Laura's Paradigm

by kimbari

Pairing: Adama/Roslin

Rating: Grownups

Disclaimer: Yeah, right.

Takes place after The Dance and before KLG (obviously).

A/N: This thing started out as a story but I seem to be allergic to 3-part plays with this couple. Don't ask me why. I cut the first part and put it in my LJ. That was just a little drabble-y scene with Laura and Billy. What follows is the meat, if you will. A vignette. It ties in to An Act of Will.

Laura stretched her arms above her head and leaned back in her chair. She and Adama had just spent three hours hammering out the ration schedule and discussing whether the devil they knew (Baltar) was necessarily better than the devil they didn't (Zarek). They couldn't come to a consensus on that last so she changed the subject.

"Billy told me there's a rumor going around that you and I are involved," she said, gazing at him through her lashes.

Adama didn't look up from the pile of requisitions he was signing. "Probably all of these closed-door meetings," he murmured.

"Maybe we should leave the door open," Laura suggested, not quite seriously.

Adama looked up at her. "If what we discuss in here gets out, people would have a lot more to worry about than you and I frakking."

"I'm sure," Laura said drily.

"Let them have their gossip," Adama said, returning his attention to his work. "It'll keep their minds off short rations."

Laura and the pile of papers on her side of the desk exchanged distasteful stares. She got up and paced the room, stretching her legs. "Maybe," she mused. "But it still bothers me."

Adama looked up at her again. His glasses reflected the light in the room. "What bothers you? That it's true or that it shouldn't be?"

She looked at him, past the reflection, into his eyes. "Done's done, can't be undone," she chanted softly.

He favored her with a faint smile. "How does the rest of it go?"

"I forget," she said. She grimaced at a sudden twinge of tension and began to massage the back of her neck.

"Want some help with that?"

Laura stopped rubbing her neck. "I'm fine," she said.

"You're not fine," Adama said. "You're not even close to fine." His knowledge was in his voice as he spoke and in his eyes as he watched her and she turned away from him, turning her back on both.

They had danced on Colonial Day. He had held her in his arms and it had felt like the first time he'd done so (which it was) and the hundredth time (which it wasn't). They had danced and he had been good at it and later they had gone to bed and he had been good at that and she had not. But he'd been willing still, despite that, and he had helped her find a way to play the hand that shifting hormones had dealt her but in doing so he'd discovered her secret.

But she had also discovered his. She regretted both. Him knowing her secret made her nervous; her knowing his secret made her crazy, it was something she didn't quite know what to do with, something she hadn't expected… but maybe she should have. Maybe you never really leave the schoolyard.

There had been that time and only that time. Her guards wouldn't talk and she doubted anyone else had seen them leave the party together. So where had the rumors come from? Was the fact that he was in love with her, and that love had been consummated somehow advertised in their expressions, their gestures, the tone of their voices?

She'd felt a delicious anticipation for this meeting. (She'd never, truly, ever dreaded her meetings with him, even when they ended – or started – in raised voices.) Sex was only important twice in your life: the first time and the last time. She wanted it to happen again, if only to find out if the paradigm really had shifted.

"You're thinking again," Adama said, right at her ear making her start. He laid a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Jumpy…"

"I didn't hear you get up," Laura said. His hand was warm through the fabric of her jacket, and she felt conflicting urges to lean into it or step away.

"It's your choice, " he said. His hand hadn't moved. Neither had she, one way or the other. "If you don't want there to be any reason for gossip, you've got to stop coming to my place."

She glanced at him. He was smiling, slightly. She looked away. "You yourself brought up the need for discretion," she pointed out. "We discuss matters that we don't want the public to hear. Your place is the best place for that."

"It is," he conceded. "If you want me to keep my hands off you, I will." He sighed. "And it would help if you wore a flight suit to our meetings…" He eyed her figure appreciatively and suddenly remembered how closely those flight suits fit. "Or not," he finished drily.

Laura giggled. "I'm not sure a wardrobe change would help," she admitted rather breathlessly into the air in front of her, refusing to turn and face him. If she faced him…

"My hands, Madame President," Adama said. Despite the formality of his words, his voice had taken on a hoarse note that made her suddenly ache in a deep and private place. "Yea or Nay?"

She turned to face him and knew he saw the Yea in her eyes but said, "Yes," anyway.

"Good," he said softly. "I was hoping you'd let me help you with that new paradigm."

His declaration startled her into laughter. "I'm not even sure what it is," she admitted.

"Let me refresh your memory," Adama said, and reached for her.

They were already toe-to-toe. He put his hands on her waist and pulled her closer, laid his cheek against hers. "You don't like oral sex," he murmured.

"I like it fine," she said. His cheek against hers… it was such a loving gesture that her heart crimped in her chest. "My reaction's changed…"

"If it doesn't make you come," he said, and his hands began a lazy caress of her lower back, up, down, up, down, with just the tips of his fingers. "Why waste time on it?"

"Because you like it," she said, and he chuckled.

"You noticed."

"Hmmm…" Laura said, placing her hands on his shoulders. He pulled her closer and she could feel the solidity of him and remembered something he'd said. "If I rest, will you stand up for me?"

"I am standing up for you right this moment, as a matter of fact." She chuckled and wrapped her arms around his neck, leaned back in his arms. He grinned and she thought it was a wonderful thing to see, his smile, maybe all the more because it so seldom appeared.

She looked down at him, then up into that smile. "I noticed."

They touched lips, not quite kissing, more tasting, rediscovering how incredibly sensitive their lips were, how sweetly slippery their tongues. Adama moaned and pulled away, no more than a hand's breadth.

