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Entry tags:
ficlets: BSG
I'm trying to clean out some of the backlog. Assume spoilers for, well, up through 4.5.
disclaimer: not mine
length: 500+
pairing: er. Laura Roslin/Lee Adama
set: current timeline, somewhere maybe during Deadlock.
spoilers: sort of
notes: I blame![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sabaceanbabe and pennyfeline both. This was written as a comment in greycoupon's originally.
"This is ridiculous," Laura Roslin muttered, eyes drawn to the man who was simply drinking occasionally from his hip flask while he gazed soulfully at the bulkheads in front of him. "How long can he do this for?"
"I don't know, Madame President," replied Lee Adama, obviously as baffled and annoyed as she was. He'd come over for another conference regarding the new government he was building (the one no one cared about, since it had no true impact on things unless it was to remind people there were 'common' folk around).
"Please, Captain Apollo, it's Laura." She gave him a cool smile.
She hadn't called him that in years, and yet, Lee couldn't help but smile back--despite the inaccuracy of her title, he still occasionally remembered certain fantasies he'd entertained. He cleared his throat, "Ah, yes, it's Lee, then."
"Lee." Reaching out, she touched his arm, "I'm afraid your father might be senile."
He sighed and glanced back at the man, still drinking, still staring, "I'm sorry, Madame--Laura. It's Galactica. He loves her more than anything else. Always has."
"Love." She snorted, "I'm beginning to find it a bit useless. You know, Lee--I'd call you Leland, but that seems far too formal--once upon a time, I counted on you for insights into the military."
"Once upon a time, I had them."
They shared a strange moment, then Laura gave a soft laugh and Lee, for no reason he could later identify, leaned down and kissed her.
It was meant to be a brush of lips or something gentle, but Lee had forgotten that she wasn't as short as Dee or as over-zealous as Kara and mis-judged the distance and had to catch Laura as she over-balanced. They were clutching each other as his mouth slipped against hers and she pushed back, lips following his.
And then it wasn't gentle at all.
It occurred to Lee, as the moment went on that he was making out with the President of the colonies, but that didn't seem to matter so much. She was a vibrant, passionate woman, and the last kiss he'd enjoyed had been from his suicidal wife who'd made promises she'd never intended to keep. Lee shifted, pulling Laura closer, hand moving to the small of her back as she made an approving little noise in the back of her throat.
At least he hoped it was approving. She wasn't struggling and she wasn't slapping him, though. And Lee had always had the definite feeling that Laura Roslin could take care of her own affairs without any help from anyone.
He was the one to stop the kiss, pulling back a little and looking down at her, confused, "Laura?"
"That was," she said, her voice a little high, "that was nice."
"Oh." Nice. Otherwise, crap. Lee felt a blush rising and cursed himself as he tried to let her go without giving the appearance of embarrassment, "I'm sorry, Madame President, I don't normally--"
"Lee." Her hand hooked behind the back of his neck, stopping him, "Shut up and kiss me again."
That, he could do. And if his dad happened to decide to turn around and watch them, maybe he'd pick up a few pointers. Not that Lee relished that thought in the least.
-f-
set: season 4
notes: someone had to be keeping things running during the Demetrius arc
The rotation was going to suck. Lt. Dualla yawned and bent her head to rub the back of her neck as Ensign Mellor continued his description of the calls he'd logged under the new Petty Officer. Dee would have liked to be able to train all the new recruits, but what with one thing and another, she simply didn't have the time.
Sure, Tigh was still second in command, and the Admiral was a good commander. But they couldn't do everything to keep the battlestar running. No, they left that sort of thing up to the officers underneath them. Dee and Lt. Gaeta and Captain Wayne. And Wayne was usually buried in the mass of paperwork that determined who was scheduled for which shift, when.
Dee was grateful for the two of them, but they still weren't enough to keep the ship running efficiently. That was left to Dee, and Racetrack. Lt. Edmunson was doing a good job keeping the pilots on their toes. Half the pilots had gone, of course, on that secret mission that no one wanted to talk about.
Sometimes, Dee thought Starbuck was the greatest idiot to ever live. Other times, she wasn't sure if the woman was a Cylon or not.
Most times, she didn't give Kara Thrace a second thought. There were far more important things for her to be doing. Training new recruits, retraining old recruits, and making sure that the refugees still lurking in some of the subsections of Galactica had proper food, water, bedding and care of some sort.
She had to liaise with Doc Cottle and his current assistant, Ishay (two orderlies had gone with Starbuck, of course).
And when they were happy, someone else wasn't. Just that morning, she'd had a complaint leveled against Chief Laird over his disposition of some repair duties. Dee had donned her uniform and gone down there to sort things out only to find that Figurski's complaint was ridiculous and probably the result of his anger over the demotion of the previous Chief of the Deck.
