This has been the most difficult chapter to write, because I am not sure
where I want the Commander and Kylen to go. I'm still not 100% happy with
it. It is definitely different from my previous chapters. As I said
before, this started as a look at the different BSG characters through the
eyes of their ship's doctor. It seems to have gotten away from me into a
Kylen & Commander thing, OK say romance, maybe. SOS, my characters have
kidnapped my fan fiction. Does this happen to everyone? Lona has been a
really big help. You guys have no idea what she sees. The BSG characters
belong to Glen Larson and Ron Moore.
Chapter 5: The Topic of US
I am awake, in his sweats, lying on my stomach in a cocoon of blankets. My head rests on his pillow; my arms are crossed beneath it. I lie in his bed watching him work unobserved. I have no idea of the time. I did not wake when he left the bed and usually I am a very light sleeper. It comes with my job.
The Commander (Bill?) is sitting at his desk, already in his duty uniform, reading glasses in place as he goes over reports. He wears the colonial uniform like he wears the mantle of command. They are both a part of him. His desk is cluttered; among the reports are stacks of books that range from military history, and combat strategy, to religion and fiction. His movements are precise, and there is an order to the way he works.
Watching him work, I see a man alone. Yes, there's President Roslyn, but her power exists because he doesn't want it. After the jump from Ragnar, he could have declared martial law, sent her back to Colonial One, and told her to go fly a kite.
I recall the Commanders and Admirals I've met in my tenure at Picon Fleet Hospital. There are less than a handful who would be able to take on a job description that includes: keeping a structured military system intact, managing protection to a civilian fleet filled with the survivors of humanity, and dealing with a fledgling civilian government. I think he does it better than anyone, and has never complained.
Now, on top of all his other responsibilities, he has to deal with a CMO who... "Say it Kylen", I tell myself...a CMO who lost it. For a minute the frustration and anger from last night returns, however, lying here is his bed, and watching him work; I find that it is not as overwhelming as it was. When did he become such a big force in my life? I sigh.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks as he turns to face me.
Should I be brave or play it safe? I sigh again and take a chance, "You."
For a second I think I see surprise cross his face, but it passes so quickly that I'm not sure if it was real or imagined. He smiles then removes his glasses and walks to the bed. I follow his movements with my eyes, too lazy to move. He sits on the side of his bunk near my shoulders. I feel him move some of the blankets and then he is massaging my shoulders. His hands are warm and firm. The strokes are sure.
"Anything you want to discuss?"
I'm wondering why he is focusing on my behavior from last night, and not on my response to his question. I chide myself, idiot! An impaired CMO is a significantly larger problem than some woman thinking about him. If I was being honest, I would acknowledge the sharp sliver of hurt that goes through me. I focus on his question, even though the feel of his hands on my body is distracting to say the least.
"You have enough problems. You don't need mine added to yours. Last night I needed a friend to just be there. You were. Not many people would have been able to stay calm while their doctor makes a house call at the funny farm."
His hands continue their massage. "Your problems are my problems, Kylen."
I'm not sure what he means by that. Does he mean me in a personal sense, or is it more related to problems in my position as CMO? In the last few months, we have become closer; however, he's a very taciturn man and says little about what he is feeling, even to me. His voice gives nothing away. I would turn around to look at him but the massage is incredible. I have no clue how to answer that and so keep my response neutral.
"You have enough on your plate. I shouldn't be adding to it."
"I've seen it happen before to some of the strongest people I know. I was concerned about you for a while. You pulled yourself back. You just needed someone to be there. I'm honored to be of service."
"I was concerned myself. You're being here made a difference. You're a good guy to have around when it all hits the afterburner. I owe you more than one for that. You're really something special. Thanks."
I can't see him, but his hands stop their movement for a second and then resume. I wonder what he is thinking, and if I've managed to surprise him again.
"Special enough for maybe an extra cup of that Mountain Blue?" Coffee- mooching, and devious, have I said that before?
"Maybe even two."
There is something all warm and fuzzy about lying in his bed while his strong hands massage my shoulders. Almost as if being here protects me from the big bad world. A stray thought enters my head and disrupts my musings. How long have I have been here in his quarters? It is said that the only thing faster than FTL is ship's gossip. There is no way that me being here will go unnoticed.
But maybe this is not as bad as I think. "What time is it?"
"1100." I groan as I realize it is as bad as I thought. His hands never cease their movement, but he asks me, "What's wrong?"
"Bill, I'm not sure if you are aware, but the crew is talking. Talking about us, as in 'you and I in a relationship' us. Me being here overnight is not going to help."
"No, I'm sure it won't. I think Lt Gaeta is probably going to get a nice pile of cubits."
I am not connecting with any of this. "Cubits? What does Lt. Gaeta and cubits have to do with the crew's interest in us and me spending the night here?"
