Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or situations. Written for fun, not profit.
He kisses his way down her breasts, overeager in a manner so different from his usual military persona, hard and reserved beneath a uniform made more of stone than cloth. For the first time she remembers how young he is. The entire situation, everything that has brought them to this moment suddenly seems so ludicrous that she half-giggles. The sound of her laughter is foreign to her, like it's coming from someone else. Some other woman. Some woman who has scandalous affairs with younger men. Some woman whose family and friends are all dead and gone. Some woman who is the President of the Colonies, capital P, capital C, thank you very much.
He does something with his mouth just then and she's suddenly back behind the gym with her first boyfriend, and she can't even remember his name now, but she remembers his hands, his mouth on her skin. And, oh, she remembers her breasts, these cancerous tumors, millstones around her neck for what seems like forever, but his thumbs skim lightly over the sides and she remembers what it is to be alive. Truly, truly alive, not to be one of the lucky few or two steps ahead of death's grasp, but to be alive in that way where death is little more than a fairytale monster, told to children to keep them in line.
"Mmm, Apollo," she murmurs.
He tilts his head up and smiles at her. "You know, you really can call me Lee."
She wants to giggle again, but instead she looks down at him, with his tousled hair, full of idealism and angst and all those delightfully familiar things that she forces herself to think of as quaint and foreign and a million years ago. "And you," she replies with a smile that hasn't quite made its way to joking, "can call me Madame President."
