24. good night

Ellen woke up curled sideways in her husband's bunk. She knew it was Saul's because he always slept on his side – she tended to sleep on her stomach – and his years of sleeping on the same mattress had left an impression. Literally. An impression she was currently inhabiting.

This was not the best way for a morning to start.

Groaning, she sat up. Mistake number two, as the headache that had previously been masking itself struck up the parade band and went gleefully to town.

"Gods..."

A quick trip to the bathroom – she refused to call it 'head' because... dirty – showed that the damage from the earlier dinner had been minimal. She was still a bit drunk, but that would wear off with more sleep. The short nap she'd just had wasn't nearly enough sleep.

Plus she needed to get her makeup off. Nothing destroyed skin better than old makeup. Her aunt had drilled that little tidbit into her head early and it'd stuck. Even if she was... away from home, she always made sure to wipe everything off. And while men didn't always like a fresh-faced woman in the morning, she also made a habit of getting up earlier than her current paramour.

And Saul had seen her in worse positions than bare-faced. It was one of the reasons she kept going back to him. He never seemed to care.

What an idiot.

She washed her face carefully, and moved out into the main room. Saul had somehow scavenged her a table and a chair, and while they were horribly ugly they were serviceable. Her husband had even set up a mirror for her.

Settling into the hard-backed chair, Ellen frowned at herself. It was a terrible burden getting old. She drew a finger up to her eyes and pushed the skin up, then made a face when the skin fell back into place when she let go.

Still, it was better than it could have been.

After all, it wasn't every woman over thirty-five that got invited to dine with the upper echelons of Colonial society. Absently, she wondered just how she'd managed to get home. Saul wasn't in their quarters and he wasn't due on shift until the next day, so he was either passed out or somewhere working himself in that direction.

What she remembered of dinner – mostly the entrée – had been boring. That was the problem with this current government. Everyone was just so serious. Yeah, they Cylons wanted them dead, blah, blah, blah. They just didn't know when to let the drama go. They were no FUN.

Okay, most of them were boring. But there was a blurry sense of fun attached to the last few hours. It had been after the sixth glass of ambrosia, that she does remember.

She remembered kissing. Someone... tall. With curly hair. Billy? Someone who worked for the President at any rate. He'd been so squirmy and sweet. Rather flushed and a bit embarrassed when she let him go – poor boy probably hadn't even had his cherry popped yet.

Idly rubbing some very rare, very sought-after eye cream on, Ellen debated the pros and cons of breaking the boy in properly. Young boys did need older – but not that much older – women to break them in properly, and she doubted the President was up for that. She snorted, being careful to rub all of the cream in. That dowdy little know-it-all probably didn't even know what she had under her nose.

Still. It probably wasn't worth it. Roslin was on the outs, and anything she gained – outside some rigorous frakking – would be moot rather quickly. Ellen mentally shrugged the whole thing off and got up to go back to sleep.

A woman needed her rest to look her best, after all.