"We don't have a lot of time," he said, rubbing her nose with his. "You need time… I need to take the time to warm you."

"You're doing a pretty good job," Laura sighed. She was frakking warm if the truth be told.

"I want more time," he said, and kissed her, gently. No tongues, yet.

"How much time do you need?" she said.

"About two days," Adama said. The slight tremor in his voice belied the irony with which he said the words.

"Two days," Laura mused. She laid her cheek against his again. "Is that how long it would take to get me out of your system?" Adama pulled back and stared at her. "It's all right," she continued. "The thought's crossed my mind, too."

Adama had the grace to look embarrassed. "Then I guess the real question is, do I want this."

"It's a relevant question, considering the fact that we can't take two days off to have sex, although…" She felt the most intriguing shift of emotions: speculation, longing, lust. "It would be nice."

"Why don't we just take the time we do have," Adama said. "Because I—" He stopped talking and kissed her.

She moaned as he took possession of her mouth, kissed her hard, then broke away. He stepped back and began to unbutton his uniform. "Who can take off their clothes faster?" he challenged.

Laura returned his challenge with a smug smile. "The one who wants to get laid the most," she said, undoing the side fastener of her jacket. Adama laughed.

It was a dead heat that ended in a draw, ended with them standing beside his bunk. He lay down and pulled her astride him. "This time I want you to drive."

"Sure you can handle it?" she said, looking down at him.

"I can handle anything flat on my back."

"So say we all," Laura sighed. She closed her eyes and guided him into her.

It was as it had been the last time. It was not as it had been the last time. The last time was new, this time, if not old, was… familiar. Her insides knew him, expanded to accommodate him, welcomed him back. He made a noise, a sighing moan, in acknowledgement of that welcome. He grasped her waist, slid his hands down to her pelvis. She could feel each of his fingers, holding on, holding on as she rocked her hips.

She shifted, spread her thighs wider, taking more of him inside herself. His slide into her felt like silk, like oil, as he touched a part of her that she never could. This time the moans were mutual, then he whispered, "…love me." Surprised, she opened her eyes. He lay beneath her, an expression of anguished bliss on his face, his eyes closed. She balanced on one hand and touched his mouth, nothing special except that it was his. He opened his eyes, gazed up at her. She could see her reflection in their bluish depths. "Laura," he said.

"I…" she tried to protest. She stopped. Anything she said would be so much noise. His hands tightened on her body. "Take it," he said, arching up, driving himself deeper into her. She gasped as he hit bottom. Pain zipped through her like lightning, followed by a delicious, unnamable pleasure that spread through her the way a drop of color spreads through water. Her body adjusted further and the bottom receded. "Take it all!" he rasped, and she opened herself completely to him, let him give her what she hadn't known she wanted, didn't think she needed, couldn't bear to receive.

"Gods… Will!" she cried, and then nothing else mattered as she gripped his shoulders and worked her hips, pressing down, struggling toward, working, working, seeking, finding…

"There," he whispered. "There, right there…" He knows, she thought and her back arched and she yelled. Her hips bucked frantically as she climaxed. He was equally vocal, his release following closely on the heels of her own. She felt his penis throb as he ejaculated inside her, sending another wave of ecstasy to crash over, drown her. She cried out again and he pulled her down to his chest, folded his arms around her. His hand crawled into her hair, clutched it as if it were a lifeline. "I love you," he breathed.

"No," Laura moaned. "You can't."

"Sorry," Adama panted. "It's not open for discussion."

She pushed herself up and stared at him. "I can't," she said. Her eyes flashed.

"Then don't," he said, and his expression shifted from that of ardent lover to one she was much more familiar with. They stared at each other, wills clashing, still joined until the absurdity of the situation hit her and she moved to dismount. His hands tightened on her body. "I need to go," she said.

He stared into her eyes for a long moment, a moment in which she wasn't certain he wouldn't continue to hold her captive, forcing her to fight her way to separateness. The moment passed and he released her and she climbed off. He rolled over on his side and watched as she disappeared into the head.

Laura stared at her face in the mirror. Her face glowed, her nerves sang, her body throbbed with a song in which his name was the only lyric. It wasn't until she had finished washing herself that she realized she'd strolled into the head without her clothes, insuring a less than dignified exit. She opened the door cautiously and peeked out. Adama stood there by the door, fully dressed. He wordlessly handed her her clothes.

As she dressed he went back to his desk and pretended to work. She could tell it was pretend because he stared at the same sheet of paper, never moving.

It started with a rumor, she thought. And that started with a dance. There are things you can have, William Adama. And there are things you can't.

"I'm dying, Will," she said softly, to the back of his head. "The cancer's spread."

"No," Adama said.

"Yes," Laura said, moving to stand behind him. "The Chamalla is making the time I have left extremely interesting, but it isn't curing me. I'm going to die."

"No," Adama said again.

"I'm going to die, Will," Laura said. "And not even your love can change that." He turned and looked at her then. His eyes were hot, hurt… angry. She touched his battered, compelling face and the anger vanished. Give me time, his eyes entreated. And I'll accept it. Just give me time.

"Then let it change what it can," Adama said. Laura dropped her chin, sighed, then raised her head, tossing back her hair.

"And what might that be?"

He got to his feet and stood, toe-to-toe with her again. "The fact that you aren't loved."

It hit her then, like a pillow tossed by a weak child. What it all meant, what it was all about.

Laura smiled her little smile. "But I am loved," she told him.

"Well, what do you know about that," Adama marveled gruffly, his face a study in obscurity. "Tell him I said he's a lucky guy."

"Tell him yourself when you see him," Laura said. "And give him a message from me: Tell him I love him, too."

End