Originally published on livejournal in 2009

Adama was shown through the curtain into Roslin's office by Billy, but the president was nowhere to be found. Her squeals of horror, however, were coming from the compact washroom.

"Madam President?" Billy called out, worried.

"Get more towels, quick, before the Commander gets here," she yelled back.

Adama shouldered the door open, knocking it against her head. "I'm here," he said unnecessarily. "Oh, sorry," he added.

She had been frantically mopping at a huge puddle on the floor with a much too inadequate towel. She grabbed her head and glared at him, pushing her glasses back up. He stared at the fountain of water coming over the edge of the sink, and not on the sliver of white bra lace he'd seen down the top of her blouse before nobly removing his gaze.

"Don't worry, it's stopping," he said, noting the flow abating. "You have a clog," he added unnecessarily.

"Yes," she said, straightening and putting her hands on her hips. "I found that out too late."

Billy pressed against Adama's back, shoving a handful of towels over his shoulder. "Thanks," Adama said to him, pushing him back slightly with his elbow. That boy was like an eager puppy some times. He tossed the towels down and started swabbing with his foot. "Come on out of there, Madam President."

She hopped over, grabbing his shoulder for support. "Thanks," whispered breathlessly in his ear, and he growled a non-answer as he moved into the small space.

"Billy, see if you can get a repair person over here sometime in the next month," she said, resigned. "And don't throw my position around. This is the last thing I need with the press."

"Do you always think in salacious headlines?" Adama asked, poking his head out of the doorway. "Frak them. The president needs a functioning sink."

She tossed her head, and nodded to Billy. Adama called out again, his tone masterful, "Forget it, Billy." Laura bored an intimidating glare towards his voice, but the door was obviously blocking its rays. "Run down to my Raptor and ask the pilot to give you the emergency repair kit. And get a bucket from a deck hand." He peered quizzically around the door. "You can remember that?"

"Yes, sir," the young man said with a sigh, but he looked to Roslin for final confirmation. She gave him an affirmative nod.

When Billy had left, she came to the doorway. He was down on his hands and knees, clearing the last of the water, ringing the sopping towels into the toilet.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He glanced up, but resumed his task. "I'm cleaning up this mess first."

"First? You're not going to try to repair the sink, are you?" She knew the answer, but she couldn't believe it.

"Of course," he said.

"You can't do that."

"It's very simple; I just need the right tools."

"No, I mean, you're the Commander of the Fleet. You have more important things to do."

"We were having a meeting, weren't we?" he said, rocking back on his heels.

"Yes—"

"Why don't you bring the files and a chair over, and you can talk while I work." His head was already in the cabinet under the sink. "Yes, this will be very straightforward; as long as I have the right gauge of wrench—" His voice sounded almost joyful—for William Adama—as though fixing a sink would be a great pleasure.

She cocked her head inquisitively. Her father had not been handy. She'd never even dated those guys who messed around with cars. Her one live-in boyfriend didn't know which end of the hammer hit the nail. And Richard had been all about delegating authority.

Bill stripped off his tunic, answering curiosities she's had about his body—the upper part, at least—thick, muscled arms and chest, with an equally manly paunch. Suddenly she was back in her hot apartment in Caprica City, her air conditioner broken, and the building maintenance man...George...was there, stripping his shirt off, apologizing, and she'd been pressing a glass of ice water to her heated collarbone, telling him that it didn't bother her at all.

Bill glanced up at her with the same embarrassment. "This is going to be dirty work," he said.

"I'm sure." Her voice sounded a bit purr-like to her ears. She spun on her heel and hurried over to her desk. Files. Chair. Yes, a chair to sit on...and get a good view.

Billy came back at the same time, face flushed, waving a bucket with one hand and the repair kit with the other. Adama thanked him, and started emptying the sink of water. Roslin thanked him as well, and dismissed him with, "This is going to take a while from the look of it. I'll just review a few things with Commander Adama while he works and you can take a break."

His brow furrowed in puzzlement, Billy nevertheless left the office. "I'll be right outside if you need me," he said. "Just give me a yell."

Muffled, Adama's voice said from under the cabinet, "Shoulda let the boy stay. He coulda learned something."

