aworkoffiction

Some Call It Storytelling (But This is My Happily Ever After)

2007-08-03T00:23:11Z

Title: Some Call it Storytelling (But This Is My Happily Ever After)
Author: crazyvictoria/aworkoffiction
Rating: PG (I blame Laura and her language)
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Chapter: 1/1
Summary: Once upon a time, I built a cabin.

Author's Notes: Um, so, anyone who is living, really, knows that this is as AU as you get. Really AU. So, I'd suggest reading it as it is: a really ridiculous amount of fluff, with some angst sprinkled in for a bit. Because, honestly? I want Laura to have the happy ending that she and Adama deserve, sans the cancer, and the Cylons, and the Presidential/Admiral facades that cover up the beautiful people underneath.

This one totally wrote itself. I think Laura decided to play around in my brain for a while.

Some Call It Storytelling (But This is My Happily Ever After)

Once upon a time, I built a cabin.

I know. It’s a rough start, but I’ve never really been good at embellishing the truth. Or, as Bill calls it, ‘storytelling’, which he seems to find amusing—what with me being a teacher, and all. No matter.

So. I built my cabin. On a wonderful planet called Earth. This fantastic, real, warm planet called Earth, of which both my husband and I found together, and which (for the most part) has been welcoming to the forty thousand people we brought with us. Yes, I really do enjoy this planet.

Anyway, what was I talking about? My cabin, yes. Well, the miracle about my cabin is that I actually lived to build the damn thing. I was still recovering from round upon round of chemotherapy, yes, and I mostly just told Bill what I wanted him to do, but I built it. And after I was fully recovered (cancer-free, for the second time in as many years), I moved in to that rather large, roomy, perfect cabin.

Oh, and I married Bill, of course.

I know, I know, it’s corny, and cheesy, and contrived, but dammit, I am selfish enough (now) to admit that I deserve it. We all do. After the end of the worlds…well, everyone gets a shot at happiness, right?

I like to think so.

About my cabin, though—because that’s really what we’re talking about, here—it’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. With hardwood floors, and wood-panelled outer walls, and sliding glass doors with safety latches on them for the children (we have grandchildren, by the way—did I mention that?). It’s definitely more modern than my original upgrade-from-a-wood-shack idea on New Caprica. I love it. And its view upon the most gorgeous lake Bill could find.

I love him, too, come to mention it.

Anyway, as I said, we have grandchildren running through our perfect cabin (cabin that’s really more a lake house, but who’s keeping score?). Two from Kara and Sam, once from Lee and Dualla, and two from Lee and Kara, once they got their acts together. Three girls, two boys. Once giant mass of tears, and sound, and love, and mess. I’m sixty years old (damned if I look it). I have a feeling this is how my life is supposed to be, finally. I’m happy in this cabin/lake house of ours.

I reflect upon this as I gaze out at the smattering of stars above the lake, stars that had once been our home. Gods, it’s good to be on solid ground.

The solid ground in front of me is covered in sleeping children, actually, now that I'm thinking about it. You see, the thing about our home is that it’s really rather large, which tends to lend itself beautifully to company. Lots and lots of company. The Tyrols, younger Adamas, and Agathons can be (and are) housed here—squished, yes, but still—on occasion. And so I find myself with my youngest granddaughter asleep in my arms while her brothers, sisters, and cousins doze peacefully on the grass.

One by one, the children are plucked from their slumber by their parents and ushered inside, or to warmed-up cars, as is the case with the Tyrols and Agathons, until only my three-month-old Artemis remains nestled in my arms. I have grandchildren. Granted, I’m not related to any of them by blood, but they had been raised with the steady presence of Grandpa and Grandma, and accepted this without questions. It hadn’t even been my idea; Lee, after the birth of he and Dualla’s daughter, had been the one to ask if I would be the baby’s grandmother.

I am embarrassed to say that I burst out crying at the request. There are some things you just can’t help, I’m afraid. Bill says I’m just a big softie under my ‘power woman’ exterior.

And so here I sit, sand beneath me, child sleeping softly in my arms as I gaze out on our past. I sense Bill’s approach more than I see or hear it, and feel him lower himself behind me. Legs coming to prop on either side of my body and chest coming snug to my back, his chin rests on my shoulder as he looks down at the life in my embrace; his arms join mine around our grandchild.

