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*cracks knuckles*
*writes five-minute Billy fic for A.j.*
"It's a dog."
Laura Roslin looked up from the latest round of complaints from the middle-range ships, and raised her eyebrows at Billy, who was looking perplexed as he stared inside a box that had been delivered to Colonial One in their name. "A dog? Here?"
He reached into the box, and nodded, something in his gaze turning about seven, childish and gleeful. The eyes he turned to her were filled with the sort of requests that had been in children's eyes since time began.
"Did he follow you home?"
"What?"
Laura tried not to laugh at him, but then gave in, chuckling a little as she took off her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. "That's usually the excuse, Billy."
"I wasn't," he said, catching her drift and looking indignant, crestfallen, and possibly even more childish all at once, "going to ask to keep him. I know we can't. We don't have room--and even if we did, we don't have the food."
"No... I wonder how he survived being shipped here?"
The dog, apparently tired of his box, jumped out and shook himself, then came over to Laura, staring up at her and giving a doggie sigh.
"We can't keep you."
"No--" Billy moved and started to grab the dog, "C'mon, dog. You have to go back where you came from. In the box!"
There was a brief scuffle, and Billy ended up on his back, the dog delightedly licking his face.
Laura's laugh was full-bodied and genuine, this time. Just in time for Tory Foster, a recent addition to the political machine, to make her way behind the curtain and give her report.
"It's a dog."
Laura Roslin looked up from the latest round of complaints from the middle-range ships, and raised her eyebrows at Billy, who was looking perplexed as he stared inside a box that had been delivered to Colonial One in their name. "A dog? Here?"
He reached into the box, and nodded, something in his gaze turning about seven, childish and gleeful. The eyes he turned to her were filled with the sort of requests that had been in children's eyes since time began.
"Did he follow you home?"
"What?"
Laura tried not to laugh at him, but then gave in, chuckling a little as she took off her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. "That's usually the excuse, Billy."
"I wasn't," he said, catching her drift and looking indignant, crestfallen, and possibly even more childish all at once, "going to ask to keep him. I know we can't. We don't have room--and even if we did, we don't have the food."
"No... I wonder how he survived being shipped here?"
The dog, apparently tired of his box, jumped out and shook himself, then came over to Laura, staring up at her and giving a doggie sigh.
"We can't keep you."
"No--" Billy moved and started to grab the dog, "C'mon, dog. You have to go back where you came from. In the box!"
There was a brief scuffle, and Billy ended up on his back, the dog delightedly licking his face.
Laura's laugh was full-bodied and genuine, this time. Just in time for Tory Foster, a recent addition to the political machine, to make her way behind the curtain and give her report.
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BILLY HAS A PUPPY.
BILLY! EEEEEEEE!
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