Dee had carefully delivered a reminder about duty, honor and respect for the uniform before she'd headed back to her quarters to finish the miniscule breakfast she'd allowed herself time for.
Of course, along the way, she'd run into half a dozen complaints, issues, and one smile that had at least made it seem sort of worth it.
She rubbed a hand over her eyes as she made a notation regarding the Ensign's fitness and moved to check the log on the board. "You didn't log this call from the President's Aide."
"It wasn't official business, sir. I didn't think--"
"All calls, Ensign. Logged and categorized, or Colonel Tigh will be breathing down our necks. Now, is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
Dee fought the urge to rub a hand over her eyes again and nodded, "It's all right. Just a mistake, Ensign."
With her help, he logged the call and then wiped a hand over his forehead, trying to smile through his painfully young and earnest expression.
Dee suddenly wondered if she'd ever been that young.
Sam Anders, late season three. (er, implied Kara/Sam, obvsly)
They'd been laughing at some insanely stupid joke, and drunk. So drunk Kara had tripped on her feet and he'd caught her and they'd still been laughing as they fell--
A flash of light hadn't stopped their fall, it had just made them laugh harder until Kara'd elbowed him getting up.
The photographer had offered to sell them the photo, but Kara had laughed in his face, Sam smirking up from the ground, which had seemed far more comfortable at the time. Film was at a premium, of course. No one was working on creating more, and real photos as opposed to digital stills printed in black and white were hard to come by.
A few days later, Sam had tracked him down, money in hand. Or what passed for money. Physical labor in exchange for a piece of glossy paper.
The chemicals had lost some of their potency, the paper used was the wrong kind and they'd looked faded even before a month had passed. But it was proof of their existence on New Caprica. Tangible proof of their happiness. And besides, the tattoos stood out starkly amidst the jumble of color and falling bodies.
Standing in the memorial hall, the photo of Kara laughing (Starbuck, Sam knows, not Kara. She'd rarely been Kara, back then) in front of him, he thinks about the photo tucked carefully in his locker. One of the few things he'd managed to bring from New Caprica. Kara's paints were tucked in a box, along with a half-deflated pyramid ball and the remnants of his glove (it had been ripped apart for the padding back when home-made bombs were the order of the day). But the photo was taped inside his locker door, where he could look at it every time he opened the door.
He'd taken it with him to the Salpica, tucked inside his jacket where it had lived for the months he'd spent there. Months he wondered if he truly regretted.
Starbuck laughs in the photo, her face young and without the lines and wariness she'd carried with her the last time he'd seen her alive. He wonders if she'd carried that wariness while they were married and he'd never noticed--or if he hadn't wanted to notice.
Not that it matters. His finger traces a random path around her smile. She's not here to ask, and she never will be again.
A few moments later, Sam makes his way back to his newly-acquired bunk. On the way, he stops to open his locker.
-f
season two, Sam Anders
When the resistance had taken over Delphi Union, they'd had to clean classrooms and storage areas for sleeping space. The cafeteria had been mostly intact, and the gym and locker rooms good for a quick shower. The hot water heater was even still working. But the indoor pool had suffered when part of the roof fell in. With no one to remove the chunks it had grown algae in the standing water.
A few days into their sojourn there, Rally and some of the survivalists had insisted on cleaning the pool out. Figuring it would give them something to burn energy off on in a way that wouldn't get them killed, Sam had agreed to it.
He became grateful for agreeing as the weather got warmer, as the heat pounded into all of them and made wearing enough clothing to stay protected a cause for heat exhaustion. The pool quickly became a way for scouts to cool off on returning to base.
Routine set in.
Boomer, season...three.
Starbuck was dead. Cavil had told her, his voice sad, his eyes laughing, dancing with knowledge that no one else had. It took a moment--more than a moment--to contemplate, to understand. Kara Thrace was more alive than anyone she'd ever known. And even as enemies, Boomer could still remember--
Laughing, joking, puking and drinking, holding Kara's hair back while she puked, mocking her after the barbar had taken too much off the back, leaving her looking like a shorn sheep.
Fleetingly, Sharon wondered if she had the right to mourn. She was a Cylon, Starbuck's enemy, and the one who had betrayed so many. Maybe Starbuck wouldn't have cared, though. Maybe Starbuck would have seen her as Boomer, not another Eight. Sharon would never know. She hadn't encountered Starbuck since before she'd run away to get the arrow. She'd missed her on New Caprica, and Cavil and Leoben had never told her how to find Kara (and maybe she'd been too afraid).
Too many years, not enough time. She left Cavil and went for a walk, feet taking her unerringly to the flight deck. She stood there, amongst the raiders and heavy raiders, eyes counting, but mind not taking it all in.