Once upon a time, I built a cabin. Once upon a time, I married the man I loved, and together we filled our cabin with children and grandchildren, laughter and love. Once upon a time, I got my happily ever after.

The end.

…Or however you’re supposed to end these things.

aworkoffiction @ 2007-07-19T23:04:00

2007-07-20T05:13:16Z

Title: An Echo of Us
Author: crazyvictoria/aworkoffiction
Rating: PG
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Chapter: 1/1
Summary: "What do you miss?"

The glass lowered from her lips, and bright green eyes settled on their target.

“What do you miss?”

A soft, melodic voice that could both lull him to sleep in his rack and jolt him awake with its severity in the war room. He pondered her question.

“Sky,” he answered, matter-of-factly, and she looked shocked that he would miss such a thing. He had spent his life in space, he silently reminded her. She seemed to accept this by the nod of her head and the toss of her hair.

“I miss the city,” she said. “I loved the wilderness of New Caprica, but I do miss the city. Especially Caprica City, when the sun would go down and the lights would come on. Everything felt so…alive, at night.”

He mirrored her earlier nod, though he wondered how she could miss such a thing when they spent their lives in eternal night.

“There’s no fresh air in space. There’s a difference.” She quelled his line of thought and, not for the first time, he had the sneaking suspicion that she could read his mind. “What else?”

He thought.

“Water.” A look moved him to elaborate. “Years ago, whenever I was home, I‘d take the boys out to a lake we lived near and spend the day there. I miss water that you can swim in, that has life in it—not the recycled stuff we have here.”

Again, she nodded (this seemed to be their theme tonight), and he reached out to tuck a wayward strand of fiery auburn hair behind her ear.

“Architecture.” She took a sip from her drink. “Caprica had the most beautiful buildings. And I miss museums—I used to spend a good deal of my time at the Caprica City Museum.”

“Always the teacher,” he smiled. She would have taught his children well, in another life.

He would have married her, in another life.

“The opera.”

She stared at him.

“When you spend your life at war, you lose perspective of what beauty is. Of art, of anything other than cold metal and harsh lights.” He paused. “I guess I craved something that sounded sweeter than Starbuck’s singing.”

She laughed then, her voice full and rich in the peace and quiet of what he privately called their quarters. He smiled and took a sip from his drink.

“My house.” Here, she paused for a moment, seemingly taking stock of the memory her mind had conjured. “I used to have this little house just outside the city. I used to teach out there, you know. At this small school in the suburbs, and I lived five minutes away; the children would walk with me home—everyone knew one another around there. And everyone lived within walking distance of everything…”
she stopped again. “I adored that house. It was small, but it was mine. I had to sell it after I became the Secretary of Education. Had to live in the city like the rest of the politicians.”

He could see her, image painted vividly in his mind, walking home with the children she nurtured and loved as her own, tending to the flowers she no doubt grew everywhere, carrying groceries back to the one place she could call hers.

And then, as though it was a distant memory echoing back to him, her voice whispered through his mind.

“I’m thinking of building a cabin.”

He came back to the reality of their lives with her knowing gaze cast upon his face. She smiled. He reached for her arm lying over the back of the couch and tangled his fingers with hers.

He took a sip from his drink.

“We had a beautiful house,” he said. “The last one, anyway. Before Galactica--or the Valkeryie--actually, we moved around a lot. But our last house…I picked that out. That was a place to retire to, that house.” Another sip. “Carolanne got it in the divorce. I moved to the city.”

And then, there was silence. Both wrapped in memories of a time long past. If he admitted it to himself, he missed parts of his life on Caprica—but not the chunk of his life he spent in his marriage. He had loved his wife, yes, but he had also loved space; he did love his sons, but he also loved his job; he had loved his life, but he loved his Battlestar, too.

He did love Laura Roslin. He found no ‘buts’ to follow the idea.

Perhaps theirs was the kind of love that only came with the end of the world.

“I miss my bed.” Her quiet voice broke the heavy silence of their room. He stared at her. “I was angry about having to move to the city, even if I did grow to love it. I bought the biggest bed I could find and charged it to Adar’s office. That was the best idea I ever had…Gods, I miss that bed.”

Bill Adama knew, in his heart, that when (if ever) they reached Earth, he would do three things: marry this beautiful enigma of a woman, build her a cabin by the clearest lake he could find, and get her the biggest bed that would fit in that damn cabin.

