skimming lightly, reverently along the edge of her panties, asking permission.

She gave it without hesitation, a resounding “yes” on a rushed breath into the hot cavern of his mouth, again across against his lips, his brow, moaning softly when he slipped them inside, caressing slowly down into the forest of red curls to find her warm and wet, swollen and throbbing for this, for him.

He touched her with a caring boldness, letting out a moan of his own when she arched with a shuddering breath, a wordless plea for more. He gave it, cupping and stroking, fondling her with the gentle strength of his hand, whispering her name against skin now covered with a sheen of sweat, hot and sensitive.

It made her want him even more, not just this, but this with him.

Her body rising, she eased her hands between them, murmuring hotly between them, “I want to feel you.”

“Yeah,” he encouraged as her fingers sought his need, that hard and aching length trapped inside his boxers. He groaned when she found it, rumbled, “Will it do?” when she gauged his length and girth with slowly and sure strokes.

“Gods, yes,” she trembled feeling the power pent up in his cock, so hard and with the slightest curve. “It’s perfect,” she breathed, lifting herself enough to feel lower, to discover the heavy sac that held his seed.

She could have fainted at feeling the weight in hand, at hearing him whisper, “Easy, it’s been a while.” Instead, she nodded and looked into those eyes of his, that unfathomable blue present even in the absence of light. They were so intense, desire mixed with … other things.

She latched onto the former, too afraid to stop and consider the latter, kissed him with the hunger she felt, her hands moving to his chest, stroking and smoothing over defined pectorals and a slightly protruding but firm belly. She avoided his scar for fear of causing him pain, but she wanted to touch it, to soothe whatever discomfort it caused him, wishing she could heal it for reasons that had nothing to do with the fleet or the safety of humanity. For him, just because she didn’t want him to hurt any more.

She moaned a protest when his hand left her, but then she helped him as he reached blindly for one of the blankets. Together, they spread it haphazardly beside them and then she eased over onto it, welcomed him when he moved over her after divesting them both of their underwear.

“Cottle’s going to kill me,” he grumbled but his voice was deep, his expression earnest, tender even when he confessed, “But I want to feel you under me.”

“Yes,” she breathed. She wanted that, too, to feel him over her, but she worried for him, didn’t want him to hurt himself and, for the first time since it started, she had second thoughts. “You shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered.

A smile appeared then vanished with a crackling rasp. “But I’m going to.”

Yes, he was going to, and she was going to let him. She was going to let him do whatever he wanted.

Her fingers trailing down his chest, this time tentatively touching his scar. “If you need–”

“I’ll let you know,” he cut her off then captured her mouth with his own again, kissing her fully, with a true lover’s thoroughness. His tongue slid against hers without an ounce of self-consciousness, played with it in sensual devotion as he laid a hand aside her face and tilted her head to kiss her deeper still, to kiss her until she didn’t care if she took another breath.

Fingers clutching at his shoulders, her legs sliding around his hips by rote, she issued an age-old invitation and he accepted, sliding slowly inside her with a whisper of her name into the deepest recesses of her mouth.

He kissed her again, then again and again as he moved inside her. Whether for her sake or his own, he was slow and careful, tender, from the caresses of his hands to those of his lips, to the steady advance and retreat of his cock, the broad head opening her for all of him on each penetration as his chest rubbed against her breasts.

She just held to him, rolled her hips into his thrusts, accepting and inviting, celebrating the gift he was giving her.

Tears falling, she pulled her mouth from his and hugged him near. “Let me feel you cum?” she whispered as her lips touched his ear.

“Yes,” he breathed, his hand sliding under and up to cradle her face in the crook of his neck as he buried his own in hers. He stayed there as he finished her, as he finished them both, their cries caught and muffled in the hollows, his first, then her own as he spurt hot and thick inside her.

The deep rumble of her name as she lay panting under him, arms and legs quivering, made her clutch him tighter, made her want to go under again with him. She found herself arching under him, need flaring anew, in defiance of age and cancer and the cold seeping into their shelter. She wanted him again, even though he was softening and slipping from her. Once, she realized with a sort of desperation, wasn’t going to be enough.