I suddenly put two and two together. I groan and put my face further into the pillow, my cheeks flushing. "Don't tell me there were bets about when we would...." I cannot go on.
I hear him chuckle, and I decide to face the music. As I sit up his hands fall away, and I turn to face him. I scoot back against the wall and pull my knees up to my chest still covered by blankets. We paint an odd picture. Me in his bed wearing his clothes, my short hair all which way from the shower then sleep, my eyes still probably puffy from crying last night, and he sitting on the side dressed in his colonial uniform, calm, cool and collected, the Commander. We are sometimes as different as night and day, other times it's like he's an extension of me. He has over the last few months become a part of my world. I wonder what part I am in his.
He says, "I've been aware of the speculation. I think it is best not to acknowledge it. Going about denying everything is just going to make them think something is going on."
I tell him, "Sometimes, something is going on." He is looking at me intently, waiting for me to explain that cryptic statement so I continue, "They see us eating, and exercising together, it only stands to reason they would speculate. Frak, I would speculate for a lot less. Bill, what are we actually? Are we an US, or are we ...a something else?"
Good going, Kylen, is that vague enough? Is that even good syntax? I am really bad at relationship discussions. Someone should start a class on it. They would make millions on me alone.
I plod onward probably digging my own grave, and thanking the Lords that Mark is ready to take over the Life Station when I am forced to relocate to the Lenna Dell. "Bill, I enjoy being with you. You challenge me, make me laugh, frustrate me to no end, and, .." I falter for a moment, unable to continue.
He sits there looking at me intensely almost as it trying to see into my thoughts. Despite that intent look, his face gives nothing away as to what he is thinking. I know he can see that my face is flushed. I wish he would say something, anything.
I sigh, and try again, "I'm not an easy person to get to know. I have a really bad track record with men. Somehow you got past all my walls, and defenses. I find myself going through the day thinking, I have to tell you this, or I have to ask your opinion about that. You're important to me in ways I'm only beginning to understand. I even make two cups of coffee each morning."
I look away and put my head to my bent knees. I cannot seem to adequately express what I really want to say and my mind is starting to run in circles, trying to put into words what I am feeling.
I look at him again, and end up just saying, "Have I ever told you how bad I am at discussing relationships?"
He breaks eye contact for a second as he looks down, but other than that his face gives nothing away. He finally sighs and I get the feeling he's trying to make a decision. As his gaze returns to me, he leans forward and maneuvers me into his arms, my head resting on his shoulder.
"Kylen," my name is a sigh as he speaks, "You are a rare and special person. Just right now I'm not sure if there is enough of me to go around. I.."
He stops, and hugs me tighter.
I never did know when to quit. I had to push the US issue, not great timing considering last night's events. While I was fairly certain that he was content with the "status quo", lately I had been nursing a small hope that maybe we could get closer. From his response I don't think he wants that. I feel the pain and disappointment as I watch my little dream die. The rational part of my mind can understand that given our current positions, more personal involvement may make a working relationship awkward. I also know that despite the fact that people are encouraged to have babies, we are still dealing with supply issues such as obtaining fuel, food and other basics for the survival of the fleet, again not really good timing to start anything.
A little voice in my head pipes up, "Others are doing it." Others are not the Commander of the Galactica or the CMO.
He continues to hold me tightly, as if he's afraid that I will get up and leave. Why is he still holding me? It's strange, his words say one thing, but his actions seem to say something else. I slide my arms around him.
I take a minute to think about where I fit in his world. I am definitely a friend, companion, confidant, and sometimes a clown. While I am his subordinate, in the correct setting I can override even his orders. (He knows I would do it without hesitation.) I want to be something more. Maybe I'm asking for something he is not ready to give at this time.
An irreverent thought skitters in my head. I have finally met someone even worse than me at discussing relationships. That has to be a sign. I come to a decision. For now I can be what he needs. I can be patient, and give him some time to see where he wants to take US. But, I won't wait forever.
I hug him tight, and then pull back saying, "Bill, I'm sorry to have brought this up. Let's table this talk, just agree to be US, and see where it leads."
For a second I think I see relief in his eyes as he replies, "I think I can do that, Kylen."
For some reason, none of the usual discomfort (panic in my case) that goes with these talks is present. I still think there should be classes on how to handle these types of discussions.
I would love to be able to stay here in his bed for a bit longer, but I have already spent the morning here, and I am sure my absence has not gone unnoticed. "I need to get to the Life Station. Damn, I will have to wear those scrubs to my quarters. Just frak'n great."
There is a look of smug satisfaction on his face as he explains, "I called the Life Station at 0800. I gave the story that last night, once you sent everyone to quarters you showed up at my hatch, demanding entrance, and then went on a diatribe about shortages and the need to make health considerations a priority. I told them that by the time I was finished explaining fleet priorities and rationing, you were sound asleep on my couch, and I didn't want to wake you up. I had Cassie bring your uniform and things over."