He hoped she’d share it.

“Well, Madame President, I can’t give you much, but I could offer you a night’s stay on a semi-comfortable rack.”

Laura looked as though this really was a serious decision. Bill found himself torn between amusement and puzzlement at her contemplative face.

“Hm.” The sound escaped from closed lips. Perfect lips. “Would this rack include a certain Admiral?”

His amusement bubbled up to the surface and a laugh escaped Bill’s chest; Laura smiled at his joviality, squeezing his fingers warmly.

He arrested her glass from her, and, after standing (his back protesting and her legs cramped), led her back to his bed.

When the morning came, Bill Adama would roll over to find Laura Roslin had not disappeared as she had in the past. She would awaken to the smell of hot coffee that Bill had made, and she would remark that it actually tasted like real coffee as he climbed back into bed with her. They would dress carefully and depart his quarters with a kiss, and Bill would spend his day torn between his sense of duty to the Fleet and the overwhelming want to see the one woman who understood the burden of leadership.

But they would be reunited that night. And they would thank the Gods that they were allowed one more day to abstain from the pain of missing another thing.

Especially if that thing was each other.
___

AN: I really just wanted to know what they missed when I started this. What would these two people yearn for, after so long in space? I know the usual stuff (bubblebaths, real food, etc)--I wanted to know the more obscure things. Buuut I also knew that you could only describe the wind for so long before you start to get (for lack of a better phrase) long-winded. So. There it is. :)

aworkoffiction @ 2007-07-05T22:05:00

2007-07-06T04:34:56Z

Title: Things We Didn't Say, or The Irritating Vagueness of Fate
Author: crazyvictoria/aworkoffiction
Rating: PG for some swearing
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Chapter: 1/1
Summary: "His shoulders sank back into the seat as she spoke. Laura knew he had silently conceded to her pressing; the memory came to her of a time when neither could back down from a fight. Marriage, they had learned, was a compromise. " Bill and Laura take a drive.

The car sped down the freeway.

His speed usually matched his anger. She hated that about him, but also recognized that this particular habit existed in her, too. Still. It annoyed her. And she was in no mood to be annoyed.

“For Godssake, Bill, slow down!” She snapped. He pretended to ignored her. “Bill, slow down before you get us killed.”

He heeded her command, though his eyes remained glued to the road. She knew it wasn’t the military training in him that kept his gaze so averted to the pavement.

Goddamn hard-headed man…

“This is silly, Bill.”

So he was listening—she could see his eyes narrow slightly.

“Are you listening to me?” Oh, but she did love to push his buttons. Especially when he was giving her the cold shoulder.

“Yes, Laura, I’m listening to you.” His deep voice rasped, finally. She fought the urge to sigh at her…victory? It certainly felt like one, when dealing with him.

“This is stupid. You should have listened to me, and you didn’t. So can we just either fight this out, or fix it? You know how much I hate your silence.”

His shoulders sank back into the seat as she spoke. Laura knew he had silently conceded to her pressing; the memory came to her of a time when neither could back down from a fight. Marriage, they had learned, was a compromise.

Time to compromise, her thoughts pleaded at her husband.

“I don’t want to fight with you, Laura,” he eventually said. “I just…I wasn’t wrong, and you weren’t right. There is no wrong or right in this situation.”

Laura let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Gods, he could infuriate her. And then, with a simple tone to his voice, break down all her defenses.

That in itself was a little infuriating, actually, but the thought was quickly bypassed as she gazed upon his weathered face.

“Then why--?”

“To be with you. Not because I find your driving terrifying, or you incapable of doing something by yourself—believe me, I know you’re capable—but to just…be with you.”

She stared at him. This man, this hardened, warred, military man, insisted on driving his wife to work because he simply wanted to be around her. Unwittingly, tears sprung into Laura’s eyes.

“Oh,” she whispered. She didn’t trust herself to say anything else.

Times like these…it did not do to dwell on the past, Laura knew, but she had to wonder what would have happened, had she met this man in her youth. What they could have done with all of those years spent in their own separate marriages if they had wound up together in the first place.

But they were together now.

Bill slowly pulled the SUV to a stop as they arrived in front of her destination. Dazed, lost in her thoughts, Laura made to leave the car; Bill stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. She turned to face him.

