Summary: The War was started by Laura. It evolved. Bill rebelled. There are many plans. And only one will be victorious. (Bill knows it’s going to be him – Laura knows he’s wrong).
Rating: MA
Category: Romance, Humour
Characters: None
Genres: Drama, Humour, Romance, Smut
Wordcount: 11051 Read Count: 6442

Chapter One: How About We Shut That Door…

“That’s totally out of the question Madame President!”

Bill paced unhappily from one side of her office to the next, Laura seated behind her desk – tapping her fingers disinterestedly on its wooden surface. She sighed one of her long suffering sighs.

It was all theatre of course – this being her favourite game.

“And why is that Admiral?”

“Well,” he stammered, trying to think of the best way to put it without actually having to say it, “don’t you think it would look a little – you know.” he moved his eyebrows meaningfully.

Laura didn’t need to make eye contact to know what he was getting at. Truthfully, he had a point. She had even spent some time considering the topic herself from time to time, but something inside her found pleasure in watching the Admiral squirm further.

Would he actually address this issue directly? She thought not. And if he did – well then, that was a new game.

She moved therefore, to continue her pretence of disinterest. He was uneasy, and she liked that – it excited her something shocking.

Adama fumed, damn that woman, she wouldn’t even look at him. She was going to make him say it out loud – damn her. Damn her, damn her, damn her. But for the life of him, he couldn’t think of any way around it.

“You know,” he stuttered further, hands clamming up with an embarrassment that had snuck in from nowhere, “it might look, may appear to the passing individual that we…”

Why did doors have to mean so much anyway? What difference did it make whether the door was open or closed? Who would even notice if the door appeared closed on their meetings from now on? How had he even gotten into this mess! WHY COULDN’T HE HAVE JUST LEFT THAT DAMN DOOR ALONE IN THE FIRST PLACE!

But then the Admiral got to thinking, well – Billy of course would notice – how could he not? And Billy being Billy – it was suffice to say that boy had an imagination on his shoulders worthy of the scriptures. Not to say reminded the Admiral to himself, that we’re even engaging on thought down that path.

Other parts of his body had a differing opinion.

“Frak, that’s all I need.”

“Did you say something Admiral?” The President didn’t look up from what must have been a fascinating report to compete with a currently adorable Admiral for Laura’s attention…

“No Madame President.”

She went quiet.

He rejoiced momentarily before his brain filled in the gaps with panic – attempting to write her thoughts into his. Not that he was supposed to be having any thoughts that even remotely strayed from the Fleet’s supply chain.

If Billy knew reminded his mind, then Dualla would know and then it would only be a matter of time before Lee… Adama mentally swore. He didn’t need to imagine that outcome.

But Laura sat at her desk in front of him, signing the odd dotted line without the slightest recognition that he was still in the room. Perhaps maybe, just maybe he had escaped the issue altogether – could he possibly be that -

“What were you saying before,” she chirped happily as the stewing time she’d allocated to him expired, “about my door?”

lucky… “The door?” responded Bill hesitantly. Eyes darting across the room for assistance.

Laura managed to draw her eyes away from the paperwork to meet where his gaze had fallen on her. It was like those pupils tore through him. “Yes,” she smiled, “the door.”

“The door, oh that door.” He pretended to chuckle casually as an electric tingle escaped across the surface of his skin.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and mockingly repeat his last comment.

“Th-th-the that door…” he checked, pointing toward it where he could see the freedom of the corridor beyond.

Laura had had about enough of this.

Quite to Adama’s fright and fascination she placed the dark metal of her pen atop the current report on; ”The Growing Sympathies Toward Cylons” and let the wheels of the chair roll backwards over the carpeted surface.

“Laura… what are you doing?” panicked Bill. She held a hand up and shook her head slowly in protest.

“I like it better when you call me, ‘Madame President’.“

Surely thought Bill, he hadn’t heard that right.

“One must respect,” she stood to her full height, lyrical legs perched atop shaped heels, “the proper government ranks when one is at a,” she stepped forward and Adama misplaced his breath, “governmental meeting. Don’t you agree?”

Bill wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take before certain primitive brain functions switched to override. “I – ah,”

“The answer, Admiral, is yes”

Laura advanced, excruciatingly slowly. The gentle sway of her impending figure disconnecting most of Adama’s rational thought. This felt a whole lot like seduction and not much like diplomacy.

“Well then Madame President, yes.”

Now it was Laura who found her composure faltering slightly as his gravely voice rolled out her title. But she was better at this then he was, and managed to hold herself steady.

He did his best not to become completely lost in the hopelessness of his building desire. “Permission to speak fr-r” she moved to him and he reversed toward the door where he met the steely barrier of the office wall just to the side of it. There was no where to go and she was leaning across his shoulder, breath falling heavily on his neck. “Fr-rankly?” he stumbled over the words, his body slipping from his control.

She leant across him, making sure the lightest touches of her hair met his face. Bill breathed the intoxicating mixture in – at that moment, if she had said jump – he would have saluted her smile and leapt at her command. “Denied.”

Bill struggled for control he had lost to her long ago.

“How about we just shut that door.” Laura’s hand captured the silver fitting and slid the door across, sealing the room in one elegant stroke. If you want something done, do it yourself.

Unable to move, the Admiral remained silent – burning where any and every part of her met him through his uniform.

After torturing him for her entertainment she allowed him a few more seconds before swiftly stepping back and retreating to the desk as if she had never been close enough to feel the desire that moved between them.

Up until that moment, Laura Roslin had every intent on returning to a diplomatic position, safely seated on her chair securely obscuring his sight with the structure. But then a thought struck her.

The door was closed.

Easily she slid herself to sit on the surface of the Presidential desk, tilting slightly so that her legs fell to the side, crossed in a manner that best exposed the Admiral to their generous curves.

The Admiral swallowed.

Hard.

This was going to be a long meeting.

Chapter Two: The Plan

It was suffice to say that as the door finally opened for the Admiral to exit the President’s office – victory was hers for all to see…

-but that was okay because Adama had a plan – oh yes, and more than that, it was a good one. Rock solid in every way – fortification so thick no army in the known universe could penetrate it. Well, galaxy at least considering they hadn’t really gotten very far through the universe yet. Hell, there was a lot of universe out there after all.

Anyway, that wasn’t even close to the point.

After their last meeting it had become clear that the two leaders, the President and the Admiral had declared a war of sorts. This was fine, both were used to wars and both had fine tuned war instruments ready for the plucking. “Especially me.” thought Bill to himself.

Like every war, this one had a prize – and a cost, where the first one to surrender would be subject to – Bill paused, momentarily confused as his train of thought hit a tunnel wall.

“The first one to surrender would – ah”, he thought quietly on the matter as he gave an almighty ‘push’ to the locking mechanism of his door, his eyes watching closely as the metal bars spun – chasing each other until the final click. Satisfied that his quarters were unlocked, Adama entered the room with the kind of mad drive that only a seasoned warrior could command.

“The first one to surrender – loses!” He declared triumphantly swiping a ready poured glass of Ambrosia on his way.

He moved stealthily to his control centre, smooth and quick across the floor – if he had been wearing one of those cool capes it would have billowed out to full volume, dark folds disappearing beneath the fabric’s edge. Instead his uniform clung close as war hardened hands slid open the desk’s most secret draw – seeking within, his faithful black, leather bound diary.

He’d written it all down, yes he had! That way he figured he couldn’t possibly forget any of his vital strategies.

The war was his.

Bill removed the object, stroking the cover lovingly – the book appearing exactly as he’d left it. The journal had been his faithful friend for eight years, and buried deep within its contents were some of his darkest, smartest, (most embarrassing) moments along with his brilliant – fame worthy mission tactics. It was a document that could bring about the human races’ downfall if it fell into the wrong hands.

That’s why he kept it hidden in the safest, most secret place.

Bill had to admit that the President’s demonstration so far was up there with the best defense and offence that he’d seen. She appeared to have it all, power, manipulation, drive and a set of legs to melt armies. However, neither her fortitude nor the length of those ass kickingly awesome legs could conquer him now.

Not now that he had this plan written down.

Bill opened his journal and flipped to where he had left off – failing to notice that the deep purple bookmark had been slightly readjusted without his permission…

The Admiral stopped, mouth agape.

On the blank page following his faithful plan was a message, neatly scrawled in its centre.

In pink pen.

It read:

This diary has been borrowed for a period of twelve hours, read thoroughly and returned to its owner.