Dead.
It didn't seem right.
disclaimer: not mine
length: 500+
pairing: er. Laura Roslin/Lee Adama
set: current timeline, somewhere maybe during Deadlock.
spoilers: sort of
notes: I blame
sabaceanbabe and pennyfeline both. This was written as a comment in greycoupon's originally."This is ridiculous," Laura Roslin muttered, eyes drawn to the man who was simply drinking occasionally from his hip flask while he gazed soulfully at the bulkheads in front of him. "How long can he do this for?"
"I don't know, Madame President," replied Lee Adama, obviously as baffled and annoyed as she was. He'd come over for another conference regarding the new government he was building (the one no one cared about, since it had no true impact on things unless it was to remind people there were 'common' folk around).
"Please, Captain Apollo, it's Laura." She gave him a cool smile.
She hadn't called him that in years, and yet, Lee couldn't help but smile back--despite the inaccuracy of her title, he still occasionally remembered certain fantasies he'd entertained. He cleared his throat, "Ah, yes, it's Lee, then."
"Lee." Reaching out, she touched his arm, "I'm afraid your father might be senile."
He sighed and glanced back at the man, still drinking, still staring, "I'm sorry, Madame--Laura. It's Galactica. He loves her more than anything else. Always has."
"Love." She snorted, "I'm beginning to find it a bit useless. You know, Lee--I'd call you Leland, but that seems far too formal--once upon a time, I counted on you for insights into the military."
"Once upon a time, I had them."
They shared a strange moment, then Laura gave a soft laugh and Lee, for no reason he could later identify, leaned down and kissed her.
It was meant to be a brush of lips or something gentle, but Lee had forgotten that she wasn't as short as Dee or as over-zealous as Kara and mis-judged the distance and had to catch Laura as she over-balanced. They were clutching each other as his mouth slipped against hers and she pushed back, lips following his.
And then it wasn't gentle at all.
It occurred to Lee, as the moment went on that he was making out with the President of the colonies, but that didn't seem to matter so much. She was a vibrant, passionate woman, and the last kiss he'd enjoyed had been from his suicidal wife who'd made promises she'd never intended to keep. Lee shifted, pulling Laura closer, hand moving to the small of her back as she made an approving little noise in the back of her throat.
At least he hoped it was approving. She wasn't struggling and she wasn't slapping him, though. And Lee had always had the definite feeling that Laura Roslin could take care of her own affairs without any help from anyone.
He was the one to stop the kiss, pulling back a little and looking down at her, confused, "Laura?"
"That was," she said, her voice a little high, "that was nice."
"Oh." Nice. Otherwise, crap. Lee felt a blush rising and cursed himself as he tried to let her go without giving the appearance of embarrassment, "I'm sorry, Madame President, I don't normally--"
"Lee." Her hand hooked behind the back of his neck, stopping him, "Shut up and kiss me again."
That, he could do. And if his dad happened to decide to turn around and watch them, maybe he'd pick up a few pointers. Not that Lee relished that thought in the least.
-f-
set: season 4
notes: someone had to be keeping things running during the Demetrius arc
The rotation was going to suck. Lt. Dualla yawned and bent her head to rub the back of her neck as Ensign Mellor continued his description of the calls he'd logged under the new Petty Officer. Dee would have liked to be able to train all the new recruits, but what with one thing and another, she simply didn't have the time.
Sure, Tigh was still second in command, and the Admiral was a good commander. But they couldn't do everything to keep the battlestar running. No, they left that sort of thing up to the officers underneath them. Dee and Lt. Gaeta and Captain Wayne. And Wayne was usually buried in the mass of paperwork that determined who was scheduled for which shift, when.
Dee was grateful for the two of them, but they still weren't enough to keep the ship running efficiently. That was left to Dee, and Racetrack. Lt. Edmunson was doing a good job keeping the pilots on their toes. Half the pilots had gone, of course, on that secret mission that no one wanted to talk about.
Sometimes, Dee thought Starbuck was the greatest idiot to ever live. Other times, she wasn't sure if the woman was a Cylon or not.
Most times, she didn't give Kara Thrace a second thought. There were far more important things for her to be doing. Training new recruits, retraining old recruits, and making sure that the refugees still lurking in some of the subsections of Galactica had proper food, water, bedding and care of some sort.
She had to liaise with Doc Cottle and his current assistant, Ishay (two orderlies had gone with Starbuck, of course).
And when they were happy, someone else wasn't. Just that morning, she'd had a complaint leveled against Chief Laird over his disposition of some repair duties. Dee had donned her uniform and gone down there to sort things out only to find that Figurski's complaint was ridiculous and probably the result of his anger over the demotion of the previous Chief of the Deck.