“I love you,” he said, blue eyes meeting her green ones. “You know that, right?”

Laura felt a wave of emotion wash over her, and leaned in to place a gentle kiss on his lips.

“I know,” she whispered. Her hand came up to stroke his cheek. “I love you, too.”

Laura kissed him once more, before collecting her bag and shutting the car door behind her.

The echoes of their last exchange drifted blissfully in their thoughts as they went their separate ways.

Not so many stars away, President Laura Roslin looked up sharply from her cushy flight chair to the man sitting across from her. Had he just—

“Bill, did you say something?”

Admiral William Adama met her shocked gaze with a matching one of his own.

“No, did you—I mean, I thought I heard—” he stopped. Shaking his head, Bill lowered his eyes from her to the mass of paper sitting in front of them. “Never mind.”

Laura sighed, and tried to push the incident from her mind. They had work to do.

The memory eventually faded under piles of paperwork, but Laura Roslin couldn’t shake the strange, happy glow from her body all day.

End

Notes: Okay, the inspiration for this story came from the most random of places--an SUV. I'm not even kidding. I was driving downtown, spotted this bronze-coloured Nissan SUV and thought to myself, "If Bill and Laura had a car, they'd drive that one." And somehow, from that thought, this came out. I don't even know how my brain made the jump from that to this. But it's up to you to interpret away, ladies and gentlemen.
The line about "Stars" is a little...flowery, I won't lie. But I was thinking about what Ron Moore said on the podcast for "The Captain's Hand", about how he struggled with Laura's line about fighting for a woman's right to control her body. He said that he didn't like the sound of the line, how it came off clumsy and ineloquent (despite Mary), and that was my reasoning for keeping "stars" instead of something a bit more accurate (but awkward).
And no, they're not Cylons. One can only run that particular route once.

Also, if you lot are interested, I posted a new batch if icons at my icon journal with some AR-ness. And polka dots. So, um, you know, enjoy the explosion of colour :D

aworkoffiction @ 2007-07-02T16:10:00

2007-07-02T22:19:51Z

Title: The Truth About Saul
Author: crazyvictoria/ aworkoffiction
Rating: T. For now.
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Chapter: 1/1
Summary: "Together, Bill Adama and Laura Roslin waited, eyes never leaving one another’s, to die." Post Crossroads 2

She was surrounded by bars.

Gods, this was an unwelcome familiar feeling. The cold chill of the brig seeped past her jacket and into her skin; her breath hitched on the staleness of the air. The cot she sat on was just as hard as she remembered (though, this time, she had no cellmate with which to share her discomfort). No, all Laura Roslin had was Saul Tigh, who sat as supremely as one could from the outside of her cell.

It was really not supposed to be this way.

She had—surprisingly—greeted Tigh on the Hanger Deck when she arrived aboard Galactica. She’d been expecting Bill, but Tigh had explained to her that he would be along in a short while after a situation was dealt with in CIC. Laura had no reason to doubt this story—after all, Tigh was Adama’s second-in-command. She had blindly followed him through the corridors of the Battlestar without a hint of what their destination truly was.

He cleared his throat. Laura supposed the look he cast upon her was much more effective in its intensity when he had both eyes.

“This is for your own good, Laura.”

She blanched at the use of her first name.

“Colonel, do elaborate.” It was her best reprimanding teacher’s voice.

Tigh shook his head.

“You don’t—you don’t understand. I can’t make you understand. The things I’ve done, the things I’ve seen…the only way to keep this fleet safe is if you’re in here. If both you and Bill are locked in here.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Bill is in CIC, Colonel, and will not blindly follow an officer to the brig. He knows better than I.”

“I’m aware, Madame President. Trust me when I say that this will all go according to plan, your personal view on it or not.”

A weight settled heavily in her stomach. A plan. Who’s plan? And for what purpose? What could possibly be gained from locking both she and Bill in the brig? How in the name of Kobol did Tigh expect to protect the fleet with its leaders held captive in the goddamn jail?

“Colonel, I assure you that mutiny for mutiny’s sake will fail to accomplish anything in this fleet.”

“This isn’t mutiny, you stupid woman. This is…this is the only way. You—”

“Don’t understand, as you’ve said. Help me to understand, Saul.”

Well, she may was well level the playing field. To hell with formality when she was so clearly on the losing end of this situation.