It is advised that said owner either consider revising the impending covert attack or surrender during the next meeting to be held tomorrow evening.

Regards,

Your Superior

ps. You need to learn to hide your stuff better.

Adama’s nostrils flared.

This wasn’t happening… Gritting his teeth he absently flipped to the bookmarked page, expecting to find the wisdom of his favourite passage from a famous Caprican warrior where he had painstakingly copied it down – its words always soothing even in dire situations like this.

Instead he found his, ‘if all else fails – the dirt on the new president’ list – now annotated with comments like; ‘wrong’, ‘wrong again’, ‘interesting’, ‘wow, you got that right’ and, ‘how is my shoe size relevant? – come to think of it, what’s your shoe size?’

The Admiral blinked.

The Admiral narrowed his eyes.

~ a short time later on Colonial One ~

Laura played with her pen, content to let it fall casually across the back of her hand and back into her fingers. A shamefully large smile had applied itself to her face and simply refused to leave as she mentally checked off her goals for the day.

Objectives:

Steal very secret journal to signify start of war.

Pretend to have read it.

Anotate with annoying and suggestive comments.

Also consider taking item of clothing for extended leverage.

Plan for tomorrow.

The grin got wider.

“Check, check, check, definitely check and will do as soon as I finish congratulating self on success of objectives.”

~ Adama’s quarters, several hours later ~

Bill searched and searched but to no avail, it was if they simply did not exist – like his favourite boxers had decided to go for a field trip out the air lock into space.

Out the airlock. What did airlocks remind him of?

“No,” he thought firmly, “she wouldn’t.”

Convincing himself that he’d probably sent them in with the laundry, Admiral Bill Adama managed to settle in for a decent night’s sleep.

A sleep he would need because tomorrow all hell would break loose and revenge would be exacted.

Chapter Three: A ‘Short’ Problem

Adama rolled over beneath the covers of his bed, snuggling into their warmth – wishing the snuggly darkness would last for ever and ever. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was morning and that his cocoon would have to be cracked open – but it felt better to convince himself that five minutes equaled eternity and nothing could tell him otherwise.

The Admiral buried himself deeper, dreaming happily of supreme warships drifting in the silence of space – him at the helm, commanding an oncoming assault where he attacked, some dramatic event threatened his life (he hadn’t quite worked out the details there yet) and then he would rise victoriously and a set of the President’s legs walked past. Wait, a frown of concern spread over Adama’s face, how did that get there?

The legs walked past again – and again, and again…

Bill couldn’t shake the image.

“Gods frakking dammit!”

He rolled over, hoping a change of position would shift his thoughts.

Well, he was correct – they shifted alright – straight to her chest.

“FRAK!”

It wasn’t enough for her to torment him in person – his own subconscious was in collaboration – the traitor! Bill figured it was probably his own fault though, strange things always happened when you hit the snooze button on your alarm too many times – it was like the universe’s pay back for you being a lazy bugger.

So Bill decided to get up.

All went well for about two seconds until Bill went looking for his favourite pair of boxers. Swearing, he remembered last night – though it was still beyond him as to how he’d managed to fit the washing into his busy schedule.

“Oh well,” he said calmly, “they’d be ready by now anyway.”

With that, the Admiral put on some casual clothes and made off for an early morning trek to the wash room – intent on collecting his underwear.

Poor, poor hot man.

~ Colonial One, earlier that morning ~

Laura was still smiling as she inspected the hot, red -

“Madame President?”

She jumped a little, scrunching the offending garment back into the draw as Billy entered through the curtain.

“Yes Billy?”

“Your flight has arrived.”

“Excellent – I mean, right, thank you.”

Billy eyed her suspiciously for a moment before deciding that he probably didn’t want to know what was going on. Anything that involved a trip to Galactica involved the Admiral.

Anything that involved the Admiral and the President involved trouble.

Any trouble that involved those two was better left well alone.

~ Later, Battlestar Galactica’s wash room ~

Bill sorted through his pile, a good weeks worth of washing he’d simply been too busy to retrieve. In the ten short minutes he’d been there, he’d already found items presumed ‘missing in action’.

In fact, he’d managed to find pretty much everything except his boxers. The Admiral frowned.

A pair of legs walked past.

Adama screwed his eyes shut, he hoped that image wasn’t going to keep popping up unexpectedly for the rest of the day – it was bad enough it happened while he was asleep. He opened his eyes, satisfied he had regained control of his thoughts – except the legs were still there, standing casually next to him – their owner hidden by the door of his drier.

The Admiral grabbed the door hastily and pulled it shut to reveal the President of the Colonies calmly placing a couple of jumpers into the drier. Bill stared as her hair fell heavily over her shoulder, the scent of her arousing thoughts that were inappropriate this early in the morning.

“What the gods are you doing here?”

Laura ignored him, placing a shirt into the hole. “Morning Admiral.”

Damn her complacency.

“And I believe I asked you to call me, ‘Madame President’.”

The Admiral found himself at a loss. “Madame President,” he recovered, “am I to understand that Colonial One is not equipped with washrooms of its own?”

“No.” she answered shortly.

Not the answer Bill was expecting, he thought he’d had her with that one. “And that the President” he rolled her title on purpose, “of the Colonies washes her own clothes?”

” – and that the Admiral of the fleet washes his own clothes…” quipped Laura.

Frak it all.

Laura bent down to pick up the last of the items in her basket, throwing them in in one hit. Bill’s eyes caught a flash of red amongst the chaos.

Everything within him froze.

The President closed the door, locking it and punching in her identification – the cycle starting automatically. Finally she turned to face him, basket under her arm.

“See you this evening Admiral.” and then she was off leaving the Admiral in the washroom.

As soon as she had disappeared he flung his own basket onto the floor – its contents spilling. She had his shorts, he knew it – he could feel it.

Bill shuffled over to the door of the President’s washer, hands cupping around the door’s surface in an attempt to see in.

Someone behind him cleared their throat.

The Admiral jumped to see Billy, arms crossed – staring at him.

Bill lowered his eyes and stalked back to his basket.

Chapter Four: A Rodent Problem

~ In a corridor aboard Galactica ~

The Captain made his way down the corridor after a report that his dad was moping on the Bridge. So here he was, one foot in front of the next – head bitching about the bottle or so of Ambrosia that Thrace had forced upon him. It had all started out innocent enough, yesterday evening he told Dualla that he needed to wipe Starbuck out to win a bet – it had never been his intention to wipe the floor with his own ass. And boy oh boy did he pay for it now. Come to think of it, he never found out who had proposed the bet in the first place – not that it really mattered, all he knew was that some time today, someone would waltz up and place a box of cigars in his hand and he would be free to enjoy his legs -except, that didn’t sound right.

Apollo paused, trying to imagine his prize of cigars but all he saw were legs.

And legs.

…and more legs.

Sense nearly knocked him flying, Lee ripping his eyes up at once.

Oh my frakking gods, I did NOT just stare at the President’s legs.

Laura came casually strolling up the corridors of Galactica, “Morning Captain.” She smiled sweetly in a devious sort of way.

Don’t look at her legs, don’t look at her legs. Apollo shook his head dumbly trying to reason his eyes in an upward manner.

“Problem Captain?”

Frak. “Ah – no.” he shook his head harder, eyes now at a respectable height, “Of course not Madame President.”

“Didn’t think so – ah finally!” she turned her attention behind her, leaving the younger Adama to ponder the early hour and unexplained appearance of the President’s legs.

Of the President. Lee corrected himself firmly.

“Billy, what kept you?”

“Sorry ma’am, I was just,” he lowered his voice slightly, “making sure the cheese was secure.” This time it was Billy’s turn to look a touch evil.

“Thank you Billy.”

“Not a problem Madame President.” The two cohorts seemed satisfied.

“Have a nice day Captain.” said Laura as she continued off down the hallway toward her departing ship leaving Lee in a confused early morning stupor. Billy extended a small box into Apollo’s field of vision, Apollo taking it without properly registering its meaning.

“Congratulations Mr. Adama.” and then Billy was off, following his president.

Lee was left in a slight state of shock. Instead of realising that he’d been played, or even how much trouble he would be in if his dad ever got a copy of his mind’s thoughts over the past few minutes – his mind decided to focus solely on the one thing that struck him as overwhelmingly odd about the whole encounter…

Cheese?

Yes, it was red cheese that threatened to cause the downfall of a certain Admiral – and gods help his atheist butt if Roslin ever decided to share what was written on the packaging.

