Summary: 'We need to start having babies' bites back. Slightly cracky post 'Daybreak' AU.

Proliferating Progeny

Earth, ten years after the Fall

Laura Roslin-Adama sat at her desk in the Roslin-Adama Colonial School (otherwise known to friend and foe alike as 'Rodama One') and frowned at the list in front of her. There was something about the list of names…

She glanced at the three piles of correspondence she had yet to get through and sighed; there were days when she wished she hadn't choked off Lee's anti-technology impulses, and today was one of them. The wireless was no better, for it rang every ten minutes, or so it seemed, and Laura found herself thinking nostalgically of her days as president. At least then she could usually guarantee that there'd be some kind of distraction in the offing (Cylon attacks were particularly useful for breaking up boring Quorum meetings) and if all else failed, there was always the threat of airlocking.

Right now, she wanted to airlock Lee, for sending her yet another stack of bureaucratic blether to run through. It was barely a decade since the apocalypse, and he wanted children taught to target according to age, regardless of the fact that most of the settlement's young people were severely lacking in basic literacy skills. Several years of disrupted schooling tended to do that, as she had pointed out several times, but her stepson retained a belief in her abilities that was naively endearing – when it wasn't downright exasperating.

And when that was done, there was the pseudo-personal stuff. The many, many letters that continued to come to Laura and Bill from the Colonial groups who had chosen to break away from the main settlement; every month a bag arrived on her desk, and she'd reached the point where she could predict the contents. A gushing letter of thanks – check. A letter asking that she and/or the Admiral attend a wedding of a pair of young hopefuls (didn't these kids think they had anything better to do?) – check. A request for an autograph – check (she binned those). Then there were the inevitable announcements that she or Bill had acquired another godchild. Laura sometimes wondered what would happen if they were called upon to exercise those duties, but Bill laughed and told her she was borrowing trouble.

At that thought she wrinkled her brow, pulled the list of names towards her again and scanned it, squinting. Then she groaned and let her head fall down on the table, her hair cascading over her arms in a rush of burnished silver.

The door (she'd insisted on a door when they were converting the grounded Colonial One into the school) opened and familiar steps crossed the floor.

'Our luck has run out, Bill,' she announced, still face down in her papers.

Something clinked her on her table, and she turned her head so that she could look up at him.

'I brought you coffee,' he offered, nodding at the cup he'd just set down for her.

Laura groaned a second time. 'Won't cut it. Need something stronger.'

He sat on the corner of her desk and looked at her. 'Are you borrowing trouble again?'

'I don't need to borrow it,' she grumbled, still refusing to lift her head. 'It's here.' She glared up at him as she best she could. 'Why didn't you foresee this, Admiral?'

'Okay, if you're gonna blame me, I'd like to know what I'm being blamed for.'

She sat up so quickly he reared back, startled, and her bad mood lifted a trifle. He was usually so stoic in public that she rather enjoyed ruffling his feathers. Not that her office really constituted 'public', but it was her former presidential home and it was during school hours.

'That's just like a man,' she sniffed. 'Can't you take the blame anyway, just to make me feel better?' He gave her his best patient-and-longsuffering-spouse-cum-partner look, and she hummed. 'Fine. Remember all those godchildren we've gained over the past seven years? The ones you said we'd never have anything to do with?'

'What about 'em?' he asked with irritating placidity as he sipped his own coffee.

Laura eyed the steam rising lazily from his cup and realised that caffeine would be really, really good right now. Ignoring his grumble of protest, she took his from his hand, took a refreshing gulp and gave it back, making sure to maintain eye contact with him all the while. 'We're getting them.'

Bill nearly dropped his coffee. 'You mean they're coming here?'

She was instantly soothed by the slight touch of panic in his voice. She didn't mind freaking out if he was freaking out with her. 'Not all of them, obviously, but a good twenty-odd.' She flicked the list of names with her finger. 'The names are a giveaway.'

He gave her a curious look and she smirked as she handed over the list. Her smirk widened as he scanned it.

'Frak,' he said at last, returning it to her.

'Indeed.'

'Give us another look.' He looked down the list again, and glanced at her. 'They're um… resourceful.' He gave her his best admiral-stare, the one that said he wasn't to be messed with, and said firmly, 'I'm telling you now, I'm not teaching Wilhelmina.'

She leaned towards him, amused by the disgust on his face. 'Oh, Bill,' she cooed, 'aren't you flattered at all? All these little Bills and Williams and Wilheminas and Willies –'

He put an abrupt stop to the torrent of names by kissing her, and when she hummed in response, he drew back enough to look into her eyes. 'Laura, what the hell are we gonna do with twenty seven year olds all named 'Laura', 'William' or derivatives thereof?'

Thanks to that kiss, she was feeling much better about the whole thing. She kept her face close to his, rested her chin on her closed fist, and said, very slowly, 'We'll do what we're paid to do. We'll teach them.'

He glared. 'Yeah, if we can tell 'em apart.'

She smiled sweetly. 'Oh, you noticed that? We've got one set of triplets, and three pairs of twins. All named 'Laura' and 'Bill', incidentally, rather than one of the other options.' She shook her head a little in disbelief. 'Who knew Earth was such a fertility booster?'

Bill gave her a very dirty look and stood up straight. He didn't need the uniform to look like a soldier. 'This is all your fault, you know.'

'Mine?'

'Yes, yours, Madam Principal. You were the one who said we had to start having babies.'

She smirked again. 'It's not my fault if the people take my word as law. Besides, you can't shirk responsibility here, Admiral. I may have said it originally, but you were the one who blabbed it in CIC. Billy told me.' She glanced up at him, and gave him a wicked smile before adding, 'He wondered if you were quite all there.'

His eyes narrowed and she giggled. 'He did, did he.'

'Hmmm.'

He indicated the door. 'Got a lock?'

'You know it does. Why do you think I insisted on a door to begin with?'

He yanked her up from her chair and into his arms, murmuring, 'I always did like your practical streak.' He moved to kiss her, but she pulled back.

'You're forgetting the door.'

'Frak it!'

'Bill! What if a child should come in?'

He gave her a wolfish grin, the kind that still surprised her, even after seven years of marriage. 'Then they'll learn sex ed firsthand.'

She thumped him lightly for that and sat on her desk, leaning back to flick a switch under the table, and flashed him a smile. 'Now it's locked.'

The papers went flying as he pulled her off the table, and all thoughts of impossible namesakes were rapidly forgotten.

-Fin.

If anyone's interested, I might return to this universe some day, but there'd need to be enough demand to justify it! I plotted out all sorts of things (my parents live an hour's drive from me; I get travel sick. This equals fic plotting time since I can't read, play with the computer, or watch a video).