I look at him, amazed at how his mind works. Finally I say, "Nice, I doubt they'll fall for it, but as a cover story I give it a B+. Have I ever told you that you have a devious mind?"
He starts to smile but still looks smug as he answers, "It comes with the job. I'm heading up to CIC. You can shower here in private. Take your time. Oh, how about we meet in the gym for some boxing before dinner?"
"I would prefer to get my teeth pulled without local anesthesia by a quack that never washes his hands."
He gives me another smile, leans forward plants a light kiss on my forehead and states, "Great, I'll see you in the gym at 1700."
Since that conversation, we continue to dine and exercise together a few times a week. What is new is that now we spend time alone together. Usually it's his quarters because mine are much smaller. We aren't doing anything no matter what it looks like to the crew. He reads out loud while I am doing needlepoint (have to keep the fingers limber). When we are alone he is Bill and I am Kylen, in public it's Commander and Doctor. We are good friends and maybe something more.
*****************************************
It's been about 4 weeks since 'The Conversation'. There's been a small accident in CIC. A pipe broke and the resulting gas has affected the eyes of several specialists and the Commander. Mark, my colleague, has diagnosed the Commander, Bill, with severe eye irritation from exposure to the irritant gas. It's not serious, but it does require special eye drops, and wearing patches over his eyes for 24 hours to allow for healing. I concur with Mark's diagnosis and treatment plan. (Yes I was looking over Mark's shoulder.) I had already been to the Commander's quarters this morning to make sure he had some music to listen to, and bring him coffee and breakfast. I also promised to return after my shift in the Life Station to read to him later.
Oh, and yes Chief Tyrol did manage to repair my coffee grinder, but that story will have to wait for another time.
From various people who have spent time with him today, I know the Commander is in a bad mood. He is literally "blind" for 24 hours, the kiss of death to a man like him. I have devised a plan that hopefully will take his mind off his current problem.
I knock on his hatch and enter. Back in the berth area the Commander is sitting up in bed, bandages cover his eyes and he is dressed in comfy old sweats. There is a stark contrast between the white bandages covering his eyes, and the salt & pepper color of his hair. Although he is listening to music by a famous Caprican singer, he radiates an aura of frustration and boredom.
Before he can ask 'who's there?' I sing out in my sweetest voice, "Commander, it's me your Doctor. I've come to visit you."
"You don't have to sound so damn happy about it."
The patient is definitely in a bad mood. I hope he doesn't decide to court- martial me and make me walk the plank for what I have planned.
I continue in the syrupy voice, "I've come to read to you."
"How nice, you've come to read to the invalid." Definitely a bad mood.
Little does he know tonight's selection will not be the autobiography of Galactica's first commanding officer that I know he's been reading, but a book by the Caprican authoress Desiree Duress entitled "The Scalding Winds of Unquenched Desire". Yes, you guessed it; the CMO is going to read the Commander a tawdry bodice-ripper romance.
I walk over to his bunk, and give his legs a nudge. He obligingly shifts over a bit and I sit down on the edge of his bunk, facing him.
In a more normal voice I ask, "How are you doing? Being out of commission can drive a person insane. I know from personal experience."
There is frustration in his voice as he replies, "Colonel Tigh is handling the CIC, and everything is stable. They keep me apprised with verbal reports. I just feel..."
"Well don't, and don't get use to slacking off. We need you. Is there anything I can get for you?"
I watch as he tilts his head a bit. I can tell he is trying to figure something out. It doesn't surprise me when he starts talking, "I thought I detected the smell of coffee. Can I assume you brought a dying man some ambrosia?"
I'm not totally heartless. Yes, I have broken down and disregarding my own coffee ration rules, made a cup of coffee for him. "You have an excellent sense of smell, Bill. One mug of Picon Mountain Blue coffee, take as directed, doctor's orders."
I remove the lid and gingerly hand it to him, making sure his hands are firmly wrapped around the mug before I let go. His hands are like him, strong and capable. I repeat the "we are friends" mantra.
He leans back against the propped up pillows, takes a sip of coffee, a slight smile crosses his face, and there is a lessening in the tension there and in his shoulders. I begin to read. I may not have his voice but I do ok. Every so often I look up to see if he is registering what I am reading to him. He sits there sipping his coffee and saying nothing, looking more relaxed than when I entered. I expected this. Battlestar commanders do not crack easily, and Commander William Adama is one cool costumer. I, however, am a Doctor on a mission, and continue to read.
I am just getting to one of the steamier scenes (WOW! in the first chapter even), when he clears his throat and says, "Kylen, I don't seem to recall this passage in the Commander Drake biography that I was re-reading."
"That's because I decided to choose a different selection for tonight, Bill."
"I see, please continue."
He is a tougher nut to crack than I first imagined. I continue to read. Hey, this is a pretty good book! I take a second to congratulate myself for packing it when I was transferred to Galactica. I should have read it sooner. I'm starting to really get into the plot (I use that term VERY loosely), when I'm interrupted.