~ The Bridge: Battlestar Galactica ~

It seemed that everybody on the Bridge was giving the Admiral ten feet of play room, only Gaeta brave enough to venture in every now and then and pass on the morning log that seemed to be amended every five seconds.

Bill was moping. Unfortunately for those around him, ‘moping’ for an Admiral included periodically ripping people apart for almost no reason. ‘Almost’ because even the best of people tend to get a little frustrated when they find out that their personal security detail allowed a tall red-head to visit his quarters un-attended to supposedly retrieve a non-existent Quorum document. And to make matters infinitely worse, his boxers were annoying him. He had been forced to wear the uncomfortable ones after discovering that the President of the Twelve Colonies had taken his favourite pair hostage. Bill hoped that there was some code of ethics left in place that prevented her from air-locking them (or him) for her mild entertainment.

If he’d known the world was going to end he’d have packed more underpants.

The Admiral shook his head. This was not productive thought – he had to pull himself together, he had a meeting with her and some religious delegates in a couple of hours and this was no way to start a diplomatic day.

“Dad, what’s this I hear about an emergency?”

Adama turned, a little confused at first by his son’s arrival on the Bridge. “Emergency? What emergency?”

“It’s only that I was on my way here and I ran into the president – there must be something wrong for her to be here at this hour.”

Gods that woman gets around! Think of a good explanation that doesn’t involve underpants. “No emergency. Maybe she just needed to do some washing.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Nevermind. Why are you asking me anyway?”

Lee swallowed, “Ah, I just thought that maybe – well, I thought perhaps…”

“Yeah,” said Adama firmly, “well think something else for a while.”

“Yes sir.” Apollo struggled to define how weird this day was getting. The President and his dad? No. He was imagining things. “I think I might go eat some cheese.”

Bill shot a concerned look at his offspring.

Lee turned to leave when he noticed Laura Roslin high above them. “Hey look, she’s back again,” how bizarre, “and I think she’s trying to get your attention.”

“Well she can wait.”

Lee nodded, this was just all too much for a man with a hangover – and left them to it. Whatever it was.

The Admiral set about ignoring her, but it wasn’t long before he felt her conspiring eyes upon him. They prodded him, annoyed him in every way possible until slowly he turned, raising his eyebrow in concern at the sight of the President far above his head – waving at him through the glass of the control sector.

Waving.

Laura had that, I’m the President and you’re making me wait? kind of a look about her – so she continued waving in the hope of annoying him enough to get his attention – it seemed to be working nicely.

She’s waving at me? thought Bill irritably, hoping nobody else saw, honestly, who waves anymore? Bill smiled stupidly up at her – hoping she’d stop.

Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of an idiot, you frakking toaster, or your rodent ass is SO out the airlock. Yes, if you think I’m going to stop waving you’re sadly mistaken – so get your gorgeous ass up here – I mean, DEAD ass… Laura kept waving much to Adama’s dismay.

She’s still waving. Gods, how embarrassing. He sighed one of his own long suffering sighs, a little more than slightly worried about what she was up to this time. Laura Roslin already had his underwear, what other satisfaction could she possibly want today? Alright! I’m coming already. Bill raised the morning log in his hand in an affirmative gesture to which, most thankfully, she stopped waving. A content smile lingering as she turned away from the glass.

Frakking Cylon thought Bill.

Frakking Caprican Inbred thought Laura.

Frak it’s going to be a long day thought Saul as he watched the scene play out before him.

~ The room above the bridge ~

“Madame President,” greeted Bill on the verge of sarcasm, “to what do I owe the please of our second meeting today?”

Laura smiled innocently, she had the man exactly where she wanted him, if he still intended to exact revenge on her for the other day, he was sorely mistaken.

“I just came to deliver the agenda for the meeting today,” she withdrew a folder from under her arm and offered it to him.

The Admiral eyed the folder suspiciously, since when did she give out agenda’s personally? Wasn’t that Billy’s job – for that matter, where was the little accomplice? Knowing he was going to regret it, Bill took the folder from her, opening it enough to glimpse its contents. Thankfully all appeared normal.

Bill felt himself breathing comfortably again. “Thank you.”

“Sure.” she smiled and he had to pull himself up for smiling back.

He put it down to a lapse in concentration.

“Look, I have to run – the meeting is starting shortly.”

“Okay.” said the Admiral as she departed.

“What are you smiling at?” Bill immediately forced a frown onto his face as he heard Tigh’s voice.

“I wasn’t.”

“Un uh.”

~ The meeting: one hour later ~

Admiral Adama hurried down the corridor and up to the door, nodding at the security personnel who opened it and stepped aside for him.

“Apologies I’m late Madame President, members of the Quorum.” he apologised, striding over to take a seat opposite the President. The table was long and narrow – an odd shape for a meeting table but given the slender pickings after the end of the world, they were lucky to have it. The only problem was that he had to be careful not to accidentally step on her – whenever that happened she made him pay in diplomatic currency.

So Bill carefully seated himself and produced the agenda, settling it in his lap – he hadn’t even read it yet, no time.

“That’s alright Admiral, we were just having a philosophical discussion.” several members of the religious sector practically scowled suggesting that it was more of a war than a discussion. “Shall we get down to it then? Firstly I would like to push 1801 down the list and instead start with 1823.”

Everyone muttered agreement and flicked through their folder. The Admiral frowned.

“It’s on page five.” whispered Laura across the table, flipping her own folder open. He nodded dumbly, shuffling through the pages until he came across something that made his mouth drop.

Pictures – high resolution, of his boxers.

HOLY FRAKKING GODS OF – a nearby Quorum member leant over to see what all the fuss was about – Adama quickly closed his folder and hugged it protectively.

Bill shot a terrified look at Laura – but she wasn’t paying him the least bit of attention.

Chapter Five: As You Can See

All the Admiral could think was, not cool – not cool as he clutched the folder in tighter, glaring in a scary fashion at the Quorum member who soon backed away, eyebrow raised.

ShitFRAKshitFRAKFRAKFRAKFRAK!

Bill felt himself panicking, blood rising to his cheeks, reddening them slightly despite his dark complexion. Even worse was that several people were now stealing glances at him. He could feel all their beady eyes upon him – prying through the protective pages to gaze upon the incriminating photos.

Laura, without lifting her attention from the document in front of her, repeated her instruction helpfully. “Page five.” She twirled a pencil over the back of her hand, catching it neatly.

It took the Admiral a few moments to register, images of his boxers still burning their way through his memory. Subconsciously he re-adjusted his hold on the folder. And though he didn’t see it, it did not go unchecked by Roslin.

“Is there a problem Admiral?”

She was looking at him over the rims of her glasses now – the attention of the entire table now focusing on him. To the Admiral’s misfortune, he hadn’t been spending a great percentage of this meeting listening. Damn her manipulative - “Uh, no…”

“Good.” she quipped, motioning to those seated beside her, “Then perhaps you could join us.”

“Of – of course.” Delicately, Bill eased the folder open – desperately careful not to let anything unfortunate slip out. His eyes fell over the covering page; thankfully its facade was normal.

He was proceeding so slowly that people seemed to give up lose interest, returning to their conniving political regimes leaving the Admiral to peel through each page, dreading the inevitable appearance of dark, rectangular shadows on page four where the outlines of the incriminating objects made their presence known through the page. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the final frontier onto page five, flinching as his boxers smiled back at him. To his horror, he noticed a hand holding them in one shot – and oh gods it was female. Meaning she must have actually touched them. Bill wasn’t stupid or anything, he knew that she would have had to pick them up at some point, but having actual physical evidence renewed the exuberant flow to his face. There they sat, revealed in all their fabulous red glory.

Deciding to stop being such a wimp, he managed to tilt the folder forwards, the pictures falling onto him facedown. He held his breath – but Laura was currently mid strike and everybody else was too concerned with whether their heads were in the way. The warm snuggle of brief relief swept over him. Stage one of “Operation SAVE MY OWN ASS” completed successfully. It was then that he noticed it, an elegant scrawl next to item 1823.

“Now that I have your attention.”

“So do you approve of the red Admiral?”

He inwardly gasped, did she just say that out loud to the whole table?

“…That we should upgrade to red? I think you’ll agree it’s necessary after our little Cylon visitor last week.”

“Oh.” she’s doing this on purpose. “Ah, yes.”

