Word Count: 1,428
Date: 02/14/05
Series: Mini
Rating: M+
Category: Relationships
Pairing/Focus: William, Laura
Warnings:
Summary:
Spoilers/Disclaimers: Not my creation, nor my cash cow.
She hadn't had dreams like these in many years, so exciting and alive! She'd had the same dream twice now, in the span of three nights. On waking, her return to reality had been reluctant, and disappointing. This was ridiculous! She was being ridiculous, indulging schoolgirls' fancies.
"Lords' Names, Laura," she chided her reflection, "you're the Secretary of Education for the Twelve Colonies, not some moony, teenage child. You have a fulfilling, busy life - a prestigious job that is its own reward. You don't have the need, damnit, don't have the time for such foolishness. You just turned fifty; act your age, for the gods' sake! Billy should be having these dreams, not you. Well," the mirror returned her smile, "maybe not *these* dreams, exactly."
She had to admit, the dreams thrilled her, and she awoke excited, as only a young person can be, about the prospect of what lay ahead. What's more, the dreams were fun. To be perfectly honest, they were more than fun. This morning, after the most vivid of the dreams to date, she'd wakened wet between her legs.
It was an amazing discovery, as if she'd physically rolled back the years, to the days when she'd gossiped with girlfriends at slumber parties about meeting him, and had his picture, snipped from magazine covers and printed off tel-net sites, tacked to any free inch of space on the cork board on her bedroom wall. So dashing in his Colonial Navy uniform, this young Viper jock, hero of the Cylon War. He flew through her dreams at night during those tender years, vanquishing the inhuman foe and returning, triumphant, to her arms.
There was absolutely no question in Laura Roslin's mind as to why these dreams had so recently recurred. The main reason was this evening's event - a ribbon cutting at the opening of a museum exhibit - something so mundane that almost the entire cabinet, from the president on down, had passed on the junket until it had devolved to her. She could still have said no; the Secretary of Agriculture ranked lower on the rata than she. But, someone from the cabinet had to go, political considerations and so forth, and the trip was vaguely educational in nature, so it might as well be her. And, besides, it was an opportunity to fulfill a schoolgirl's wish. Nearly thirty-five years late, she would meet the boy of her dreams, her flyboy, William Adama.
There was a second reason, of course. Escape. Away from the responsibilities of adulthood, and the aches and pain to which the flesh is heir. Escape from certain aches and pain more than others. Perfectly natural reaction to fear, she said to herself. Who, in her position, would feel otherwise?
At breakfast, she eschewed her normal routine of getting an early start on the day's reports and legislation, both proposed and in progress. Those were dry as unbuttered toast. Today, she decided to treat herself, and breakfasted on much richer fare: coffee – light and sweet, ripe melon, a soft roll, warm from the oven and slathered with butter, and a novel. A mystery, actually; a "whodunit" in which she'd happily gotten lost, for a short while, at least. Her oncology appointment loomed.
She'd dressed briskly, all business before leaving for the doctors. Now, home again, she undressed gingerly, as if each button were a detonator wired to the time bomb ticking within her breast. She opened her blouse and looked at herself in the mirror, staring in mute accusation at her breasts, as if they had gone out apart from the rest of her, without permission, and had contracted cancer as a result. For many minutes, she just stared, amazed by how vastly her reflection could have been altered in the space of mere hours.
Finally, breaking her morbid reverie, Laura Roslin ran from her bathroom, failing to rebutton her blouse, and not caring in the slightest. She climbed the stairs to the seldom-visited third floor of the house, for years now used only for storage. The furnishings in the rooms were unchanged, here a guest bedroom, there a sewing room, but boxes and bags of all sizes, shapes and colors had altered their geography. She tore through the boxes in first one room, then the next, finding the object of her search with only a scant few boxes remaining.
Written in marker across the outside of the carton, addresses to which this box has followed her throughout her life: her parents' house, college, graduate school, her first and second apartments. She was amazed and pleased that this box, this treasure trove, had managed to travel with her to all these places, though all these many years, and never getting lost.
Inside it, were the mementos of her girlhood. At the very bottom, yellowed and curling with age, the clippings from her bulletin board, each one bearing the scars of four small holes from the tacks that once held the corners in place. William Adama, war hero. William Adama, matinee idol. William Adama, her flyboy.
Laura picked up each article, each photograph in turn, reverently, smiling as the memories came flooding back. She clutched to her chest the last of the photographs, Adama waving from the cockpit of his Viper. All of a sudden, she remembered her unbuttoned blouse, her exposed skin. Quickly, she shed her modesty with a soft laugh, and brought the photograph back against her skin, face down right over her heart.
Tears welled up at the thought of the girl she'd been and the young woman she was soon to become, confident, assured, her whole life ahead of her. Laura shut her eyes tightly, forcing the tears away, but not the yearning for times past. She slipped into a daydream, where the young Adama was her champion, and his Viper a weapon to keep all threats to her long life, even cancer, at bay. In the daydream, she was as she is now, and he as he was then. It didn't matter.
The young pilot strode over to her, taking her hands in his in greeting. "Laura!" As if they'd known each other forever. "Such a sight for sore eyes!"
He was dashing, my yes, so handsome in his navy blue flight suit, the gold piping on the collar gleaming against his skin. His jet-black hair was blown off his face, as if he'd been flying canopy-off, for the sheer joy of the wind in his face. She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him, full and long.
He remained close after their lips parted. She noticed his eyes darting from side to side. His whisper was rough with longing. "Is there someplace we can go?" And be alone, together. Oh, yes. And close by, she'd made certain.
Even with the knife of passion between his teeth, her flyboy was gentle, and every bit the gentleman, taking his time, seeing to her pleasure first, and very, oh, very well.
Laura's hand trailed after the dream Adama's, over the curve of her breast, cupping it, and tracing ever narrowing circles around her nipple. Her skin tingled wherever he kissed, wending a slow path down her belly, parting her legs and moving between them. At the softest brush of his fingers against her sex, Laura felt herself open for him, watched him smile at her response.
She moaned at the first touch of his lips, gasped at the caress of his tongue. "Oh, sweet. So sweet," she crooned. When he lifted his head, her eyes flew open with surprise.
"Say my name."
"What?"
"My name. I want to hear you say my name."
"William," she said as he slid back down. "William. William, oh, Gods, William!"
As she floated down from her climax, Laura Roslin drifted from daydream into sleep.
She woke hours later, with but a handful of minutes before the shuttle was due to take her to the spaceport and the starliner. Out of bliss, she burst into a frenzy of activity, showering, packing essentials first, a few trifles thrown in for good measure, including the little paperback she'd been enjoying, and, finally, trying and failing to choose just the right outfit for the occasion.
In the end, she packed three outfits, deciding to choose one en route. It wasn't a simple matter, this. It wasn't everyday a woman met the man of her dreams.
//end//