“Bill,” she rasped and beat a fist half-heartedly against his lower back in frustration.

He just shushed her. Then he kissed her, gently, palming the back of her head and holding her to him, allowing her no retreat. But she didn’t want to retreat and when she touched his face and felt tears, she knew why — he wanted more, too.

She whimpered when he released her mouth, eyes clenched shut at the unfairness of it. His hand moved from her face, and his body stretched against hers as he reached up. She turned her head to see he was grabbing a blanket. It was then she realized he was trembling. She looked at his face and saw pain etched into his features.

Worried, she reached up to help him drag the blanket down and then to roll it out so he could get over onto his back and take the pressure off his chest.

When he did, she immediately missed his warmth and weight, but didn’t complain. She simply reached for the other blankets and covered them both, asking him if he was okay.

To her surprise and delight, he chuckled then rasped softly, “Yeah,” after running his fingers along the length of his scar. He turned his head and looked at her then, as she lay propped on an elbow beside him. There was a hint of a smile on his mouth. “Didn’t think I’d ever do that again,” he breathed, his breath still a bit labored.

Laura could identify with that, found herself smiling as she lay her head on his shoulder. “Didn’t think I would either,” she confessed, her hand finding its way under the blanket to his. As their fingers laced, she whispered earnestly, “Thank you.”

His lips found her brow, kissing at her hairline. His breath was warm and so were his words, “My pleasure.”

“And pain,” she reminded him needlessly of moments ago, and of what was to come.

At her words, he eased his arm from his side and around her, inviting her closer. She went, resettling against his side like a lover, wanting the closeness, needing it as a chill swept through her flesh and bones as she thought of the pain that awaited her, too. She’d seen it as her mother’s caregiver and she feared its coming. More than the cylons, more than death, she feared the agony when the cancer moved into her bones.

“Which one is it?”

The question, muttered warmly against the crown of her head, made her tremble. It was the first time he’d directly spoken of her illness and he did it now in a tone so soft she would have answered the question, even if she hadn’t wanted to.

“The left,” she whispered and felt an acknowledging pain in the affected flesh, deep and sharp, causing her breath to catch.

He tightened his arm around her. “Okay?”

She nodded, ran her fingers down his belly to play with the sparse hairs that led to the thicker thatch above his cock.

“You couldn’t tell?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was vanity.

“No,” he rumbled and his answer relieved her, silly though it might seem. Because it was still there, a hideous thing eating her flesh.

“Do you want to feel it?” she asked, again not sure why. But the question was out there, asked before she realized what she was doing, without knowing if she had the strength to guide his fingers to where the knot of renegade cells lay.

He seemed to think about it a moment then hugged her again, whispering, “Yeah.”

She found the strength, rising up beside him and moving astride him to take the hand he offered. She directed it to her left breast, pressing his fingers to where the lump lay. She held her breath as she did so, watched his face for a reaction, fearing pity once again, or revulsion, and not sure which would be worse.

But what she saw was compassion and understanding. What descended on his distinct features was a tenderness that softened his ruggedness to something breathtakingly beautiful.

She released his hand and he continued to feel it, rubbed it with two fingers, then his thumb, as if wishing it away. Then he was cupping her breast, taking the weight of it in his palm, like earlier and yet not. “You’d never know,” he murmured then beckoned, “Come ‘ere.”

She went, laying against him and thrilling when his arm eased around her, when he pulled the blanket up to cover her. She kissed him and he kissed her back, loving how his hands curled around her ass, cupping her cheeks and holding her against him as his cum trickled out of her and between them.

There was something so perfect in the intimacy of that moment that she began to cry.

He let her, didn’t ask a question or say a word, just held her and let her cry what tears she would let fall, which weren’t as many as she was probably entitled to, but more than she was comfortable with. He wouldn’t let her pull away though. He moved with her when she tried to retreat, turning to his side with her, securing her against him with both arms and a leg. She let him, her desire to run and hide a fleeting one, easily eclipsed by her want of what he could give.

She welcomed the kisses to her mouth and her face, to her neck and the line of her jaw. She welcomed the gentle explorations of his hand as he wandered over her back and ass, fingers feathering between her cheeks and then down and into the warmth between her thighs, sliding deep, reaching, learning with a tender boldness that was intoxicating.