Someone opposite sounded fed up. “Madame President, I think you’ll find that that is a completely unnecessary step under the circumstances…”

Mistakenly thinking he was finally safe, Bill reached over to rest his hand lightly on a strategically placed coffee mug. He remembered a discussion once, where someone wanted to ban the presence of hot substances at the conference table because of the danger of agitated spillage. In other words, opponents were getting a bit unhappy and throwing coffee at each other resulting in minor burns and destroyed carpet. The proposal was of course, thrown out as several enraged quorum members threatened the proprietor with the substance in question.

Well anyway, it was a brave move on the Admiral’s part to even consider pushing his luck further. But he did anyway because, well, he was the Admiral.

He ran his fingers lucidly around the edge of the mug, it was pleasantly warm. Gods he needed caffeine.

“…I think you’ll find, good sir that the Quorum’s position on this is final.”

Excellent, thought Bill, she was pre-occupied. He moved his hand to the smoothed surface of the handle and grasped it, lifting it in a final commitment to the action.

A second later he jumped as a stockinged foot met with his crotch – his coffee ending up everywhere. It was hot and it hurt.

“We wouldn’t want the situation to escalate – unexpectedly.” added Laura Roslin in a seductive undertone as she and twelve others watched the Admiral silently yelp and stress out over the puddle on the wood.

That didn’t happen – that didn’t happen.

In his confused and frightened state, he temporarily lost his hold on the folder, some of the photos edging their way dangerously to the edge. Mercifully Bill clued in and fumbled for them – this action of course, spilling more coffee.

The remainder of the table fought to maintain a diplomatic silence. The man on his left who had tried so persistently earlier to catch a glimpse over Adama’s shoulder, offered to hold his folder. Bill displaced another glare.

A voice from the far side offered a point of argument and people’s attention was once again directed away. Bill, now seated straight – back pressed against the chair, cautioned a glance down where the table edge hid his lower half.

He hoped, and he prayed that he had partaken in some kind of hallucination. Maybe that was the case – the President opposite was engaged elsewhere and the only other female was far off in the wing.

Just an hallucination.

He repeated over and over, willing himself to believe it.

“There is a crisis,” said Laura, pulling herself closer in to lean across the table and crane her neck from side to side to look at each individual in turn, “and we can not afford to find ourselves in yet another vulnerable position.”

He felt it first on his knee, the edges of Laura’s toes pressing lightly on his uniform. Instantly he tensed. He didn’t dare look this time.

“Events tend to swell out of proportion if neglected…” though she hadn’t yet looked at him, her foot slid to the inner side of his knee and began a slow progression up his thigh. Adama nearly choked on his own breath as something else began to tense…

Laura, now confident she had him exactly where she wanted him, shifted the table’s attention Bill’s way. “…as you can see.”

The Admiral swallowed hard.

Chapter Six: M U L T I T A S K I N G

*~*

Much against his will, Bill’s face twisted into a pleasurable grin as Laura let her foot linger just short of his excitement.

This was beyond inappropriate, she’d crossed that bridge when she nicked off with his personal items and the thing that annoyed Bill most about the whole affair was that despite their audience, he was kindof/sortof/maybe enjoying this a tad more than he was supposed to.

Remembering this he banished the edges of his smile back down into a stoic glare so as not to attract unnecessary attention from the rest of the room – an action that was growing increasingly difficult to execute as the minutes dragged on…

He made a deal with himself that he would not, under any circumstances, allow himself to advance to ’stage two’ – he repeated the instruction, re-issuing it as a direct order to his lower half whilst his upper half only just managed to maintain a semi-normal façade. Of course, not everyone in the room was fooled by his acting brilliance – to the Admiral’s despair he noticed some of the elder council members narrowing their instinctual-knowledge embedded eyes at him. It was both disturbing and re-assuring to know that he was not alone in this predicament – that someone else knew what the President was capable of.

The fact that those onlookers did nothing to help him was not exactly a positive reflection on their loyalty to him.

He anaylsed his day so far; the President’s foot resting somewhere it shouldn’t, a folder full of ransom pictures of his stolen underwear? This was not the situation he had imagined finding himself in when he woke up this morning and naively wondered where his underpants had hidden themselves.

“Let’s move on shall we?” said Laura as she directed the table to the next point on the agenda. Bill hoped it was a touch of mercy on her part – her foot remaining firmly affixed however, suggested that she had anything but mercy in mind. It’s not like he could do anything about it, what was he going to do? Announce to the table that the President of the Colonies had her foot on his thigh? Oh yes, he could see THAT going down well – especially when she’s removed it before he can prove squat.

Positive thoughts Bill he reminded himself.

Except now Bill could feel an unfair force taking hold. Things around him were getting more and more overheated as her toes re-adjusted themselves (with no intent of abandoning their post). All of a sudden he could feel his collar tighten, constricting his breathing – causing the building heat to become trapped above and fight to surface. He moved his neck a little in the hope of relieving the situation – the insolent collar only tightened its grip… And then he felt it, the first beads of sweat itching their way to the surface from beneath his skin.

Which would have been fine if everyone else hadn’t been casting random stabs at the terrible cold since the aircon had died.

He looked like a *Poley in *Caprica.

The President herself was talking animatedly about something religious with a worked up Gemini – and even though he was very much distracted, he didn’t miss the dark glint arise in her eyes where she imagined her prey being taken down.

For once, he was thankful it wasn’t him.

Taking advantage of her aversion, the Admiral – not wanting to anything to provoke her further, engaged in the one activity left to a man with his nuts in a bind. He watched.

Watched as her hair fell softly across her shoulder – curls bouncing as she yelled something over her shoulder at the brave soul interrupting her. This action exposes her neck, which Adama notes snakes down to meet the low V of her silk shirt. And now he’s staring. It’s one of his favourite outfits of hers.

Bill cringed. So I have ‘favourite outfits’ now? What’s happening to me…

Movement down below reminded him of exactly what had been happening.

In sheer terror, he realised that the President’s foot was on the move. In an involuntary reaction, he grabbed the nearest thing to his hand – which just so happened to be a pencil. He clutched the object rather than give away a facial expression.

The foot below was content to trail further into forbidden territory…

Adama tightened around both wooden surfaces, every neuron in his brain begged his body not to act on the stimulus material at – uh, hand.

Laura Roslin was an excellent multitasker – she could do many things simultaneously with practiced ease. On a good morning she’d been known to drink coffee, listen to the radio, read the ‘Important Notices’ and traumatize passers by without any trouble. Right now she was trying out a new combination of tasks – with bounding success.

She had to admit the possibility that perhaps she was punishing the Admiral a bit more than he deserved – and had the situation not slipped beyond their control she might have left it at this. Oh well, what good was a threat if you didn’t follow through?

A sharp intake of breath from across the table told Laura that she was, indeed, an excellent multitasker.

Bill not only gripped the pencil – he migrated forward where his other hand sought, found and clutched the table as inconspicuously as possible as he felt the distinctive touch of a second foot on his other knee.

This is not good.

Somehow, he observed that her posture had not changed visibly – but he knew what she was doing and frankly, it scared him. For a guy he was doing well – remaining strong against her completely unfair attack on his manhood. He questioned his ability to remain so as he felt the second foot begin its progress to the inside of his knew and the first foot slip back to meet it – then together they applied pressure to part his legs.

Bill freaked.

NOT A FRAKKING CHANCE IN CYLON HELL!

The Admiral squeezed his knees defiantly together against her actions. Eyes flaring in panic as she snuck a look at him. Assessing her progress.

Bill continued to fight – fighting harder than he ever had in his life before to prevent – unfortunate incidents from taking place.

Laura accidentally raised her voice at the confused council she was conversing with as she pushed harder on the Admiral’s knees.

“Admiral?”

Bill’s concentration broke sharply as Roslin verbally addressed him – a mix of panic and shock snapped his defense and Laura regained dominance. A bead of sweat actually managed to break with the surface.

“Uh,” struggled Bill, “yes?” it came out a little higher in pitch then he felt comfortable with.

“Nevermind.” and she returned to the discussion, satisfied.

Shit…

Bill really had problems now. Big ones. Firm ones. Not to mention two stocking covered ones inching their way along the inside of his legs.

Oh gods – not here, please, I’m begging you – not here of all places. this isn’t happening, his isn’t happening, Lords of Kobol – why is this happening to me?

The President changed her mind, sensing a new mode of attack. “Unless, of course, you have something to add?”

“To – ” one foot met with its target, “add?” Adama bit his lip harder than he meant to. The concerned and curious eyes of the entire room fell upon him.

“Admiral Sir – are you alight?” The balding Sagittarian on Laura’s left disrupted the conversation to point at the horror struck Admiral.