"Doctor?" Hmm, he's using my title instead of my name. He has definitely got something up his sleeve. I hope what is up his sleeve does not include a court martial and a permanent transfer to the Astral Queen.
I respond in kind, "Yes, Commander?"
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't you hold the military rank of commander?"
"Yes, but I'm in the medical branch."
"I see."
I read on. I don't know where he going with that question, but even if I can't see his eyes, I know there is a motive behind it.
Every tawdry romance reader knows the good authors put about one steamy scene per two chapters. You have to leave some room for (dare I say?) plot. WOW, Ms. Duress is really laying it on. The great romance writers manage to weave some plot into their steamy love scenes so they can go on for pages, chapters even. Ms. Duress is one of the best I've read. How did I miss her other books? I wonder if anyone in this rag tag fleet has any more of them?
I'm really getting into the story when he speaks, "I'm sorry to interrupt, Doctor, but I've been thinking..."
"Thinking about what, Commander?"
"The chain of command," he says. I have no clue where this is going, but it sounds serious and I put the book down. He even looks serious. I wonder what's on his mind.
"Are you concerned that Colonel Tigh will be unable to assume responsibilities if you become permanently incapacitated? Or is it something else?"
I know he trusts Col. Tigh in CIC when he's not there. However, sometimes things like this make a person come face to face with their mortality. Maybe he's concerned about what would happen if Tigh were really running the show. Maybe he is considering retirement. I mean he was ready to retire when the Cylons attacked.
He answers, "I'm concerned that since the destruction of Picon Fleet and the twelve colonies, there is a serious lack of senior officers. While I respect the civilian commanders and their crews, I would only entrust the Galactica to a person with military training. In a worst case scenario, it's possible that all of CIC could be wiped out. If that occurred, then command should fall on the highest-ranking senior officer. Highest-ranking no matter WHAT the branch."
A light dawns as I begin to get the drift of his thoughts. "Would that include the medical branch, Commander?"
His face and voice are totally serious as he replies, "I think it would have to. Of course, there would have to be training simulations set up, classes, and periodic evaluations, especially for those military branches not usually in the normal chain of command."
Check and mate. He is threatening to make me go through command training classes. I have to admire his mind. Devious bastard. He's not even cracking a grin. I wonder if he's is serious about this. This is far worse than a transfer to the Lenna Dell.
"Can I assume the Commander is less than pleased with tonight's reading selection?"
I am sure that if his eyes were not bandaged I would be on the receiving end of his patented "Command Stare". "That would be a fair statement."
I break first. "Would you really do it? Make me take command classes? All for reading you some trashy romance novel?"
The change in him is amazing to watch. He starts to smile, and then chuckle, as if he can't hold it back anymore, finally he succumbs, and laughs outright. It's a good sight to see. He needs to laugh more.
Bill is still laughing when he replies, "No, I wouldn't do that. However, now that I think about it the idea does have some merit and deserves consideration."
Relief washes over me. I should remind him exactly what he is proposing and say, "I really can't see myself in CIC ordering all those people around. I would probably end up having the Galactica shoot her own vipers out of the sky and her own landing pods off, not to mention destroying the civilian fleet."
I sit there watching him think. There are times I can tell his every thought, but more often than not, I have no clue. He seems to have reached a decision. He shifts his body over a bit more on his bunk and then pats the space next to him. Well this is interesting. I move so we now sit in his bed side-by-side, one of his arms is around my shoulders, a heavy but comfortable weight as I lean against him. Our legs are stretched out on the bunk, and a half filled mug of lukewarm coffee in his other hand. All us true coffee addicts know even lukewarm coffee is better than no coffee. In my opinion it should be a capital offense to waste even a drop. My opinions are considered somewhat extreme. Have I said it feels good to sit close beside him?
He gives me a slight squeeze while planting a soft kiss on my temple, then he says, "I wouldn't be too sure, I've seen how you run the Life Station. I think the Colonial Fleet missed a great line officer when you went into medicine."
WOW! High praise from a man like him. "I'll go get the Drake biography."
The arm around my shoulders keeps me in place. "How can you read those books, Kylen? There's no plot, the characters are cliché and, well take for example that last chapter. The one where they're on the beach, that's just physically impossible, not to mention extremely uncomfortable."
I take a moment to ponder how he can say something like that with such authority. I decide I don't want to know, and reply, "It's not physically impossible if both partners are really limber, but with all that sand and little beach creatures around, it wouldn't be my first choice for a romantic liaison. It's called poetic license."
We both laugh.
I never do get the Drake bio. We end up spending the next few hours sitting side by side on his bed, me reading aloud my trashy romance, and him interrupting with comments every so often. The conversation swings from disbelief, to sarcasm, to commentary and to amusement as we argue and laugh over the various merits of certain scenes and plot devices. I am glad that at least for a few hours Commander William Adama is not shouldering his usual burdens. I am one fine doctor and a good friend, and definitely something a little more. Only time will tell what. For now I can be patient.