"Everyone needs to know how to fix a clogged drain?" she said, setting on the chair.

"If he wants to get a woman." There was a flash of white teeth from the darkness. "They've got way of clogging things up."

She crossed her legs with a snap. "Plenty of men have gotten me with no repair skills at all," she said tartly, then thought, that didn't sound right. The glint from under the sink proved it.

A smartass response came back: "Maybe you should be more discriminating."

"If I wasn't before, I am now," she said, and regretted it instantly, particularly when a short, "Yeah," wafted out.

She remembered her friend Gloria, after two decades in the romance trenches, telling her, "I've had men who're good in bed; I've had rich men; I've had charmers; now all I want is a guy who can put up a shelf that won't fall off the wall in a week."

Refocusing, she flipped the first folder open. "I see that the passenger liners are using too much fuel again," she began and got a grunt in reply. He seemed to be applying force to something under there.

She got up and craned her head, trying to see. "Are you sure you know what you're doing? This isn't a Viper, you know."

"Not many pilots can repair their own Vipers anymore," he said with regret, and gave a short, "Frak," when his grip on the wrench slipped, banging his elbow. "But basic physics works for hydraulic fuel and water all the same. You have an obstruction. It must be removed."

"Does Lee know how to fix a sink?" she asked vaguely.

He peered out at her suspiciously. "I doubt it."

"Not glamorous enough for him?" she suggested, leaning on the door jamb.

"I wouldn't know," he grumbled, corded forearms flexing with exertion, his thighs tensing, lifting his pelvis to get more leverage...another idle curiosity flitted across her mind...but his uniform pants weren't snug enough.

She sat back down and flipped open another folder. "I wanted to discuss the possibility of more shuttle flights between vessels so that a bit of socialization can go on. We've got to focus on that baby-making."

Suddenly, Bill roared as the pipe came loose and the water in the pea trap showered down on his face and chest.

"Oh dear," she said, hopping up again and looking around for more towels.

"It's all right," he muttered, but she was leaning over him, stretching—he could see her white stomach as her blouse rode up—he looked away, only to be face to face with one perfectly shaped knee.

Breathless, she held herself up on the wall, and snared one of the less wet and dirty towels. From under the curtain of her hair, she said, "It's not much—"

He grabbed it from her hand and covered his face, sopping up the water. "Thanks," he mumbled. He ran it down his chest, cleaning his now damp and clinging tanks. He pulled his dog tags out, wiping them off, polishing his glasses dry last.

She was back in her chair and he screwed one eye shut to look into the now freed pipe. "Hair," he announced. "As I suspected."

He glanced at her and quickly away, working one thick finger down into the pipe. "You have a lot of it. Do you ever wash it in the sink?" Somehow that seemed too intimate of a question and she was blushing. It was easy to imagine her, bent over this tiny sink, soaping wet tendrils, towel covering her shoulders, but not her pretty breasts—

Her voice was husky and she didn't know why when she admitted, "Sometimes. We only have one shower on this level—"

"I'd recommend a sieve for the drain," he said flatly, and she decided he was made of stone. He pulled masses of greasy, dirty hair from the pipe and she turned away in disgust.

"Is that it?" she asked, a bit disappointed. He was too efficient.

"I've got to get it back together," he said, grinning. "Sometimes things don't go back together as easily as they came apart."

"Yes," she said, trying to sound knowledgeable. Although, couldn't that principle apply to many things? She opened another folder, recrossed her legs, and fiddled with her pen.

His head popped back under the sink, and she allowed herself to watch the way his wide pectoral muscles moved with his actions. A big dirty hand groped for a tool—"What do you want?" she asked, breathy.

"The crescent wrench."

She was down beside him, looking into the tool bag with puzzlement. Crescent suggested a curved shape—

"It was right here," his disembodied voice said, his hand groped again and found her knee. The grubby fingers gripped, sliding around to the inside, where the bare skin was tender.

"That's not it," she said.

"No," he said, his touch still there.

"Is this it?" she said, grabbing the closest tool she could find and his hand lifted. She slipped the wrench into his fingers.

"Yes," he said, muffled.

She beat a retreat to her chair. Better to stay there.

