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A small circle of people paused at the junction of two corridors, hovering over the power struggle that they all knew was coming.
“Sickbay’s this way,” Cottle said in a voice that was, for him, fairly gentle.
“I’m going to my quarters,” Adama growled.
“Like hell. At least one of those cuts needs stitches, and you need to be evaluated for signs of concussion. You’re coming to sickbay and that’s the end of it.”
A part of Laura, albeit a deeply buried one, was smirking at all this.
“My quarters,” was Bill’s only reply.
“Fine,” the doctor conceded. “If you want to make an ass of yourself, that’s your business. But I’m only allowing it on one condition: you take her with you.”
Everyone’s eyes swung to Laura, even before Cottle had jerked his head in her direction.
Bill started with “I don’t think -” just as Cottle continued with “I won’t hear -”, and the stares of the little crowd of aides and assistants burned into the back of Laura’s head like so many frakking pinpricks. She raised her hand and took control of the situation.
“Admiral. I will walk you to your quarters.” She emphasized “walk you” as if to suggest that she would leave him alone upon arrival, although she had no intention of doing so. “Doctor,” she went on, “thank you. Everyone else, thank you.” She finished with a firm nod of dismissal, looking each of them in the eyes to invite no protest.
“Someone needs to stay with him -” Cottle argued gruffly. Laura’s hand, still in the air as though holding a leash, gave a quick gesture to cut him off.
“Thank you, Doctor,” she repeated, a little more gently this time. Cottle looked from her to the Admiral, frustration coloring his features. Finally, he pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his coat and turned, shaking his head and grumbling as he stalked away.
The little group disbanded; Laura leveled a withering gaze at anyone whose thoughts showed on their face. Finally, she and Bill were left alone.
"Let's go, Bill." She was annoyed with him, she realized, but a little in love with him too. Overt displays of masculinity tended not to impress her, but his tenderness for his crew was clear, and it touched her. He could never keep his people at arms' length, despite his promises to the contrary - he simply cared too much. He was strong because of it. There was a sweetness and a fatherliness to him that was never really hidden.
Taking his arm, she turned him toward his quarters, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.
A red drop spattered onto the floor at Bill's feet. Laura had slipped into his quarters before he could stop her, and she stood silently behind him now that he'd turned his back.
His hand left a red smear on the latch as he turned it. Red. He couldn't stop seeing it everywhere. Red beads dripping from his brow. A red halo of sun against a mass of auburn waves. Red fabric clinging to pale shoulders. A vision in red - and really, that was the problem that had frakked up this whole night, wasn't it? A vision he couldn't get out of his head, even when she was standing behind him, doubtless crossing her arms and waiting for her chance to dress him down.
He'd wanted to turn her away, but truthfully, he was just too tired. He'd had enough of fighting. Resigned, he turned.
Laura's arms were crossed, just as he'd imagined, but her expression was surprisingly gentle. Some of his weariness must have shown on his face then, because she released her tense posture and approached him. Her fingers were delicate as they grazed a cut on his eyebrow, and he tried not to flinch. He realized too late how bad he must've looked, to her and Cottle and everyone.
"He did a number on you," she breathed.
Bill huffed and turned away. In the head, he turned the water on roughly and shoved a rag into the stream. His face was a bloody mess, and he forced his eyes away from the mirror.
He was pressing the dripping rag to his forehead when he felt Laura's hands on him again, sliding gently up his back and his bicep. He wanted to push her away, but he knew he wouldn't. The rage and adrenaline and whatever else were receding now, and they were leaving a void in him - a black hole that dared him, much too late, to reconsider what he'd done.
"You need to sit down, Bill." She held the rag lightly against his brow as she guided him to a seat on the closed toilet lid.
He slumped forward to avoid watching her as she rinsed the rag at the sink and wrung it out. When he felt her fingers lifting his chin he looked up, but refused to meet her eyes as she began wiping the blood from his face, one hand cradling his jaw.
"I can do this myself," he grumbled. But he made no move to stop her, and she gave no indication that she heard him as she went about her task. When the rag was dark brown with blood, she rinsed it and began again.
He'd been happy to see her, at first. But standing by the ring with her, in that hangar full of noise and booze and swagger, his feelings had been overwhelming. The memories of New Caprica were so sweet that they ached in him, and the ongoing flirtation that remained, the smiles and the little touches, were a special brand of torture.
"Hold this," she instructed. She'd balled up the cloth and pressed it to the deep cut on his eyebrow, and he dutifully took over the task of applying pressure. Finally, peering out from under the rag in his fist, he met her gaze.