I wonder if he will enjoy Sarah Swann's book "Sweltering Sagittarian Nights"?
End
Chapter 5: The Topic of US
I am awake, in his sweats, lying on my stomach in a cocoon of blankets. My head rests on his pillow; my arms are crossed beneath it. I lie in his bed watching him work unobserved. I have no idea of the time. I did not wake when he left the bed and usually I am a very light sleeper. It comes with my job.
The Commander (Bill?) is sitting at his desk, already in his duty uniform, reading glasses in place as he goes over reports. He wears the colonial uniform like he wears the mantle of command. They are both a part of him. His desk is cluttered; among the reports are stacks of books that range from military history, and combat strategy, to religion and fiction. His movements are precise, and there is an order to the way he works.
Watching him work, I see a man alone. Yes, there's President Roslyn, but her power exists because he doesn't want it. After the jump from Ragnar, he could have declared martial law, sent her back to Colonial One, and told her to go fly a kite.
I recall the Commanders and Admirals I've met in my tenure at Picon Fleet Hospital. There are less than a handful who would be able to take on a job description that includes: keeping a structured military system intact, managing protection to a civilian fleet filled with the survivors of humanity, and dealing with a fledgling civilian government. I think he does it better than anyone, and has never complained.
Now, on top of all his other responsibilities, he has to deal with a CMO who... "Say it Kylen", I tell myself...a CMO who lost it. For a minute the frustration and anger from last night returns, however, lying here is his bed, and watching him work; I find that it is not as overwhelming as it was. When did he become such a big force in my life? I sigh.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks as he turns to face me.
Should I be brave or play it safe? I sigh again and take a chance, "You."
For a second I think I see surprise cross his face, but it passes so quickly that I'm not sure if it was real or imagined. He smiles then removes his glasses and walks to the bed. I follow his movements with my eyes, too lazy to move. He sits on the side of his bunk near my shoulders. I feel him move some of the blankets and then he is massaging my shoulders. His hands are warm and firm. The strokes are sure.
"Anything you want to discuss?"
I'm wondering why he is focusing on my behavior from last night, and not on my response to his question. I chide myself, idiot! An impaired CMO is a significantly larger problem than some woman thinking about him. If I was being honest, I would acknowledge the sharp sliver of hurt that goes through me. I focus on his question, even though the feel of his hands on my body is distracting to say the least.
"You have enough problems. You don't need mine added to yours. Last night I needed a friend to just be there. You were. Not many people would have been able to stay calm while their doctor makes a house call at the funny farm."
His hands continue their massage. "Your problems are my problems, Kylen."
I'm not sure what he means by that. Does he mean me in a personal sense, or is it more related to problems in my position as CMO? In the last few months, we have become closer; however, he's a very taciturn man and says little about what he is feeling, even to me. His voice gives nothing away. I would turn around to look at him but the massage is incredible. I have no clue how to answer that and so keep my response neutral.
"You have enough on your plate. I shouldn't be adding to it."
"I've seen it happen before to some of the strongest people I know. I was concerned about you for a while. You pulled yourself back. You just needed someone to be there. I'm honored to be of service."
"I was concerned myself. You're being here made a difference. You're a good guy to have around when it all hits the afterburner. I owe you more than one for that. You're really something special. Thanks."
I can't see him, but his hands stop their movement for a second and then resume. I wonder what he is thinking, and if I've managed to surprise him again.
"Special enough for maybe an extra cup of that Mountain Blue?" Coffee- mooching, and devious, have I said that before?
"Maybe even two."
There is something all warm and fuzzy about lying in his bed while his strong hands massage my shoulders. Almost as if being here protects me from the big bad world. A stray thought enters my head and disrupts my musings. How long have I have been here in his quarters? It is said that the only thing faster than FTL is ship's gossip. There is no way that me being here will go unnoticed.
But maybe this is not as bad as I think. "What time is it?"
"1100." I groan as I realize it is as bad as I thought. His hands never cease their movement, but he asks me, "What's wrong?"
"Bill, I'm not sure if you are aware, but the crew is talking. Talking about us, as in 'you and I in a relationship' us. Me being here overnight is not going to help."
"No, I'm sure it won't. I think Lt Gaeta is probably going to get a nice pile of cubits."
I am not connecting with any of this. "Cubits? What does Lt. Gaeta and cubits have to do with the crew's interest in us and me spending the night here?"
I suddenly put two and two together. I groan and put my face further into the pillow, my cheeks flushing. "Don't tell me there were bets about when we would...." I cannot go on.