He pushed up onto his elbows, grunting and groaning with his labors. "Dammit," he grumbled over and over. His broad back muscles flexed and bunched as he turned in the cabinet, getting the right angle. Her files were forgotten on her tightly clamped together knees as she leaned forward, glasses gripped in her laced fingers.

"Are you all right?" she fretted. "Perhaps we should call—"

"I've got it!" he barked. He dropped his tone. "Almost. It's almost there—" One more set of grunts, and then, satisfied, "There."

He began to back out, then she heard a choking sound. "What the hell?" he muttered.

She leaned in. "What's wrong?"

He tried to move again. "I'm...stuck...on something," he gasped.

Laura poked her head under the sink, but all she could make out was the glow of Adama's red face and the sheen of sweat on it. "I can't see."

He pulled his hands back in, brushing her ankles on the way. They both apologized. His voice was confused, "I can't figure out—Oh, frak."

"What, what is it?" she asked, truly concerned.

"I've...uh...my dog tags are on the pipe."

"On the pipe?"

"Somehow, the chain got looped through the pipe before I reattached it," he said.

"Oh dear," she said, covering her mouth with both hands and pressing down, hard.

"Go ahead, laugh," he said, resigned.

Swallowing her laughter, she told him, "No, Bill. I wouldn't."

"I would," he said. "If I wasn't stuck under here." He added, "Well, frak," unnecessarily.

She fretted, "What can you do?" as she shed her blazer. It was warm, and getting warmer, in the tight space.

"I don't think I can get the pipe back off. I'm all twisted on the chain under here."

She started to say, "I can go get help—" but then stopped herself. No sense embarrassing this proud man who had tried to help her. "No, we can get you loose," she said definitely. She shut the door to give them a bit more room.

"Okay," he said.

She lay her hands on his shoulders first, moving up his neck, seeking the chain—there it was, under his chin, taut. "You can't slip out of it?"

"No, it's tight. It's up on the crook of the pea trap."

Whatever that is, she thought. "Okay, but can you scoot into the cabinet any further? Release the tension." She had to pull her skirt up a bit to get her legs wide enough to straddle him.

He tried, pushing against the floor, huffing with the effort. His flailing hands found her ankles again. He said, "I don't think I can get far enough in."

She scooted back down by his ribs. "Maybe I can help." She tried lifting his torso and discovered that was a ridiculous thought. He was heavy and solid. They both oofed at the effort.

Back up under the sink, she found the clasp of the chain, but she told him, "It's too tight. I can't get it open."

His neck was rock hard under her touch. She murmured, "You've got to relax. You're swelling up. You won't be able to get free while you're so rigid."

"No." He echoed, "I've got to relax," and they tried deep, cleansing breathes together, but the sound was loud in the confining space, their pace still too rapid.

She pushed her damp hair from her forehead. "Okay, new plan."

"I'm at your command," he said, muffled.

That wasn't helping, she almost told him, but then focused on their task. "Can you get onto your back?"

"I think so," he groaned, twisting painfully, and too late, she realized that she should have moved first. He tripped her unintentionally, and she fell, his big hands wildly grabbing to catch her.

She gripped the edge of the sink to keep as much of her weight off him as possible and his hands wrapped around her bare thighs, keeping her upright. "It's all right," she told him, struggling to stand.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked ridiculously, and she only laughed.

"Okay, I think you can scoot a bit further in now," she said, peeking under the sink at him. "Push, hard, for a moment—"

He did, rising up with his legs, grunting, holding his weight up on his elbows.

She felt some slack in the chain, just a bit. "I need to move it around—" She had to straddle his shoulders again—damn, he was wider now that he was on his back. The skirt went back up, further this time. Supporting herself on the sink, she leaned over, her damn hair blocking out what little light there was as she blindly fumbled at his neck, or what she thought was his neck—her fingers sank into his wet, gasping mouth. "Sorry," she mumbled.

She found it: his roped neck, its prominent Adam's apple bobbing frantically. "Sorry," she said again. "Almost there—" The chain at last; she slid it around until she found the clasp again with her fingertip. She couldn't open it one-handed.

"Dammit," she cursed. "How does this thing open?"

"It's not supposed to come loose easily," he was regretfully.

