Bonfire
Missing scene between 3.16 "Maelstrom" and 3.17 "The Son Also Rises"
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The funeral service for Kara Thrace was subdued. Laura glanced around the hangar deck - most of the faces still looked shell-shocked; it seemed that no one had been able to come to terms with the brash young pilot's death yet. There had been too many funerals for too many good people over the last three and a half years. But a senseless death like Kara's seemed to hit people harder. She had been special: one of those larger-then-life personalities who seemed to grasp life with both hands and dare the Gods to shoot her down. People like that seemed destined to go out in a blaze of glory, not lost on a routine patrol.
Samuel Anders, with tears streaming down his face, spoke of his wife's determination and the sheer stubbornness that had see himself and many others rescued from the post-apocalyptic hell of old Caprica.
"She was an insubordinate wretch; couldn't follow orders worth a damn, but the best frakking pilot I ever saw," Saul Tigh rasped, his good eye shining.
Laura stole yet another sideways glance at the man standing beside her. Bill. He stood ramrod straight in his dress uniform, his face impassive as if carved from granite. The model of a Colonial Fleet Admiral. However Laura could see the clenched jaw and tense muscles, and knew the effort that was going in to maintaining that facade. She longed to reach out; take his hand in hers; offer comfort in some way, yet she dared do nothing that would distract him from maintaining his outward appearance of military perfection.
His speech to the assembled crowd was simple, yet moving. He didn't extol the virtues of a woman who'd been a surrogate daughter to him; neither did he try to make the circumstances of her death into a meaningful event.
The message was simple: "She was our friend; wife; lover; daughter; our pain-in-the-butt, brash and fragile Starbuck. And she will be missed."
That was all; but delivered with such quiet dignity and sorrow, that Laura's eyes brimmed with unshed tears for his pain, and all around the hangar deck fresh sobs broke out.
The gathering broke up in a haphazard manner. There was no coffin to send to the deep; no absolute closure in that sense; and people milled around, as if unsure of what to do. Laura mingled for a few minutes, offering her condolences to Anders and those of Galactica's pilots she recognized. She was certain they'd be seeking liquid oblivion after leaving the hangar deck. Saul Tigh had already started, she noted as she saw him sipping from a hip flask.
When she looked for Bill she wasn't surprised to discover he'd disappeared. She debated with herself for a long moment, and then discretely slipped away from the gathering.
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"Is he in there?" she asked the marine who was on sentry duty outside Bill's quarters.
"Yes Ma'am," was the crisp acknowledgement, as the young man drew himself up to attention. "Do you want me to announce you?"
"Not this time," she replied, and gestured for him to open the hatch.
The cabin was dim, illuminated only by a single lamp beside the couch. Bill sat at his desk in the shadows, head in his hands, with a bottle of alcohol and half-filled glass before him. His dress tunic had been discarded and lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. It was as if by removing the jacket - his armor - he had given himself permission to grieve, and his shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Laura slowly crossed the room toward him, tears welling up in her own eyes at his pain. Something crunched underfoot. She stopped, retrieving the offending item. She turned it over in her hands, puzzled. It looked like a… sail? She glanced over to the place his model ship was usually on display. It was gone, but in the shadowy recesses of the cabin she spotted a tangled wreckage of wood, string and cloth.
"Oh Bill," she breathed, tentatively reaching over the back of his chair, and placing her hands on his shoulders. She stood like that a long moment, before he swiveled the chair and she suddenly found herself sitting in his lap with his arms wrapped firmly around her and his head buried in the crook of her neck. The power of his sobs shook her body, and her tears joined his, falling freely into his hair.
Eventually his sobs tapered to an occasional shuddering indrawn breath.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into her neck.
"Shh," she soothed, her hands still threaded through his hair, holding him against her. She pressed a tender kiss against his forehead. "Shh. It's all right." Another soft kiss, this one on his temple.
At first she wasn't entirely sure the delicate touch on her neck was a kiss. Then it was repeated; then again. She arched her neck with a slight gasp as the soft caresses sent shivers down her spine. A moment later his lips met hers in a kiss of searing need. She moaned as his mouth devoured hers; his hands roaming with abandon over her body.
The buttons of her blouse were undone with startling rapidness and his hands caressed the skin bared to him. His mouth left hers, kissing its way down to her breasts.
With head thrown back and breathing hard, she reveled in the sensations his mouth and hands were producing in her body. It felt so good… and it was so wrong.
With great effort, she put her hands on his shoulders, applying an insistent pressure.
"Bill. Bill, stop. We can't"
After a moment, he heeded the signal and his hands stopped caressing and he rested his head against her.
"I want this… Gods, I want this," she admitted hoarsely, "but we can't. Not now. If we do, you'll hate yourself in the morning."
Time passed, then his head pulled away from her chest, and he looked her in the face for the first time she'd entered the room. His eyes were red-rimmed and his cheeks tear-stained. She tenderly brushed her fingertips across his lips, and her breath caught as he kissed them. Looking into his cobalt eyes, feeling the heat from his body, it would be so easy to give in to the moment…
"Bill…"
"I know," he exhaled heavily. "I know. You're right."
With his eyes locked on hers, his hands moved slowly up her chest and rebuttoned her blouse. For some reason the act almost felt more intimate than the kisses and caresses they'd been sharing moments before. She carefully extricated herself from his lap and stood, rubbing her hands over her skirt; her body still thrummed with desire. Bill rose from the chair, not bothering to hide the evidence of his physical reaction to her. The look that passed between them was honest; raw. There was no hiding or pretence. This was something both of them wanted; something that was going to happen; it was just the wrong time.
"I should go," she whispered, laying a hand on his chest in farewell. He nodded, and she could feel his eyes burning into her back until the hatch shut behind her.
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