I hear him chuckle, and I decide to face the music. As I sit up his hands fall away, and I turn to face him. I scoot back against the wall and pull my knees up to my chest still covered by blankets. We paint an odd picture. Me in his bed wearing his clothes, my short hair all which way from the shower then sleep, my eyes still probably puffy from crying last night, and he sitting on the side dressed in his colonial uniform, calm, cool and collected, the Commander. We are sometimes as different as night and day, other times it's like he's an extension of me. He has over the last few months become a part of my world. I wonder what part I am in his.
He says, "I've been aware of the speculation. I think it is best not to acknowledge it. Going about denying everything is just going to make them think something is going on."
I tell him, "Sometimes, something is going on." He is looking at me intently, waiting for me to explain that cryptic statement so I continue, "They see us eating, and exercising together, it only stands to reason they would speculate. Frak, I would speculate for a lot less. Bill, what are we actually? Are we an US, or are we ...a something else?"
Good going, Kylen, is that vague enough? Is that even good syntax? I am really bad at relationship discussions. Someone should start a class on it. They would make millions on me alone.
I plod onward probably digging my own grave, and thanking the Lords that Mark is ready to take over the Life Station when I am forced to relocate to the Lenna Dell. "Bill, I enjoy being with you. You challenge me, make me laugh, frustrate me to no end, and, .." I falter for a moment, unable to continue.
He sits there looking at me intensely almost as it trying to see into my thoughts. Despite that intent look, his face gives nothing away as to what he is thinking. I know he can see that my face is flushed. I wish he would say something, anything.
I sigh, and try again, "I'm not an easy person to get to know. I have a really bad track record with men. Somehow you got past all my walls, and defenses. I find myself going through the day thinking, I have to tell you this, or I have to ask your opinion about that. You're important to me in ways I'm only beginning to understand. I even make two cups of coffee each morning."
I look away and put my head to my bent knees. I cannot seem to adequately express what I really want to say and my mind is starting to run in circles, trying to put into words what I am feeling.
I look at him again, and end up just saying, "Have I ever told you how bad I am at discussing relationships?"
He breaks eye contact for a second as he looks down, but other than that his face gives nothing away. He finally sighs and I get the feeling he's trying to make a decision. As his gaze returns to me, he leans forward and maneuvers me into his arms, my head resting on his shoulder.
"Kylen," my name is a sigh as he speaks, "You are a rare and special person. Just right now I'm not sure if there is enough of me to go around. I.."
He stops, and hugs me tighter.
I never did know when to quit. I had to push the US issue, not great timing considering last night's events. While I was fairly certain that he was content with the "status quo", lately I had been nursing a small hope that maybe we could get closer. From his response I don't think he wants that. I feel the pain and disappointment as I watch my little dream die. The rational part of my mind can understand that given our current positions, more personal involvement may make a working relationship awkward. I also know that despite the fact that people are encouraged to have babies, we are still dealing with supply issues such as obtaining fuel, food and other basics for the survival of the fleet, again not really good timing to start anything.
A little voice in my head pipes up, "Others are doing it." Others are not the Commander of the Galactica or the CMO.
He continues to hold me tightly, as if he's afraid that I will get up and leave. Why is he still holding me? It's strange, his words say one thing, but his actions seem to say something else. I slide my arms around him.
I take a minute to think about where I fit in his world. I am definitely a friend, companion, confidant, and sometimes a clown. While I am his subordinate, in the correct setting I can override even his orders. (He knows I would do it without hesitation.) I want to be something more. Maybe I'm asking for something he is not ready to give at this time.
An irreverent thought skitters in my head. I have finally met someone even worse than me at discussing relationships. That has to be a sign. I come to a decision. For now I can be what he needs. I can be patient, and give him some time to see where he wants to take US. But, I won't wait forever.
I hug him tight, and then pull back saying, "Bill, I'm sorry to have brought this up. Let's table this talk, just agree to be US, and see where it leads."
For a second I think I see relief in his eyes as he replies, "I think I can do that, Kylen."
For some reason, none of the usual discomfort (panic in my case) that goes with these talks is present. I still think there should be classes on how to handle these types of discussions.
I would love to be able to stay here in his bed for a bit longer, but I have already spent the morning here, and I am sure my absence has not gone unnoticed. "I need to get to the Life Station. Damn, I will have to wear those scrubs to my quarters. Just frak'n great."
There is a look of smug satisfaction on his face as he explains, "I called the Life Station at 0800. I gave the story that last night, once you sent everyone to quarters you showed up at my hatch, demanding entrance, and then went on a diatribe about shortages and the need to make health considerations a priority. I told them that by the time I was finished explaining fleet priorities and rationing, you were sound asleep on my couch, and I didn't want to wake you up. I had Cassie bring your uniform and things over."
I look at him, amazed at how his mind works. Finally I say, "Nice, I doubt they'll fall for it, but as a cover story I give it a B+. Have I ever told you that you have a devious mind?"
He starts to smile but still looks smug as he answers, "It comes with the job. I'm heading up to CIC. You can shower here in private. Take your time. Oh, how about we meet in the gym for some boxing before dinner?"
