Penumbra
by Charis
Disclaimer: Battlestar Galactica is not mine. No copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: All Karihan's fault. For a ficmeme, she challenged me with the following: "I would love to know what happened when Bill or Laura woke up (you decide who woke up first) after "Clandestine". " I expect this is my last foray back into the fandom.
He comes awake in the night with a start. It is not uncommon; even after all these years, he has slipped back into wartime reflexes without effort, and the slightest sounds often push him from slumber. For a moment, he is disoriented: these are his quarters, but they sound wrong, and his bunk is cramped –
And then he turns his head, and sees her, dark and pale against the grey of his quarters, and can't help smiling. He knows this can't last – it's an idyll, and those are by definition brief, even without the war and the impropriety of this and knowing that they're going to disagree sometime soon, argue because they always seem to, maybe enough to ruin this. There's something fragile and beautiful about the moment, like being inside a soap bubble, and he's reluctant to shatter it.
But the clock on the wall tells him it's that grey area between late night and early morning, ship-time. The party will have wound down by now, but there's still some time before day shift will be rising to prepare for work. If they are to keep this secret, she will need to leave soon.
He's not sure what to call her – Madame President seems too formal, when she's naked beneath his blankets and the marks of his kisses are still on her, but Laura isn't right either, if he's going to remind them of who they are – so he reaches out instead, shakes her lightly. After a moment, her eyes open, slow and lazy, and he's reminded somehow of the divide between them even in that action, even as his breath catches involuntarily.
"Morning," she says; her voice is slurred with sleep, and he can tell this all hasn't caught up with her.
"Not quite," he answers quietly, "but I thought –"
Understanding dawns in her eyes, and she is suddenly wholly awake and aware, and he can already see the President returning, drowning out the woman who was fire in his arms scant hours earlier. "You're right. I should go." She sits up, winces a little, and maybe he should feel guilty about that soreness, but there's also a satisfaction that wells up.
"Shower's there," he says, nodding at the alcove, and tries not to look when she gets up and pads over to it, gathering her clothes on the way. He wants to reach for her, to follow her, but he knows that would be foolish. They both have duties that make this impossible. Maybe, if he reminds himself of that enough times, he'll be able to remember this cannot happen again, at least long enough for them to fall back into their roles.
When she comes back, she is dressed once more, clean and slightly pink from the shower, and nothing betrays their earlier activities. He has recovered himself in her absence, donned his uniform and the gruff severity of the fleet commander, and it is that man who offers to escort the President back to her ship – and if she has any regrets, he cannot see them beneath the bland smile as she nods her thanks.
They'll have meetings, he thinks, later today and in the days to come. This is the way it has to be.
But his hand touches her back lightly as she precedes him out the door, an involuntary gesture, and he thinks she smiles.
- finis -