“I’m ah, I’m ah…” he completely stumbled over his words, “I’m ah -” and then he broke – and so did the pencil with a loud ’snap’. Adama’s eyes glossed over and for a few brief moments not a single thought made it into his mind. The entire table watched this tune out…

Some were confused.

Some were shocked.

Others were fighting the urge to annihilate themselves with tears of giggles knowing the shocking truth.

Laura calmly flipped the page of her agenda, discreetly replacing her high heels. The Admiral was now staring placidly up at the ceiling. “He’s fine.” she smirked and the meeting continued.

Once the Bill recovered he folded his arms and furrowed his eyebrows. Figuring it couldn’t get any worse, he spent the remainder of the meeting childishly objecting to everything she proposed.

Alas, the meeting drew to its conclusion all too soon – and the Admiral’s problems re-emerged… The general mutter of departure filtered in until the President rose as was tradition, to adjourn the meeting. Of course, everybody else was required to stand out of respect.

The Admiral REALLY didn’t want to stand.

There was a kind of awkward second where he was the only one left seated. Laura remedied the situation.

“Thank you for coming, the Admiral and I have a few things to discuss further.” Mercifully, they all left.

Laura waited until the door was firmly shut before retaking her position opposite him once more.

Bill folded his arms tighter, glaring.

“That was, that was – ” he tried to find the words to express his fuming RAGE. (Even if he did enjoy it somewhat).

You did not enjoy it he corrected himself firmly.

“Brilliant…?” she offered, grinning maliciously.

“I was going for ‘uncalled for’.”

“All’s fair in war Admiral. A man in your position should know that.”

“I don’t remember there being a war.”

“Well, there was going to be one, consider this a pre-emptive strike.” the Admiral was shaking his head in a confused manner, “Don’t look at me like that, I read your journal – I know what you were plotting.”

Bill couldn’t believe he was being punished for a crime he was yet to commit. Besides, heaps of people plot in writing, it helps prevent real wars – it gives people a place live fantasies they would never actually… Bill really hoped Laura had lied about reading his journal.

“Anyway, must dash. Don’t worry,” she added as Bill considered how he was going to get back to his ship without anyone seeing. He couldn’t very well sit in the President’s office for the rest of his life, “I’ll get Billy to pop back later. He’s just on his way from collecting my washing – shall I instruct him to pick up yours at the same time?”

Bill glared and through gritted teeth growled, “Thank you, that would be lovely.”

“Wonderful. I hope we’re still on for our little meeting tonight…”

“It will take more than that to get me to cancel.”

“I hoped you would say that.” she rose from her seat and moved around the table. The Admiral stayed rooted to the chair. “Oh no – don’t get up Admiral, I insist…”

And finally she left him in peace.

“FRAKKING PSYCHOTIC MANIPULATIVE KIDNAPPER!” he mouthed at the closed door, but gods damn observed Bill, she’s hot.

*~*

Twenty minutes later and the Admiral’s mind had reached peak paranoia – the focus of which being the President’s desk and whether or not anything incriminating could be found inside its draws.

Usually he was above snooping – especially in the President’s things. In any case, he really WASN’T going to look in her draw, even if he was all alone – completely alone.

Who would know?

You would know! Besides it’s probably illegal.

Bill leant a little closer to the desk, its varnished surface hypnotically dangerous – he could even see the handle from where he was – it would only take a moment to -

In fact, I’m sure it’s defiantly illegal.

What harm could it possibly do?

She would have locked it anyway.

Then again, he’d more than earned the right to do a little snooping after her display today.

A short time later, Bill found himself on the other side of the desk, hand tugging at the wooden draw. To both his dismay and his delight, it wasn’t locked. He stood, eyes gazing down at the contents.

Which wasn’t much. Just a smallish piece of scrap paper. Shaking his head at himself, the Admiral picked up the scrap and examined it, his smile vanishing as he read the text on the side.

“I hide my stuff better than you. Try the cupboard.”

Bill read it several hundred times again to make sure he hadn’t hallucinated.

Well that’s it then, she’s out moved you – move on before you hurt yourself.

And Bill really did want to listen to himself, but there was that other nagging voice that said;

But what about the cupboard…?

Surely that would be sad of him – the Admiral would not sink to that level. At least he didn’t think he would until he found himself reading a second scrap of paper…

“I can’t believe you were desperate enough to try the cupboard. Ordinarily I would make jokes at your expense for hours on end, but I shall attempt to exercise self restraint on the matter.

In any case, they’re still in the wash.

PTO”

The Admiral blinked in confusion before flipping the little card over and there in the same writing were two quiet discontenting words;

“Knock, knock.“

Knock, knock??? he thought questioningly until the unmistakable sound of knuckle on wood broke the silence – the Admiral jumping several feet away from the private presidential cupboard.

TBC…….

*Poley – person who inhabits the frozen poles of a country.
*Caprica – a place with generally coolish weather.

Chapter Seven: Enough is enough is enough!

Bill swung around to the unmistakable sound of Billy’s footsteps on approach.

Uh oh… he was still standing in front of the cupboard, which was a dead give away so turned enough to give the glass a mighty nudge – it clicked tentively into position as the curtains parted.

The Admiral’s first thought was to clutch his hands in front of him (for obvious reasons) but then remembered the incriminating scraps of paper he was holding. In the end he resorted to compramise by shuffling behind Laura’s desk. It wasn’t a great look, but in this case there were degrees of greatness.

“Billy.” he said, trying to sound cheerful and superior.

“Morning Admiral.”

Frak his smugness. “Afternoon Billy.” It didn’t slip the Admiral’s attention that Billy was carting a washing basket about and, I’ll be damned a glimmer of red escaped its depths as Billy shifted the pile. Another thing that the Admiral found distracting was the President’s underwear thrown into the mix – their underwear – you know – together…

For FRAK’S sake Bill! he reprimanded himself.

“Whatever.” Billy didn’t seem the least bit interested in him. “The President asked me to give you these,” said Billy, throwing a pile of clothes at him – which he didn’t catch.

They both inspected the now strewn pile of clothes across the President’s desk. And they both went silent for a few moments until the Admiral – kind of anxious for Billy to bugger off, broke the silence.

“Was there something else?”

“Ah – ” continued Billy, inwardly greatly amused by the goings on, “yes – actually, the President says you’re wanted on the bridge.”

“The bridge?”

“Immediately.”

Billy left without further conversation and Adama inspected the pile, “In these clothes?”

The cabinet behind him clicked and opened with a drawn out squeak.

*~*

Bill tried to enter the bridge as discreetly as possible – making his way over to Tigh at one corner of the room. Somewhere off to his left he could have sworn he detected a muffled snigger – but turning around he found nothing more interesting then bored faces concentrating on their screens.

Tigh raised his eyebrow as Bill came to a standstill beside him. “You’re out of uniform.” he said gruffly, in his annoyingly all-knowing manner. Sometimes the Admiral hated that Tigh knew him so gods damn well.

“Stop speaking.” he replied shortly.

“Yes sir – and Bill.” continued Tigh, not even lifting his gaze from the report in front of him.

“What?”

“I can’t believe you berated me about Ellen.”

Bill narrowed his eyes. “What did I just say about speaking?”

“That I’m not supposed to?”

“Good.” Satisfied, Bill glanced around the room attempting to gauge the seriousness of this supposed emergency. It seemed remarkably absent from the scene.

“Bill?”

“What now?”

“You are aware of what your shirt says – yes?”

“I SAID NO SPEAKING.”

“Okay, okay…”

A few moments of silence passed between them – Tigh, ticking off things on some kind of list and the Admiral staring at him as if he were waiting for something.

“Well, aren’t you going to tell me about this imminent disaster?”

“You said no speaking…”

“You can speak about the bridge – if it wanders beyond that I’ll throw you in the brig along with that SMUG faced FRAKKING subordinate of hers.”

Tigh wisely chose not to comment on the rant. Clearly, Bill had issues today. “Ah, what exactly is it you want me to say?”

“Well, how about we start with why I got dragged down here for some kind of urgent business.”

“Uh, well – ” Tigh thought carefully about the so far boring day, “we found an asteroid I guess… I mean, it’s not very interesting…”

“We find asteroids all the time what’s so special about this one?”

“Ah, nothing…”

“So why am I here?”

“No idea.”

Bill grabbed the clipboard from Tigh and threw it across the desk yelling, “THAT – “

When Bill was good and finished, Tigh smiled at his poor friend, “Sir?”

“WHAT?!”

“Are you going to pick that up?”