“I…I served twenty years with Bill. Twenty goddamn years. Forty as a marine. I am an officer of the Colonial Fleet. I’m a Colonel. I…” His voice failed him, once again. Laura had never known Saul Tigh to be lost for words before.

And then it hit her.

“Saul.” She tried to stop him. She didn’t want to know. The human being in Laura wanted to pretend, to ignore her realization and continue on without this burden. The President of the Colonies had enough damn burdens. Laura Roslin was surely to suffocate under one more.

“I’m a Cylon. A sleeper agent. Part of me knows what I am, and part of me is still the same man I’ve been for sixty-odd years. And the part of me that is Saul Tigh knows that what I’ve been tasked to do cannot happen—this is why you’re here, Laura. This is the only way I can think to keep you safe. From me, and from the others.”

Her head spun. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. The final five Cylons were supposed to be strangers (well, the idealist in Laura supposed this, anyway), and not people she held near and dear to her. Especially not Saul Frakking Tigh.

“Saul,” Laura breathed. “Saul, who are the others? The other sleeper agents?”

Tigh seemed to consider this for a moment. Perhaps he really was having a battle between the Cylon, and the man.

Perhaps this was all a dream, and Laura would wake up on Colonial One to her morning call from Bill.

Or, perhaps not.

“I had thought this was their place to tell you…it really is, come to think of it. But if all goes according to plan, I’d rather you find it out from me, than from the scuttlebutt after it’s all done.” Something changed in Saul’s eyes. They gained a hardness, and glimmer of something she couldn’t quite place. He looked malevolent. “Madame President, it is my duty to inform you that I, Saul Tigh, along with Tory, your beloved aide, Chief Tyrol, and Samuel Anders—moron that he is—am a Cylon. And we’ve been charged with the task of killing you.”

He lunged. The bars crushed against his body, his arms outstretched so far that the tips of his fingers brushed her neck. Laura let out a cry and ducked away from him.

“Saul!” She pleaded, pressing herself into the farthest, darkest corner of the cell. “Saul! Stop!”

His gaze was wild, but something deep in his stare told Laura that Saul Tigh wasn’t in control. The Cylon in him—the number that he was—controlled the man grasping for her.

“Colonel Tigh!”

Oh, Thank Gods.

Bill Adama forcibly removed Saul’s body from the bars, throwing his friend to the ground and quickly prying the door of the cell open. He moved over to Laura, even as she protested that no, he shouldn’t come in here, that his friend was dangerous, that he was going to trap them both…

Gods, Laura Roslin really did have rotten luck.

Just as Bill had reached her shaking form, Tory Foster appeared in front of the cell and swiftly locked it. Her steps carried her over Saul’s battling body to the bars. She stared coolly at the two now imprisoned in the room.

“Get control of yourself, Colonel.” Tory spoke to Tigh, but her eyes were on Laura. She could feel the aide’s gaze plead with her to understand, to accept that this was how it had to be. Laura stared right back.

“Tory.”

“Madame President. I do apologize. Rest assured that this situation is only temporary.”

Laura didn’t like that word. What were they planning? Was this it? Was this how she died, how Bill died? Killed by Cylon sleeper agents in the brig of Galactica? It all seemed so utterly anti-climatic. So pointless a death.

Bill stepped in front of her.

“Explain yourself, Foster.” His deep voice rasped with the mistrust he had once bestowed Laura with, though she could tell he was disturbed by the sight of his friend fighting for control on the floor.

“In due time, Admiral.”

They fell silent. Laura gently pulled Bill back to stand beside her. He retreated, but she felt his hand unconsciously wrap itself around hers; a quick squeeze told her that he knew as well as she did their situation was quickly growing dire. Bill never felt the need to reassure her of anything. Unless, of course, he knew death was impending, and he had only ever done this as she lay dying in the Life Station. All in all, the act did little to comfort her.

Minutes passed. Eventually, Galen Tyrol and Samuel Anders entered the brig and flanked either side of Tory. Anders held a gun. Tyrol held a crowbar.

The three Cylons turned to face one another.

“Who is in control?” Tory questioned. The three merely shook their heads (though Laura noted that Tigh did this with some difficulty, clearly still battling between the human and the Cylon). Tigh looked for all the world like he longed to lunge at Tory. “I suppose it will be me, then.”