Dee had carefully delivered a reminder about duty, honor and respect for the uniform before she'd headed back to her quarters to finish the miniscule breakfast she'd allowed herself time for.
Of course, along the way, she'd run into half a dozen complaints, issues, and one smile that had at least made it seem sort of worth it.
She rubbed a hand over her eyes as she made a notation regarding the Ensign's fitness and moved to check the log on the board. "You didn't log this call from the President's Aide."
"It wasn't official business, sir. I didn't think--"
"All calls, Ensign. Logged and categorized, or Colonel Tigh will be breathing down our necks. Now, is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
Dee fought the urge to rub a hand over her eyes again and nodded, "It's all right. Just a mistake, Ensign."
With her help, he logged the call and then wiped a hand over his forehead, trying to smile through his painfully young and earnest expression.
Dee suddenly wondered if she'd ever been that young.
Sam Anders, late season three. (er, implied Kara/Sam, obvsly)
They'd been laughing at some insanely stupid joke, and drunk. So drunk Kara had tripped on her feet and he'd caught her and they'd still been laughing as they fell--
A flash of light hadn't stopped their fall, it had just made them laugh harder until Kara'd elbowed him getting up.
The photographer had offered to sell them the photo, but Kara had laughed in his face, Sam smirking up from the ground, which had seemed far more comfortable at the time. Film was at a premium, of course. No one was working on creating more, and real photos as opposed to digital stills printed in black and white were hard to come by.
A few days later, Sam had tracked him down, money in hand. Or what passed for money. Physical labor in exchange for a piece of glossy paper.
The chemicals had lost some of their potency, the paper used was the wrong kind and they'd looked faded even before a month had passed. But it was proof of their existence on New Caprica. Tangible proof of their happiness. And besides, the tattoos stood out starkly amidst the jumble of color and falling bodies.
Standing in the memorial hall, the photo of Kara laughing (Starbuck, Sam knows, not Kara. She'd rarely been Kara, back then) in front of him, he thinks about the photo tucked carefully in his locker. One of the few things he'd managed to bring from New Caprica. Kara's paints were tucked in a box, along with a half-deflated pyramid ball and the remnants of his glove (it had been ripped apart for the padding back when home-made bombs were the order of the day). But the photo was taped inside his locker door, where he could look at it every time he opened the door.
He'd taken it with him to the Salpica, tucked inside his jacket where it had lived for the months he'd spent there. Months he wondered if he truly regretted.
Starbuck laughs in the photo, her face young and without the lines and wariness she'd carried with her the last time he'd seen her alive. He wonders if she'd carried that wariness while they were married and he'd never noticed--or if he hadn't wanted to notice.
Not that it matters. His finger traces a random path around her smile. She's not here to ask, and she never will be again.
A few moments later, Sam makes his way back to his newly-acquired bunk. On the way, he stops to open his locker.
-f
season two, Sam Anders
When the resistance had taken over Delphi Union, they'd had to clean classrooms and storage areas for sleeping space. The cafeteria had been mostly intact, and the gym and locker rooms good for a quick shower. The hot water heater was even still working. But the indoor pool had suffered when part of the roof fell in. With no one to remove the chunks it had grown algae in the standing water.
A few days into their sojourn there, Rally and some of the survivalists had insisted on cleaning the pool out. Figuring it would give them something to burn energy off on in a way that wouldn't get them killed, Sam had agreed to it.
He became grateful for agreeing as the weather got warmer, as the heat pounded into all of them and made wearing enough clothing to stay protected a cause for heat exhaustion. The pool quickly became a way for scouts to cool off on returning to base.
Routine set in.
Boomer, season...three.
Starbuck was dead. Cavil had told her, his voice sad, his eyes laughing, dancing with knowledge that no one else had. It took a moment--more than a moment--to contemplate, to understand. Kara Thrace was more alive than anyone she'd ever known. And even as enemies, Boomer could still remember--
Laughing, joking, puking and drinking, holding Kara's hair back while she puked, mocking her after the barbar had taken too much off the back, leaving her looking like a shorn sheep.
Fleetingly, Sharon wondered if she had the right to mourn. She was a Cylon, Starbuck's enemy, and the one who had betrayed so many. Maybe Starbuck wouldn't have cared, though. Maybe Starbuck would have seen her as Boomer, not another Eight. Sharon would never know. She hadn't encountered Starbuck since before she'd run away to get the arrow. She'd missed her on New Caprica, and Cavil and Leoben had never told her how to find Kara (and maybe she'd been too afraid).
Too many years, not enough time. She left Cavil and went for a walk, feet taking her unerringly to the flight deck. She stood there, amongst the raiders and heavy raiders, eyes counting, but mind not taking it all in.
Dead.
It didn't seem right.