“Oh,” Bill saw the scattered contents of Tigh’s folder, “ah, yes. Sorry about that.”

*~*

First of all, I’m going to declare martial law – then continued Bill eagerly to himself as he paced the corridors of Galactica, oh yes, THEN I’m going to pick out a nice small and cramped and cold cell – we’re she’s going to live out the rest of her now long life. He nodded eagerly, Oh, and I’m going to feed her Licorice, every day, until she gives my stuff back.

Bill reached his quarters, rightly pissed after walking through his ship with the words, “JUST BEEN FRAKKED” written in large letters across his back.

With a massive push, Adama threw open the door to his quarters – to find the President napping peacefully on his sofa.

“What the…?”

It was incredibly odd. She was just resting there, shoe-less and comfy with one of his silken pillows clutched tight.

Adama’s eyebrows when in opposite directions as he tried to be mad and amused at the same time – she was, after all, quite cute when she wasn’t plotting his torture.

Look at the shirt you’re wearing – now’s the perfect opportunity to end it. No one would know it was you – I mean, they might notice the fact that the president went missing… but still.

It wasn’t exactly the perfect murder he had imagined… Besides, now that the Admiral thought about it, he’d been watching her sleep for some time.

What are you doing man, pull yourself together.

Bill cleared his throat.

Not much happened.

“Madame President?”

Still nothing. Bill moved a little closer, “Ms. Roslin?”

Frak this woman could sleep.

“LAURA! What are you doing on my couch!”

He blinked, she didn’t move. Bill couldn’t believe it.

Against his better judgment, he knelt down next to her and tried again, in vain to wake her. It didn’t work.

She was alive, he knew that much – she was breathing gently. So, short of shaking her or pouring water on her, (which wasn’t an option he’d ruled out) how was he going to wake her?

Bill laughed inwardly, you could always kiss her.

“Which would be a very bad idea.” he said out loud.

A very bad idea. He repeated, even as he leant down to place his lips gently on hers. He couldn’t help it – there was something about her that pulled him down to her.

Laura stirred, eyes opening to see the Admiral – her lips lightly returning his kiss.

Bill pulled away slowly, defiantly in shock.

Great plan there Bill, now what? But Bill couldn’t hear his subconscious at the moment.

Laura smiled, “That was nice.”

“Uh,” he stammered, “Why are you here? I mean,” he said, regaining his composure, “how did you get in!”

The Admiral made a mental note to yell at the officers outside his door for letting the President in a second time.

“I brought you fish.” she said brightly, pointing at a fish tank now installed on his wall, brimming with brightly coloured fish. Their neon exteriors flashing as they dodged and weaved.

“You brought me fish?” he said in confusion – starring at his new possession.

“It was either that or a dog.”

No one brought alcohol anymore? “Uh, thank you – I think.”

“I’m still here because I wanted to tell you that you need to feed them once a day with this yellow bottle,” she handed him a small container with a bright yellow label, “and once a month with this one,” and a second – this time a navy bottle appeared, “Dynamic Fish Feeder – Essential Nutrients for Aged Fish”.

Bill narrowed his eyes at the bottle, sure that this was no longer about fish.

“Anyway,” she continued, finding her shoes, “I must be off.”

“Right.” replied Bill, still holding the containers.

“See you this evening.”

And then she was gone. Bill frowned at the fish food and put it on the table. Myriads of thoughts were colliding in his mind to the tone of, I can’t believe she broke in again, I kissed her – shit, why have I been given fish food?

Bill sighed and shook his head.

Slowly, he got up and went over to the fish tank sitting beside his desk – it was one of those special military tanks, designed to deal with being shaken around. He watched the fish for a while.

They had sharp teeth – and now, on a closer pass – they looked a little scary.

“Typical.”

Bill left the creepy, evil fish to go to his draw and retrieve his diary – but GODS BE DAMNED, it was gone.

Bill looked at the fish.

“You’re damn lucky you’re too small to eat.”

The fish swum about absently -

the Admiral’s brain filled with thoughts of a revenge strike to be executed – except, every now and then these thoughts collided with one lonely memory of his lips on hers.

Bill shook his head firmly.

Time for revenge.

Chapter Eight: On Matters of Cheese

The evil fish swam contently around their tank, occasionally devouring one of the smaller of their kin. If they kept that up, thought Bill, he wouldn’t have any fish to look after. He shuddered, if the president found out that her present had been left to self-devour then he’d probably find himself bumped up a couple of items on her menu.

Admiral William Adama poured a decent amount of fish food into the tank in an effort to slow the cannibalism. The fish ignored the multi-coloured flakes and continued to glide about in a closely knit hunting pack.

“Brilliant.”

Sick of people craning their necks to read his back, Bill quickly changed into more suitable attire before heading back to the bridge. How the President had managed to find a shirt like that at the end of the universe was beyond him. Not that he doubted her powers of persuasion. No indeed, her talents in that area were greater than he had previously accredited to her.

“Back so soon?” Tigh smirked upon his superior’s flushed arrival to the bridge. Bill narrowed his eyes – thinking his friend would have learnt by now. “I know, I know,” exclaimed an eye-rolling Tigh, “no speaking.”

Bill puffed his chest out and surveyed his command which seemed to be running just fine without his presence. “Damn straight.”

*~*

The next few hours of the ‘day’ passed in relative quiet – chiefly because he’d ordered it so.

By afternoon tea time, all seemed back to normal on the Battlestar Galactica. They’d drifted through non-descript space without any interruptions or blackmail-style scrambled comm. calls. In fact, the President’s legs had been absent from the scene for a peaceful length of time long enough to lull Bill into a fragile sense of security.

Tigh, struggling with his vows of silence decided to excuse himself to grab said late afternoon tea. Bill’s strange and transient son, Lee, strolled in to replace him. Lee was gnawing – to the Admiral’s dismay, on cheese. Bill thought better of commenting, and instead watched his offspring wander off toward a shiny looking object on Dualla’s desk. She’d kill him if he touched it. Maybe that would improve his attention span.

Admiral William Adama stretched contentedly, congratulating himself on avoiding any unfortunate run-ins with the current Head of State’s legs. He cringed and shook his legs – head! Head, head, head, head, head…

“Who’s legs?”

Bill yelped. “Oh,” his horrified mouth flattened into a frown, and in a gruff, threatening voice he finished, “it’s you.”

The President’s aid, the formidable Billy, starred blankly at the Admiral. “The President sent you lunch seeing as you were delayed for some time in her office.”

Held hostage waiting for fresh clothes after a session of boardroom rape.

Billy placed a rolled up paper bag on the Admiral’s precious war table, knocking one of his viper models out of position. It wasn’t worth growling about it. He’d only be punished more by the smug, overly tall, scheming – losing sight of the point again Bill…

The Admiral shifted his gaze to eye the package with intense suspicion. The last thing that had been hand delivered to him from the President didn’t end so well for him. He failed to see how an innocent lunch bag could be any sort of improvement. Suddenly he remembered something important from all those years of military training. Befriend the subordinate of one’s enemy.

“You know Billy, I could be your friend. If, maybe, you help me a little, I could,” what would Billy want? Bill glanced over to Dualla where his son was still enthralled with the pretty object on her desk. She seemed to be attempting to shoo him away from it. An ingenious thought filled him with confidence. “I could have a chat to Dualla. Perhaps, send her over to Colo-”

“I’m sorry sir.” Interrupted Billy impatiently, “I’m needed back on Colonial One. The President of the Colonies, also known as Supreme Commander of the Human Race, is waiting for me.” And then he left swiftly.

Frakking damn.

Bill was destined to fight this little war alone.

A loud, ‘Ouch!’ that was distinctly Lee-like in origin, emitted from Dualla’s desk. Bill smiled, shrugged, and opened his lunch bag.

Colonial One

“Everything has been arranged as you directed Madame President.”

“Thank you Billy.” Billy lowered his eyes with a casual grin. The President of the Colonies was in one of those moods, which meant that it was safer to smile from the sidelines rather than actually formulate a response. “Was there something else Billy?”

Oops. Careless and caught, Billy decided it was better to lie than risk an airlocking by sharing his curiosities about the President’s feelings for a certain Admiral. He’d been watching their cat and mouse antics for long enough to recognise the subliminal meaning beneath the cruel pranks they played on each other. He just wondered if they saw it. Judging by what he had seen so far, he doubted it. “Ah, no, Madame President. Except, can I get you something else?” Nice cover, if he didn’t say so himself.

