She's floating. Joy has been bubbling up in her chest ever since Gaeta confirmed their position above Earth. Frakking Earth. Even now, waiting on the hangar deck for Bill to finish organizing the recon mission, she wants to dance, to sing, and do very unpresidential things to the man standing a few feet away from her.
There had been hugs, laughter and tears in the CIC, followed by a swift withdrawal to their quarters. It was a slight disappointment at first, to know that after removing their clothes (or rather one another's), they had to put others on so quickly. She doesn't care so much now. As nice as their private one was, this exploration is more important. It's not just him and her, but 39,665 humans and hundreds of Cylons. She wonders if they should start adding up numbers.
Bill comes back to her, explaining that they will soon be joined by the Agathons. He climbs onto the Raptor's wing, holds his hand out to her. She realizes that "soon be joined" means "alone for now". He pulls her up, not stopping until her other hand bumps into his chest. Its snakes up to the nape of his neck, toys with his collar.
"Too bad you couldn't wear your flightsuit this time."
She grins when her comment hits him precisely in the expected way: a tug even closer, and a sound, that probably wants to be a dismissal gruff, but ends up more like a longing groan. She looks up, and her giggle is interrupted by his lips on hers.
Their glasses clash.
Reluctantly, she pulls back, the hand that's not trapped in his coming to take away this crucial part his uniform. The mask of the stoic Admiral, concealing as best it can the man behind them. The man she loves. She carefully slides them into his pocket, as careful as can be when her eyes can't leave his, before taking her own pair off.
Her hand leaves his to trace the lines of his cheekbone, and is then joins the other in his hair, below that hideous hat of his. He tried to convince her to wear one as well, but one layer on her head to worry about is more than enough. He encloses his arms around her. She leans into the embrace, and listens to his heart beating, as fast as hers. Footsteps resound behind them, they step apart. Later.
She's drowning. The bubble bursts, nausea takes over and she heaves a weak "earth". They can't stay too long because of radiation levels. She briefly wonders if the Cylons need the meds. Maybe they don't. Maybe that's why they led the rest of humanity here to die a slow death and watch them survive. Or maybe the devastation on their faces is genuine. Maybe.
The only thing preventing her from sinking completely is the feel of Bill's hand, clutching hers so tightly it almost hurts. But this pain is welcome, balancing the pressure that has settled on her chest. They're sitting close, so close she can hear his heart pounding, but it's nothing like the excitement from earlier.
She notices his glasses are back on. She doesn't question it, though she wishes she could remove them again, and kiss away that frown. Bury herself in him and find the words to reassure him, to reassure herself. But they're sitting at the back of a Raptor, Athena a few feet away, taking them back to the Galactica.
Actually...
« Lieutenant, I'd like you to take me directly to Colonial One ». She puts on her glasses too.
He shifts slightly, enough for her to look up. She sounds poised and determined, or so she hopes, but her eyes tell him what the President can't voice. A look to explain, and ask for support. The Fleet. The people, her people always come first. Now he comes a close second, but their duties have to prevail.
That is why, despite having clearly moved to his quarters weeks ago, she insisted on keeping one of her few suits on Colonial One. She thinks he understands this, as the Admiral, he has to. They, the Quorum and everyone else, however don't realize what it means, to not think me but think us, all of us. They are there to contest, and hardly listen. No is easier than yes. But it doesn't matter, she has always loved a good fight anyway, only switching boxing gloves for speeches.
Words need to be chosen carefully, so that none falters, none escape her control. Words used to tell them what exactly ? That Earth looks as pretty as the Colonies she decided they should flee ? That it was all a frakking lie ? A lie he created so others had something to live for, a lie she embraced so she had something to die for ?
The Raptor lands on the deck of Colonial One, through the cockpit she can already see members of the Quorum, waiting, for once smiling. Soon, their bubbles will burst too. She has to find the right spots before they have time to hit first. Attack is the best defence. She just has to avoid any knock-outs.
The door cringes open, they stand. Bill's lips are on her temple, brushing, and whispering « Win this round, the fight isn't over yet ». She turns to face them.
Glasses in hand, she's ready.