She'd need both hands. "I'm going to have to sit on you; I'm sorry," she said, and only got an odd little squeak back. Poor man must be choking, yet suffering stoically as always.

Apologizing again, she pushed her skirt the rest of the way up to straddle his chest, but carefully making sure she didn't make full contact with him. She wedged herself under the cabinet. "It's gonna get tight in here for a minute," she told him, her voice echoing.

"Yeah," he said, steadying her with his hands on her hips—uh, ass.

Frantically, she worked at the clasp.

"Slow it down," he murmured, so close, his breath between her sweaty breasts. "You'll never get it done that way. Calm down."

Yeah. Right. If she had to chew through the chain with her teeth, she would. Then she did calm. She found a higher plane, the place where she was able to make life and death decisions in a split second. The clasp came undone. He fell, free, with a great crack of his head. In shock, her head slammed up on the underside of the sink.

They both cried out, "Frak!"

Exhausted, Laura stood and supported herself on her elbows at the sink.

Gasping like a winded horse, Bill pushed himself out and found that Laura Roslin, President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, was standing spread-legged over his head and he could see straight up her bunched skirt. The universe screeched to a halt and a vague, unformed fantasy was suddenly snapped into sharp-edged focus. His jittering gaze moved from her high heeled pumps, to her delicate ankles that he'd been touching, over taut calves, to those knees he'd stroked, the sweat-moistened long thighs now familiar to his palms, then frustrating darkness...her panties must be black—

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, when she saw his stunned face. "Let me get out of your way."

He quickly rolled up into a ball as she hopped away from him, pulling his knees up to his chest. He smiled painfully. "Thank you."

"No, thank you—" she waved a hand at the sink. "For this. Really, you shouldn't have." A thought dawned. "Your tags." She popped into the cabinet and he stared at her nicely-rounded ass unabashedly. She was balanced on her toes, her heels lifting out of those very high pumps—

"Okay then," he said, struggling to his feet, thinking of mangled baby corpses, old women impaled on Centurion bayonets, that idiot Doctor Baltar prancing around in a pink bra and panties...ah, yes, worked like magic every time.

She came up, pushing her sweaty curls off her face, smiling in triumph as she held out his tags. He started to take them and she snatched them back. "No, I'll put them on for you," she said shyly, "Your hands are dirty." So he let her, enjoying the feel of her fingertips at the nape of his neck, grinning as he watched her tongue-clenching concentration in the mirror.

"Wash your hands now," she scolded softly.

"You too," he said. "First let's see what sort of handyman I am," he added, turning the tap. When the sink drained easily, they exchanged grins.

"Never a doubt," he said proudly, not seeing her raised eyebrows behind his back as he bowed to wash his hands. She stuck her hands in too, and with, 'excuse mes' they soaped up and rinsed their hands.

"No clean towel," she said, sighing.

He picked up his tunic from the toilet. "Use this." They dried their hands, crumpling the garment and leaving it damp. He shrugged. "It gave its life in the line of duty," he said, putting it back on.

She exited the bathroom first. Tugging her horribly wrinkled skirt down, she said, giggling, "You and it gave service to your president." He followed, buttoning up his tunic, chuckling.

Billy was standing in the office, shifting from foot to foot as though he'd been rooted there, his telltale fair skin stained crimson.

She said to Adama, "I guess our meeting is a lost cause."

He nodded ruefully. "Yes, perhaps we should call it a day. I'm exhausted."

Billy gave a strangled sound and both looked at him, confused.

"Billy, could you pack up the Commander's tools?" Laura said with slowly dawning realization, and watched the boy darted to the bathroom.

Billy rushed out, the tools obviously crammed into the bag, before the Commander could get to his top button. Adama accepted them and shrugged. "Let's go at it again tomorrow then," he said to her with a business-like smile.

She made a face at Billy's hunched shoulders, gaining a puzzled look from Adama, and replied with relish, "Yes, when you've regained your strength."

She saw Billy barely contain a shudder and decided whatever torrid movie was playing in his head was his punishment for having a dirty mind. Perhaps Bill and Gloria were right. Every man should be good with his hands; too much thinking gets a man in trouble.

The end.

End notes: Sorry, that was a mean tease!