Her hands now free, she absently brushed a lock of wet hair back from his forehead. She wasn't smiling, exactly, but he knew her eyes well enough to read affection there. His insides turned to stone. After all his impulsiveness, he was expecting her to be angry with him. Her affection was a hundred times worse than her anger.
"You probably should've let Cottle give you those stitches," she remarked.
"Frakking Cottle," he grumbled under his breath. She gave him a severe look. From a drawer she pulled out a first aid kit, unwrapped a gauze bandage, and applied it to his forehead. Her touch was so sweet that he let himself close his eyes.
"You've got blood on your shirt," she said, disappearing back into his living space. As soon as her back was turned, frustration rose in him again, and he hurled the bloody cloth into the shower stall. "I'll get you fresh ones," she half-called from the next room.
He hated that she knew exactly where to look. The last time they'd been alone this way, she had just reassumed the presidency, and they'd agreed that a relationship between them would be untenable. Then they'd frakked like a couple of kids on their wedding night. The vision of red gave way to a vision of pale ivory skin under his hands. And under his lips.
He pulled off his soiled clothes and almost collided with her in the doorway, returning with a pair of clean tanks. Face to face, they both stood speechless for a moment.
Her gaze swept from the cuts on his face to his lips to his chest, avoiding his eyes. "I take it you meant all that," she said, "about not getting too close."
Something inside him softened at that, and it was hard to keep from reaching out to touch her. She was so close, he could smell the familiar fragrance of her soap.
"I meant it." His eyes grazed the lock of hair that his fingers longed to touch.
"Reminds me of a conversation you and I had once." There was a lightness to her tone, something almost teasing. She stood unflinchingly close. She was daring him to touch her.
"We were in agreement."
"Of course." She breathed the words so lightly, they were almost inaudible. Her eyes were fixed on his lips. He was bracing himself, fighting an internal battle and losing terribly. He was inches from giving in when she raised her hand, pressing the clean tanks to his chest between them. "Here you go."
His fingers brushed hers when he reached up to take them, and it only took him a heartbeat longer to fling his arms around her. With his arms tight around her shoulders, he pulled her into his bare chest.
She didn't fight it. Her lips were against his collarbone and he felt her arms wrap slowly around his ribs. With her palms against his shoulder blades, she embraced him back.
He was angry - that much had been clear even before he’d entered the boxing ring. He’d taken it out on the Chief, perhaps, but the real target of his anger was himself, and he’d invited the beating he felt he’d deserved. Only now, with Laura tucked neatly in his arms, there was a different anger to contend with. He was angry with himself for falling for her, and for letting her slip away. He’d loved her on New Caprica and he loved her now, and even the muscular deck chief couldn’t beat it out of him. This agreement with Laura - this commitment to professionalism - was the worst frakking deal he’d ever made.
He pulled back from her, holding her by the arms as he looked into her eyes. He had no idea what he was going to say, but something must’ve showed on his face, because the flirtatious sparkle in her eyes went out like a light, and her expression gave way to something earnest. He reached up and touched her face, then, his thumb grazing her cheekbone. He was tired of her playfulness, tired of her teasing. They’d agreed to be apart, and that should’ve been the end of it. But instead, that vision of red in New Caprican sun haunted him in every briefing, every phone call. If she wouldn’t set him free, he’d love her until it burned him up from the inside. Just the thought of it made him wish he’d stayed in the ring a minute longer. He should be blissfully unconscious on Cottle’s gurney right now. He should be relieved of command, for feeling like this.
He wasn’t aware of it happening, but he found himself holding her face in both hands, now, his fingers sliding back into that mass of red hair that was a flirtation all on its own. Her eyes were still trained on his - reading him, drinking him in.
And then he was kissing her. His lips were searching, but not insistent, and hers were pliant and receptive. She was so soft under his touch, seeming to melt into him, to give way completely. Her arms snaked around him again and he felt her body sway into him as they opened their mouths to each other, tongues pressed together. His hands were buried in her hair, and that was when time stopped, hovering between them like a shared breath. He moved in her, with her, covering her mouth with his and tasting her. She was sweet and warm and she felt like home.
They had to stop for air eventually. He took her in, a little dishevelled now with her dark waves tossed back and her light lipstick faintly smudged. She was beautiful, and he wanted to tell her, but there was a sadness in her eyes when she shook her head, and he knew she was right. There could be none of this. Her palms found their way to his face and she gave him a wistful smile.
“You've stopped bleeding,” she said, grazing his skin with her fingers.
“Thank you,” was all he could think to say.
She pressed a soft kiss to his lips, light and fleeting, and then she slipped away, just as she always did.