Her cheek pressed against his whisker-thick one, she gasped and moaned, hummed and whispered the heated babble of lovers, her hands in his hair, on his shoulders, hugging him close, wanting to forget everything but the swirl of heat, of want.

She needed this, needed him, and he gave her what he could, with hands and mouth, easing her back to watch her face, to hold her gaze when he drew her leg up over his and put his hand back into her warmth. His thumb rode her clit as he plunged his fingers into her channel. He pumped her relentlessly and she let him, just looked into those dark, intense eyes for sanctuary and found it in the whispered command in that baritone deeper than the vastness of space, “Cum for me, Laura.”

She did, biting her lip against the anguished cry of pleasure rising in her throat. But she needn’t have worried. He kissed her and caught the sound, swallowing it in the searing, sliding caress of his lips, and staying with her as the strains played out.

Then he built them again, slower this time, easing her back to the crest, until she was just trembling, head to toe, in gentle ecstasy, her fingers curling tightly around his shoulders as her body rose against his. She pulled herself close, her breasts flattening against his chest as her face sought haven in his neck.

Breathless and exhausted, she yielded every pretense of strength and lay helpless in his arms, trusting him as she had never trusted another lover, her heart fluttering with her surrender and at the soft murmur near her ear.

“That was beautiful,” he told her then kissed her cheek, breathing, “You are beautiful.”

Laura smiled, never having thought she would hear those words again, not caring that it was dark and he couldn’t see all the imperfections of age. She just accepted his words, the earnestness she heard in his voice, and snuggled closer to his warmth.

He just held her and, for a while, they lay quietly, listening to the patter of rain on the roof of their shelter. As her body cooled, though, and sleep nagged, she whispered a question, “Should we get dressed?”

“Only if our clothes are dry,” he replied, sleep steeping his tone.

“Mmmm,” she replied then reached blindly up, feeling for their clothes. Her sweater and pants were still damp, so were his trousers, but his tanks and shirt were relatively dry. She told him.

“Give me the tanks. You take my shirt,” he sighed softly.

She divvied up his dry shirts then handed him his boxers. They redressed quietly and as quickly as possible before settling back down under the blankets, he on his back, an arm wrapped around her as she snuggled into his side. She hummed when he caught her hand and cradled it in his, when she felt his breath warm atop her head, his lips pressing kisses through her hair to her scalp.

Even though the ground under them, beneath the blankets and tarp, was hard and uneven, even though she wasn’t used to sharing a bed, she was content and relatively warm, considering the weather.

Sleep danced just out of reach, though, dogging but not overtaking her when it should have. Consequently, her mind wandered, replaying events until she found herself speaking softly to Bill, asking into the darkness, “Why?”

She wasn’t sure if he was asleep or not, but she wanted to know why he had been with her tonight, why he hadn’t questioned, brought up their respective positions, the implications, the complications, the breach of regulations. She wanted to know why he put himself through the obvious physical pain and why he would make love to a dying woman — and it had been lovemaking, not the lusty frakking she’d fantasized about from time to time.

She got her answer to all that and more with words that would have scared her at any other time in her life, but here beneath the boughs of the gods’ homeworld and in the shadow of death, they surprisingly made her heart leap and filled her with a strange sort of peace.

“Because I love you,” he said on a sighing, sleepy mumble and she smiled, certain he had no idea what he’d just confessed, certain that he wouldn’t remember it in the morning, and certain the gods had a twisted sense of humor to send a lover who fancied himself loving her when her deathbed stood so near.

Truth or not, whether he would remember or not come morning, even knowing things would change between them when they picked up their mantles of responsibility once more, Laura let the words comfort instead of frighten her. She held onto them like the tendrils of a really good but unexpected dream, shut her eyes, and nestled into the warmth and comfort of his still healing body, thankful for what he’d done with her tonight and grateful that he was still alive.

There she slept. There she dreamed. There she hoped, selfishly, for one more night of this with him, for one more chance to live in the arms of a lover who cared and would remember her after she was gone.