"I would prefer to get my teeth pulled without local anesthesia by a quack that never washes his hands."
He gives me another smile, leans forward plants a light kiss on my forehead and states, "Great, I'll see you in the gym at 1700."
Since that conversation, we continue to dine and exercise together a few times a week. What is new is that now we spend time alone together. Usually it's his quarters because mine are much smaller. We aren't doing anything no matter what it looks like to the crew. He reads out loud while I am doing needlepoint (have to keep the fingers limber). When we are alone he is Bill and I am Kylen, in public it's Commander and Doctor. We are good friends and maybe something more.
*****************************************
It's been about 4 weeks since 'The Conversation'. There's been a small accident in CIC. A pipe broke and the resulting gas has affected the eyes of several specialists and the Commander. Mark, my colleague, has diagnosed the Commander, Bill, with severe eye irritation from exposure to the irritant gas. It's not serious, but it does require special eye drops, and wearing patches over his eyes for 24 hours to allow for healing. I concur with Mark's diagnosis and treatment plan. (Yes I was looking over Mark's shoulder.) I had already been to the Commander's quarters this morning to make sure he had some music to listen to, and bring him coffee and breakfast. I also promised to return after my shift in the Life Station to read to him later.
Oh, and yes Chief Tyrol did manage to repair my coffee grinder, but that story will have to wait for another time.
From various people who have spent time with him today, I know the Commander is in a bad mood. He is literally "blind" for 24 hours, the kiss of death to a man like him. I have devised a plan that hopefully will take his mind off his current problem.
I knock on his hatch and enter. Back in the berth area the Commander is sitting up in bed, bandages cover his eyes and he is dressed in comfy old sweats. There is a stark contrast between the white bandages covering his eyes, and the salt & pepper color of his hair. Although he is listening to music by a famous Caprican singer, he radiates an aura of frustration and boredom.
Before he can ask 'who's there?' I sing out in my sweetest voice, "Commander, it's me your Doctor. I've come to visit you."
"You don't have to sound so damn happy about it."
The patient is definitely in a bad mood. I hope he doesn't decide to court- martial me and make me walk the plank for what I have planned.
I continue in the syrupy voice, "I've come to read to you."
"How nice, you've come to read to the invalid." Definitely a bad mood.
Little does he know tonight's selection will not be the autobiography of Galactica's first commanding officer that I know he's been reading, but a book by the Caprican authoress Desiree Duress entitled "The Scalding Winds of Unquenched Desire". Yes, you guessed it; the CMO is going to read the Commander a tawdry bodice-ripper romance.
I walk over to his bunk, and give his legs a nudge. He obligingly shifts over a bit and I sit down on the edge of his bunk, facing him.
In a more normal voice I ask, "How are you doing? Being out of commission can drive a person insane. I know from personal experience."
There is frustration in his voice as he replies, "Colonel Tigh is handling the CIC, and everything is stable. They keep me apprised with verbal reports. I just feel..."
"Well don't, and don't get use to slacking off. We need you. Is there anything I can get for you?"
I watch as he tilts his head a bit. I can tell he is trying to figure something out. It doesn't surprise me when he starts talking, "I thought I detected the smell of coffee. Can I assume you brought a dying man some ambrosia?"
I'm not totally heartless. Yes, I have broken down and disregarding my own coffee ration rules, made a cup of coffee for him. "You have an excellent sense of smell, Bill. One mug of Picon Mountain Blue coffee, take as directed, doctor's orders."
I remove the lid and gingerly hand it to him, making sure his hands are firmly wrapped around the mug before I let go. His hands are like him, strong and capable. I repeat the "we are friends" mantra.
He leans back against the propped up pillows, takes a sip of coffee, a slight smile crosses his face, and there is a lessening in the tension there and in his shoulders. I begin to read. I may not have his voice but I do ok. Every so often I look up to see if he is registering what I am reading to him. He sits there sipping his coffee and saying nothing, looking more relaxed than when I entered. I expected this. Battlestar commanders do not crack easily, and Commander William Adama is one cool costumer. I, however, am a Doctor on a mission, and continue to read.
I am just getting to one of the steamier scenes (WOW! in the first chapter even), when he clears his throat and says, "Kylen, I don't seem to recall this passage in the Commander Drake biography that I was re-reading."
"That's because I decided to choose a different selection for tonight, Bill."
"I see, please continue."
He is a tougher nut to crack than I first imagined. I continue to read. Hey, this is a pretty good book! I take a second to congratulate myself for packing it when I was transferred to Galactica. I should have read it sooner. I'm starting to really get into the plot (I use that term VERY loosely), when I'm interrupted.
"Doctor?" Hmm, he's using my title instead of my name. He has definitely got something up his sleeve. I hope what is up his sleeve does not include a court martial and a permanent transfer to the Astral Queen.
