fic: falling like fire by dbkate

fandom: BSG, pairing: Adama/Roslin, rating: PG-13

disclaimer: Property of lots of people, not me.

summary: A meeting of the minds. The reunion scene we never got.

x8x8x

falling like fire

x8x8x

When Laura Roslin returns to fleet, she smells like ashes and there is nothing she'd like better than a shower, even as tired people gather around the desk aboard Colonial One, as supplicants to an altar.

For months she's been a mythical figure, even more so than she was while dying and there's something frightening in the stark eyes of the survivors staring at her, even as she sits patiently, her fingers tightening invisibly when the ship rocks to dock alongside the scarred battlestar for refueling.

There's a worn diary on her blotter, a photograph of abject failure in her drawer and her glasses fog just a little when the phone rings and she hears Adama's rough voice on the other end.

"Madame President ..."

Her throat tightens. Her eyes are stinging beneath her glasses and she wipes at them with an annoyed gesture. "Admiral," she replies and in some ways, that's all she needs to say. Except for ..."And it's not President of anything, not yet."

He makes a quiet noise on the other end of the line. "It's good to hear your voice, regardless."

"The same here. How did the rest of the evacuation go, by your early estimates?"

"Stunningly well, considering I expected us all to die."

Isn't that the truth, she thinks, placing a hand on her Occupation diary. It feels all too solid to the touch and she shivers to think she might have to reread it some day. "But we didn't. And we have you to thank for that, so let me be the first to say, thank you." The damned lump in her throat grows, until she's nearly weeping. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome. And thank you ..." He sounds just as moved. "Thank you for not giving up. For believing."

"How could we have done otherwise? You've never let us down."

It's true, he never has, even during the times she thought she'd have to drag him kicking and screaming into the light of reality. But they know each other now, better than ever, even after a year of being apart and she never doubted him, not for a second.

There was no surprise, at least to her, when the Galactica fell like holy fire from the sky, only pride that she had read him right from the first: he was a man of obscene courage, second to none.

If the Cylons weren't full of fear now, they sure as hells should be.

"Will you be coming aboard later?" he asks and she has to shake herself a little to concentrate on his words. Gods, I'm so tired ... so damned tired.

"Maybe," she replies vaguely, knowing she'll be there approximately ten minutes after she's showered away the last of the filth that clings, the final tangible evidence that miserable place. She tries to lighten her tone. "Don't let me make you wait up."

"See you here in a couple of hours," he says, as if he hasn't been listening to a word she's said, which means everything is exactly as it should be.

"See you then," she murmurs, not caring that the people around her desk have been listening to every word. Not for the first time, she wishes she had Billy there to clear the room, but it doesn't matter anymore.

They might have heard, but they don't understand and to Laura Roslin, understanding is the key to all.

x8x8x

His quarters are messy, which is odd for him, but she doesn't mention it. There are bits of broken things lying on the floor and Laura wonders how many of them were thrown against the wall in a fit of frustration and rage.

All of them, if she had to guess.

It's a shame, really, especially as his beautiful model sailing ship seems to have taken a beating, but not quite as much of one as his antique clock which is lying cracked on the floor. It reads a date and time that is exactly three minutes after the Cylon invasion of New Caprica occurred -- not that she really has committed the numbers to memory, except she has.

Every minute is burned there, in her mind, for the rest of her days. Gingerly, she bends to pick up the clock, running her fingers over hands that are frozen in position. "We should keep this, to remind us."

He looks at her somberly. "As if we'll forget?"

She puts the clock down on an empty shelf. "The next generation might. We can't let them."

A chuckle rumbles through him. "That's what I like about you, Laura. Always thinking ahead." He hands her a glass, filled nearly to the brim with something brown and sharp-smelling and she takes it gratefully. "Enjoy it. There's not much left."

"I will." She sips deeply and while never much of a drinker, she can't deny it tastes like heaven. Raising the glass to a toast, she smiles thinly at him. "To happiness short-lived."

Hesitantly, he allows her to click her glass to his. "Let's hope that's not the case."

"But let's be ready nonetheless," she replies, draining the glass, glad there's not enough ambrosia left in the universe to begin to dull her pain, lest she drink it all.

He's thumbing the lip of his glass uncomfortably. There's something bothering him and she waits for him for hint at it, which is all she ever gets, just a hint, but that's usually more than enough to go on.

This time, however, Adama surprises her, coming straight out and saying it. "Are you making a deal with Zarek for the Presidency?"

She splutters a little, a few drops of ambrosia dripping onto her chin. She wipes it off with the back of her hand and smiles. "Does Tom Zarek seem like a man who makes deals?"

"I don't know. Things have changed," Adama says. He rubs at his upper lip. It looks sunburnt; he must have just shaved. "But there is talk going around ... about you and Zarek. About how you two have gotten together. Politically ... and ..."

And suddenly she realizes what he's asking her. It's blunt and delightful and so ridiculous she starts to laugh and wonders if she'll be able to stop. "Oh, Bill ..."

At the sound of his first name tumbling from her lips, he relaxes. "I'm just trying to gauge the situation. He is President, you know."

"And I am not impressed," she replies, feeling warm from the liquor; warm from his lopsided smile. "Remember, I've had the job. It's a rotten one."

"A rotten job everyone wants," he counters, but his shoulders are no longer so square they could be used as rulers. "But I'm glad to hear that you and he ..."

"Aren't doing anything ... illicit ... together, no," she interjects, putting her palm against his cheek. It's far softer than it looks. "But thank you for thinking I still have all my deviousness intact. Not to mention such seductive wiles at my command."

It might be the liquor, it might be exhaustion, but she could swear he's leaning into her touch. "I've missed you," he says softly and she can hear a confession in his voice, one that doesn't come easily.

"I've missed you too," she replies, torn between laughter and tears. "Gods, there are no words for how much I've ... missed ... you."

There is no kiss that follows, because there doesn't have to be. That moment had passed the second she'd seen Galactica falling through the clouds and she'd silently turned her face up toward its red-glowing helm, her lips burnt by its fire.

There has been nothing like this for her, no love to claim its equal and Adama has to look away as well because he understands ...

And understanding is all.

x8x8x

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