“No thank you Billy. You have done quite enough for today. Why don’t you go and spend some time with that lady friend of yours?”

He thought about protesting, but decided that on Galactica, he would have a better view of the action about to take place. Besides, it was nice of her to give him the afternoon off. “As you wish Madame President.” Billy, with a quick nod, left the rest of the folders he had been holding on the table and made his exit from the room.

Laura relaxed into her presidential chair. The Fleet had decided to circumnavigate the outskirts of a nearby star system. This meant that her window was now filled with the deep red of its burning star – a life, clearly struggling to continue. On the bright side, pardoning the pun, its unusual light seeped into her room, reddening the walls and changing the quality of their colour. It was a nice change from the only other source of light in the universe – the down lights in the ceiling above her.

But enough of stargazing, she still had a few preparations to make before this dinner scheduled with the Admiral, and time was running out to make the necessary preparations.

Battlestar Galactica

Bill frowned into his lunch bag. Closed it – counted backwards from six. Opened it – and frowned again.

The ominous bag contained an apple, white bread sandwich and an energy bar. Not quite the disaster he had anticipated.

“Dad – uh, sir?” Lee interrupted. Bill took another cautious glance into the bag to make sure it didn’t explode or anything when he wasn’t paying attention. Lee walked edge on to his father, carrying a folder to conceal his profile. “I’ll be back in twenty.”

“Stop. Turn.” Ordered Bill.

Lee obeyed, presenting his fabulously purple eye. Bill looked past Lee to where Dualla was busy dealing with inter Fleet calls. Bill smiled. “That is all Captain.”

Colonial One

Several hours later, President Laura Roslin pushed her fleet report files away and fixed her hair. Every time she twisted it up into her clip, long strands would decide to rebel and fall back down to her bare shoulders. It was a plot against her, she was sure of it.

Never one to lose a war, she reached into her limited accessories box and pulled out a couple of hair pins, pinning her rogue hair into place. Next, she touched up her mascara and straightened her necklace.

Well, well, she smirked into the mirror, surveying her outfit, not too bad.

Battlestar Galactica

Admiral William Adama panicked.

The President was on her way for their long awaited meeting in his quarters and the place was the biggest frakking mess in the history of human existence. Clothes spilled out from his bedroom into the living room where the slightly dirty rags seemed to crawl by themselves over the floor. There were books everywhere. Piles and piles of them on the floor, couch, desk and almost none on the bookshelf. The fish tank had gone a rancid shade of green in the few hours he was absent and contained distinctly less fish than he remembered. Last night’s empty dinner bowl was still on the coffee table next to three mugs of coffee – one finished, one a couple of days old and the last, half empty.

Yuck.

Bill wandered over to the couch and picked up a stray sock and then quickly scurried over to the lounge room floor where a pair of boxers lay in full view.

Definitely not a good idea. He thought, quickly hiding them back under his bed.

Colonial One

Laura slipped the stolen item into one of her progress reports. Once she was convinced it was safe and sound, she headed off toward the Galactica.

Let the games begin… She grinned, locking her door behind her.

_~_

Sacrificial Trade

“Ah…” Bill was in a state of petrification.

Literally.

His mind had paused mid-movement as he decided where best to hide his precious possessions from his dinner guest.

His right arm, it seemed, was set on the draw beneath the bookshelf whilst his left foot wanted to walk toward the space under his rack. Both options had their merits. The draw boasted a lock, presenting it proudly as it gleamed in the lamplight, hanging in a solid fashion. Sadly, Bill doubted that such an item would stop her.

Meanwhile, his rack benefited from the ‘sacred space’ title, presumably due to some ancient link between racks and frakking. Again, that was more likely to insight her rather than protect his stuff. Indeed, now that he thought about it, he wondered if there was a way to hide his rack from view.

The Admiral’s body now attempted to split into three as his neck craned toward his rack and the curtain that was tied at the edge of the room – an item he had never given thought to until this moment.

Knock. Knock.

“I –” Bill panicked, falling over as his chest spun to face the door. “Just a minute…”

The Corridor Outside the Admiral’s Quarters

Laura frowned. Something had just thumped to the ground on the other side of the Admiral’s door. Shrugging, she flicked her hair to the side and checked her watch.

It was hard to see anything in the awkward hue of the hallway, especially the impossibly small numbers circling two needlelike hands. Frustrated, and determined not to use her glasses which she kept insisting to the universe were for ‘show’ not ‘use’, she stretched her wrist high up toward the only light.

Just beyond the nearest curve in the corridor, Billy sat crosslegged with a fire extinguisher protectively clutched to his chest. Beside him, an airmen lay in weight – armed with an excessively large machine gun common to Cylon wars the worlds over.

Dualla turned a corner and stopped abruptly, staring at the President’s aid sandwiched between an airman and a priest.

“What are you doing here?”

“The Admiral and the President have a meeting,” replied Billy flatly.

Was he shaking? “Can I help you?” she started carefully, observing the fire extinguisher, escort, and handcuffs.

Billy looked up, a little dazed. The priest beside swayed, apparently occupied in some state of deep prayer.

“That depends on whether you know how to do CPR.”

“Why?”

Billy was worried, Dualla could see it in the way his seated figure rocked backwards and forward, slamming his head against the corridor wall with each movement. “Because I don’t fancy my chances performing it on the Admiral.”

Inside the Admiral’s Quarters

The Admiral of the fleet crawled across the floor in a most undistinguished manner.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered, as the knocking continued.

“Frak-it.” Bill threw his underpants as far as he could into the bedroom and shoved a pile of books under the couch in front of him. “In a minute!” he growled, using the table to help lift himself from the floor.

Snap.

Crash.

“Ow…” The remnants of the Admiral’s coffee table littered the floor. The combined weight of the stray books, left over coffee mugs, and a panicked ‘Bill’ had been too much for it. As an object, it had survived tremendous battles with the Cylons. It had served its various masters well, always there as a support for them. Alas, it was not to survive Laura’s war.

A murmur of pain escaped the space between his lips. He blinked several times as his room came back into focus.

“I – stop knocking on the frakking door!”

The knocking stopped – for a brief second and then continued more voraciously than before.

“Gods damn impatient dictator…”

As he stumbled across his room, he tried to recollect his honour by channeling his childhood heroes. Would Shadowman stumble about? Straighten yourself up! Why don’t you own a cape!

“Because I am the Admiral of the last human fleet. I have replaced my cape with a Battlestar.”

“What did you say?”

Adama stopped short of the door, startled by the female voice beyond. He much preferred it when she was knocking.

Somehow he managed to open it. It swung open to reveal the President of the Colonies standing godly, one arm leaning against his doorway. Her burgundy hair slipped over her shoulder in a loose curl while the hem of her silken skirt ended an inch too high up her thigh.

His mouth must have been hanging open because the President subtly pointed to the corner of his mouth where he found a trickle of moisture.

Several minutes passed.

“Do you want me?” she said finally, shifting her weight off the door frame.

“Uh…” Was that a trick question? Adama’s mind seemed to be having trouble working its cogs as Laura re-adjusted the bag over her shoulder. He’d almost forgotten what she was doing standing at his door in the first place.

“To come…” Laura spoke again, this time more forcefully. It was more of an order really.

Adama’s mind still thought that this felt like a trap, and so chose not comment.

Her eyes flicked between the Admiral and the interior of his quarters. “To come in,” she completed. “Do you want me to come in Admiral Adama or shall we get down to business in the corridor?”

“Ah…” his mind continued to struggle.

“Frakking fantastic…” she muttered, stepping around him. “Four hours alone and he becomes a tabula rasa. Oh gods –” she stopped, staring at the moss covered fish tank at the end of the room, “you ate them.”

“Ate what?” said the Admiral, finally managing to speak as he followed her into his room. He watched as she stepped over his belongings, delicately avoiding the broken shards of table without so much as an eyebrow raise.

“Poor little things.” Laura slid her hand over the glass, watching the innocent fish sulk in lonely corners. They looked up at her with sorrowful eyes, pleading their horrific stories. “Last carnivorous tropical fish in the universe. I actually feel guilty.”

“I – ” stuttered Bill. “They ate themselves!” he proclaimed defensively, pointing at them.

“Sure.”

“No,” Adama stepped aside as Laura roamed away from the tank, upset. “But really…” Bill leant forward to the tank and looked upon the pitiful fish. The one nearest flashed its serrated teeth and then zoomed across the tank – devouring one of its siblings.