I respond in kind, "Yes, Commander?"
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't you hold the military rank of commander?"
"Yes, but I'm in the medical branch."
"I see."
I read on. I don't know where he going with that question, but even if I can't see his eyes, I know there is a motive behind it.
Every tawdry romance reader knows the good authors put about one steamy scene per two chapters. You have to leave some room for (dare I say?) plot. WOW, Ms. Duress is really laying it on. The great romance writers manage to weave some plot into their steamy love scenes so they can go on for pages, chapters even. Ms. Duress is one of the best I've read. How did I miss her other books? I wonder if anyone in this rag tag fleet has any more of them?
I'm really getting into the story when he speaks, "I'm sorry to interrupt, Doctor, but I've been thinking..."
"Thinking about what, Commander?"
"The chain of command," he says. I have no clue where this is going, but it sounds serious and I put the book down. He even looks serious. I wonder what's on his mind.
"Are you concerned that Colonel Tigh will be unable to assume responsibilities if you become permanently incapacitated? Or is it something else?"
I know he trusts Col. Tigh in CIC when he's not there. However, sometimes things like this make a person come face to face with their mortality. Maybe he's concerned about what would happen if Tigh were really running the show. Maybe he is considering retirement. I mean he was ready to retire when the Cylons attacked.
He answers, "I'm concerned that since the destruction of Picon Fleet and the twelve colonies, there is a serious lack of senior officers. While I respect the civilian commanders and their crews, I would only entrust the Galactica to a person with military training. In a worst case scenario, it's possible that all of CIC could be wiped out. If that occurred, then command should fall on the highest-ranking senior officer. Highest-ranking no matter WHAT the branch."
A light dawns as I begin to get the drift of his thoughts. "Would that include the medical branch, Commander?"
His face and voice are totally serious as he replies, "I think it would have to. Of course, there would have to be training simulations set up, classes, and periodic evaluations, especially for those military branches not usually in the normal chain of command."
Check and mate. He is threatening to make me go through command training classes. I have to admire his mind. Devious bastard. He's not even cracking a grin. I wonder if he's is serious about this. This is far worse than a transfer to the Lenna Dell.
"Can I assume the Commander is less than pleased with tonight's reading selection?"
I am sure that if his eyes were not bandaged I would be on the receiving end of his patented "Command Stare". "That would be a fair statement."
I break first. "Would you really do it? Make me take command classes? All for reading you some trashy romance novel?"
The change in him is amazing to watch. He starts to smile, and then chuckle, as if he can't hold it back anymore, finally he succumbs, and laughs outright. It's a good sight to see. He needs to laugh more.
Bill is still laughing when he replies, "No, I wouldn't do that. However, now that I think about it the idea does have some merit and deserves consideration."
Relief washes over me. I should remind him exactly what he is proposing and say, "I really can't see myself in CIC ordering all those people around. I would probably end up having the Galactica shoot her own vipers out of the sky and her own landing pods off, not to mention destroying the civilian fleet."
I sit there watching him think. There are times I can tell his every thought, but more often than not, I have no clue. He seems to have reached a decision. He shifts his body over a bit more on his bunk and then pats the space next to him. Well this is interesting. I move so we now sit in his bed side-by-side, one of his arms is around my shoulders, a heavy but comfortable weight as I lean against him. Our legs are stretched out on the bunk, and a half filled mug of lukewarm coffee in his other hand. All us true coffee addicts know even lukewarm coffee is better than no coffee. In my opinion it should be a capital offense to waste even a drop. My opinions are considered somewhat extreme. Have I said it feels good to sit close beside him?
He gives me a slight squeeze while planting a soft kiss on my temple, then he says, "I wouldn't be too sure, I've seen how you run the Life Station. I think the Colonial Fleet missed a great line officer when you went into medicine."
WOW! High praise from a man like him. "I'll go get the Drake biography."
The arm around my shoulders keeps me in place. "How can you read those books, Kylen? There's no plot, the characters are cliché and, well take for example that last chapter. The one where they're on the beach, that's just physically impossible, not to mention extremely uncomfortable."
I take a moment to ponder how he can say something like that with such authority. I decide I don't want to know, and reply, "It's not physically impossible if both partners are really limber, but with all that sand and little beach creatures around, it wouldn't be my first choice for a romantic liaison. It's called poetic license."
We both laugh.
I never do get the Drake bio. We end up spending the next few hours sitting side by side on his bed, me reading aloud my trashy romance, and him interrupting with comments every so often. The conversation swings from disbelief, to sarcasm, to commentary and to amusement as we argue and laugh over the various merits of certain scenes and plot devices. I am glad that at least for a few hours Commander William Adama is not shouldering his usual burdens. I am one fine doctor and a good friend, and definitely something a little more. Only time will tell what. For now I can be patient.
I wonder if he will enjoy Sarah Swann's book "Sweltering Sagittarian Nights"?
End