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Down the hill. Across the bridge. Up the riverwalk. Skirt the edge of the government district, then left at the Atheneum. Five kilometers and change, three times a week; thirty five minutes and change if she pushes herself, fourty five if she doesn't. Just like the doctor ordered - if she bothered to see one. Enough to make the Caprican College of Cardiology happy, anyhow. She could just about make the run with her eyes closed if it weren’t for the traffic and Caprica City’s legendarily incautious drivers. Sure, Laura wears the stupid frakking reflective armbands when she makes the run at night, but what’s the point? It isn’t as if the cars actually yield around here.
Her face scrunches up for a moment as her mind catches on that thought and starts to drift in an unwanted direction. No, she decides, she won't entertain those thoughts now, so Laura pushes off hard from the next stride, breaking into a sprint along the riverwalk as if she can outrun her mind.
She keeps going as her breathing grows ragged, as her right foot protests (frakking tendonitis), as the ground starts to rise under her feet at the start of the hill she normally walks. She stops only when a piercing stitch forms in her side. She stretches. Breathes through it. Dwells on the sensation of it, letting it distract her from her thoughts.
She doesn’t actually like running. Hates it, in fact, but it’s efficient, and if she’s going to carve out the time for exercise, she might as well get it done quickly. It’s only occasionally, when she makes the run around dusk that she really slows down to take in her surroundings. It is pretty here, from time to time, she supposes, in spite of everything else.
She checks her watch. A new personal best.
She’s tried her old hotel room circuit on Colonial One - the series of squats and dips she'd picked up during Adar's first campaign - but it just doesn’t cut it. It’d been fine for occasional nights on the campaign trail, when the hotel gym was closed or she just couldn’t be bothered, but for the rest of her life, it isn't enough. Laura feels sluggish. Tired and indolent, despite the rigor and demands of her schedule. She misses the pleasure-pain of pushing through, of feeling tightly held together by her own flesh.
She knows the cure, but it’s hard to ask. But she’s the president, she can’t exactly be seen running through the halls of Galactica, so she’ll sneak into the gym at an odd hour (even if it smells like an old shoe) and hope for an elliptical.
When the Admiral happens to be there at the same time, she can’t help but smile. She watches him go at the heavy bag as she plods along on the treadmill. Watches muscles bulge and clench with every practiced movement. Trickles of sweat run down the back of his neck, the humidity turning the short hairs there to ringlets. Her fingers tingle with an errant desire to...
Laura’s disappointed at first, as he moves on to weights. That is, until she watches - his back arches like a bridge at the top of each rep. She could learn to love the bench press. She’s tells him she’s not sure how useful she can be when he asks for a spot, but the proximity sure is nice.
She’s not sure whether she’s running to or from anymore, and she supposes it’s out of her hands now. The ball’s in his court. He’ll play or he won’t, and she’ll go for her run.
A lap of Galactica’s less than a third of her old route from back then, but her endurance isn’t what it was, and the view doesn’t measure up, either. As she dodges around crates and crew members, she tries to pretend they’re cyclists and landscaping. Tries to imagine the bridge, the river, the lake.
From, she realizes with a sinking in her gut as she thinks of the Admiral’s face. That kiss. What the frak had she been thinking? From. She’s not sure she can outrun it and her cheeks would be burning with embarassment if they weren’t already running with sweat. At least, she thinks darkly, she won’t have to avoid him for long.
To. Her heart swells at the candle-lit glow when she swings open the hatch.