Bill backed away.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” said the Admiral, tripping over a mug. “I feel strangely dizzy…”

Laura bent down, her shoulder bag falling in front of her. She extended her arm beneath the chair she was about to sit on and retrieved a book. “Thought you might,” she said, opening the book, flicking through it, and then returning it to the floor as the table was currently unavailable.

“I fell, earlier and … pardon?”

“I thought you might feel dizzy.” President Laura Roslin sat down calmly. “It’s a side effect, along with paranoia, loss of motor skills – chronic indecision.”

Adama went to speak – then sit down – then speak –

“I love apples, don’t you?” Laura almost hissed. “They’re just so temptingly red.”

His mouth hung agape. He never should have devoured that pack lunch. The room blurred slightly, and Adama had to steady himself on the couch. Unable to decide on an action, he chose to watch Laura suspiciously fumble through her bag.

“Do you mind if I drink?” she said, producing a bottle of sticky Ambrosia from within the leather.

“Can I?”

“Probably not – because of the…”

“Drugging. Because of you drugging me.”

She nodded. Finally, the Admiral lowered himself to the couch opposite her. She placed her bag on her lap, then reached for one of the glasses on the little tea-table beside her. Laura sniffed the tainted glass before deciding that its previous contents would be dissolved the second she poured the alcohol anyway.

“So,” she began. “I have items to trade, and you’re going to convince me to give them back to you. There are no rules – only the guidelines of the boundaries. Questions? No – let’s begin.”

Bill glanced nervously from side to side. “What particular items did you have in mind?”

Laura’s voice flowed with more fluid danger than the liquor swirling in her glass. “Your most precious possessions.”

“Okay…”

“Item one.” Laura, Madame President of the universe, reached into her bag once more and procured a CD case. William Adama, Admiral of the Human Fleet followed her delicate fingers as they unhitched the clear case and removed the silver disc. She disposed of the case, throwing it over her shoulder into the room. “Disc containing agenda 1823.”

The photos of his red boxers…

“I want,” was all he managed, as the disc caught a stray beam of lamp light.

“Apologise.”

The Admiral shook his head a little as the world blurred again. His limbs felt distinctly heavier while the barriers between his thoughts broke down, intertwining the fabric of his mind.

“Apologise,” she repeated, “for this stupid war, the notes in your journal and the death of your fish.”

“I’m – sorry?”

“Mean it.”

Bill shook off the languid feeling trying to take hold and sat up straight, looking deep into her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, his speech unintentionally slurring.

Satisfied, Laura brought the disc in front of her and then –

Snap.

It snapped as easily as a pencil. The broken pieces joined the rest of the litter on the floor.

“What about the hard copies,” said the Admiral, remembering a torturous file.

Laura lifted one of her infinitely long legs up, and crossed it over the other. Her hem rode up to the point where the Admiral could see her stockings end, held up by silken straps. To his horror, inside the seam of one was a small wad of photographs.

His mouth was definitely agape now.

“Can I help you with something?”

He was not staring at her thigh. He was not staring at her…

“Um – no.”

“Too bad,” she replied, hitching her skirt up a little as her fingers slipped under the silken edge of the stockings and retrieved the photos. She held them up for his inspection, spreading them as a magician would cards. Next there was a ‘click’ and a flame sprang to life from a lighter in her hand. She held the photos beside it, watching with curiosity as the ink began to burn. Laura let go as the pile caught alight. It fell to the floor where Bill suddenly sprang into action, stomping out the fire.

“Gods woman!” he muttered.

Laura ran her thumb over the lighter, snapping it shut. It was only then, as her delicate fingers traced over the engraving in the side of it that he realised that it was his lighter.

She flicked it open once more and began to play with the flame. “Item number two.”

It was pointless to ask how she had obtained it. “What do you want?” he said, watching her features flicker in the light. Her smile was sinister, but strangely alluring as she transferred one of his most precious possessions from hand to hand.

“Your signature – in blood,” she laughed, then shook her head. “Ink will do fine.”

“It’s not my death warrant, is it?”

“I’d need three signatures for that.”

Adama was never really sure what he signed. The print was impossibly small and comprised of words with far too many syllables.

“Cute signature,” she remarked as they exchanged items.

It wasn’t the look he had been going for, but at least it wasn’t in blood.

She slipped the document back inside her bag and then –

Then the Admiral’s breath caught in a mixture of fury and fright.

Laura waved his diary temptingly before his eyes. “You want?” she said.

Bill nodded quickly, reaching out for it.

“Take it from me.”

She can’t be serious.

She was deadly – serious.

Bill reached forward, hesitantly, but it was all too easy for her to clutch the book closer. He shifted forward in his seat causing her to stand. As she did, her skirt slipped back down. Adama wasn’t sure what was more distracting, seeing the edges of her stockings or knowing that they were there – hidden.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, Admiral,” she teased, skirting behind the chair as he advanced.

“Stop frakking around, Roslin.”

Adama knelt on the chair and reached over it towards her. Laura shook her head, inching backwards so that the tips of his fingers could only brush over her suit. “No.”

Bill leant against the back of the chair, stretching as far as he could towards the President. Oddly, she chose not to move, as if this act of torture amused her greatly.

He was about to reach the waistband of her skirt so that he could pull her closer and claim his journal when the ground beneath him shifted.

More correctly, the chair beneath him tilted.

Laura let out a yelp as she leapt out of the way. Adama and the chair crashed to the floor. This action threw the Admiral onto the ground in a roll. He finished, sprawled, facing the ceiling.

Ow, again…

His vision was consumed by light. It was death, it was life – it was the light fixture on his ceiling… Everything went black and he thought he could smell the musky cover of his – journal.

The object was right in front of his nose for a fraction of a second before she snatched it away. The Admiral rolled over, bruised and dizzy. Laura was standing near the still open hatch, his book clasped in front of her.

“Right,” he muttered, willing himself to his feet. He took a couple of uncertain steps forward, she mimicked him until she felt the cold surface of the wall on her back.

Laura let out an inaudible gasp as the Admiral approached faster than she expected. In truth, she hadn’t really thought this plan out that well. With no other option, she raised the book childishly above her head. Even in heels though, she could not top the Admiral’s height.

“Game over, Madame President,” he said, reaching past her.

Laura held the journal higher. His hand followed until he realized that he had her trapped against the wall. Bill’s face brushed against her hair and for a second he thought that he could feel the warmth of her skin on his.

She held tightly to the book as he wrapped his fingers around hers, pulling her arm down.

“Let go, Laura,” he said, trying to pry the object from her grasp while at the same time doing his best to ignore the scent of her. He could feel her pulse through her hand and the quick exhales of her breath – so close to his ear.

“Make me…”

Bill tugged harder on the book, but her fingers did not loosen so he took his other hand and ran it from her shoulder, down along her arm until he located her other wrist. He took it firmly in his grasp, pushing it against the wall and then sliding it up. Laura stretched out, whispering something inaudible.

To his surprise, he still couldn’t shift the book.

“You’re not very good at this,” she murmured, sliding the hand with the book behind her back which she arched to make room for it against the wall. This action pulled him even closer, his arm around her waist. “You should have tried this…”

Bill felt her hair slide over his cheek as Laura slowly turned her head. There she was, her Presidential demeanor shifted to something else. She was soft, and fierce. He knew this though he was barely touching her. All of a sudden her warm breath was on his face and her eyes were slipping shut, like the moon beneath a cloud and then two things happened at once –

The journal they’d been clinging to fell open on the floor and Laura’s arm reached out, followed by a solid ‘click’ as the door to the hatch was pushed shut.

The President opened her eyes, that sinister smile creeping back into her regal gaze.

“Probably best if we shut that door.” Laura noted that the journal was no longer in her possession. “This leaves one more item on the agenda, Admiral,” she whispered, the two of them inextricably close. Her eyes darted over to the bag now open on the floor where the upset chair was. There, inside the darkness, was a flicker of red.

“I sense another sacrifice coming,” he replied, more interested in the way her cheek curved into her chin.

“Indeed,” she whispered back. “It would have to involve getting these ones off…”

The Corridor Outside the Admiral’s Quarters

After a suspicious amount of noise soon after the President’s disappearance into the Admiral’s quarters, things had suddenly gone extremely quiet – except of course for the priest who was busy blessing the ratchets along the wall.

“What are you doing?” asked Dualla cautiously, as Billy handed her the fire extinguisher.

Billy rolled his eyes, digging into his pile of supplies. Soon after, Dee got her answer as she watched Billy calmly slip on a pair of earmuffs.

THE END

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