Matter of fact-ly, Tory took the gun from Anders and turned to level it through the bars.

“ We’re Cylons.”

Whether this was an explanation or a statement, Laura didn’t know. What she did know was that two seconds later, Tory had pulled the trigger.

It was funny. She’d never been shot before. She wasn’t prepared for the gut-wrenching pierce of the bullet as it tore past her skin and into her body, nor the instant head rush as her blood spilled from the wound. Beside her, Bill collapsed. She could see his own blood begin to mix with hers—when had she fallen over? Laura was sure she’d never felt her body hit the floor, but there she was, sprawled next to Bill with her breath coming out in ragged gasps. She slowly crawled the remaining distance between them and tried to say something, anything; do anything.

She couldn’t. Her vision was blurring, darkness closing in at the corners of her mind. She felt Bill slowly reach out and pull her to him, her body coming to rest against his as their blood continued spill around them.

Together, Bill Adama and Laura Roslin waited, eyes never leaving one another’s, to die.

___

Later, she would wake up to the sounds of the Life Station and her heart monitor beating steadily in time with his. She would discover that they both had been found by a passing officer that had heard the shot. Later, when both she and Bill were propped up in their beds (pushed together, by request, out of a necessity for closeness after dying together--as Doc Cottle had confirmed they had, indeed, died for a short time), they would learn that, after the four had fled the brig, they had locked themselves in the airlock and ejected into space. Bill would be dead set against a memorial for the four, and Laura would (for once) heed his wishes. The deaths of Colonel Saul Tigh, Chief Galen Tyrol, Presidential Aide Tory Foster and Nugget Samuel Anders would be announced to the fleet. Their true origins would remain a secret until the news of the near-assassination of the President and the Admiral was officially confirmed (due to their reluctance to admit their immortality, irrational though it was). Later, Bill would weep for the friend he had lost, and Laura would weep for the anguish she felt at yet another betrayal.

And later, much, much later, when they had recovered, Laura Roslin would lie awake next to Bill Adama in his quarters and thank the Gods that, this time, they were alive.

aworkoffiction @ 2007-06-27T14:53:00

2007-06-27T20:59:17Z

Title: Notes on a Scandal
Author: crazyvictoria/aworkoffiction
Rating: T. For now.
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Chapter: 1/?
Summary: "It was bound to come out sooner or later. He knew that. They knew that. Still, seeing one’s picture all over the fleet was not how he imagined the frakking thing going down."

One

It started out small.

A whisper here, a rumor there…nothing out of the ordinary for a fleet long bored with the enchantment of life in space. It was normal, even, for speculation to arise when so many lived off the next piece of gossip. She paid it no mind.

As long as it didn’t get worse.

It got worse.

By the time she caught on (which was, admittedly, rather late in the game—one had more important things to do as the President of the human race than keep up with the local scuttlebutt), it was past repairable. So very, very far past.

Well, at least the image of her pinned against the bulkhead with her legs wrapped around Bill Adama’s waist would quell the over-worked “did they-didn’t they” mill for five minutes.

*

“‘PRESIDENT ROSLIN ENGAGES IN HEATED NEGOTIATIONS WITH ADMIRAL ADAMA’ Well, for frak’s sake, they may as well say we’re fucking and leave it at that.”

Bill Adama liked to use the word ‘fuck’ when he was drunk. Semi-drunk. Well, tipsy, but that was rather beside the point. The point was that he was angry, on the front page of the fleet-wide newspaper, and tending toward the word ‘fuck’ for every adjective, noun, and verb that passed his lips.

It was bound to come out sooner or later. He knew that. They knew that. Still, seeing one’s picture all over the fleet was not how he imagined the frakking thing going down.

He ignored his own pun.

The phone buzzed.

“Adama.”

“We have two options.” Ah, the pin-ee herself. “We can ignore it, or we can address it.”

Gods, Laura Roslin had an uncanny ability to get to the point.

Sometimes.

Now was not one of the times he appreciated this quality.

“Laura-”

“Bill.”

Silence. He could almost picture her at her desk, feet propped up on the surface with her shoes discarded. She probably had a pen in her hand, flicking it absently back and forth—he wasn’t sure; the action depended wholly on her stress level. Well, at least he knew she was alone—one thing Laura insisted on was privacy. Especially when discussing their…affair? Was it an affair? Gods, he was too old for an affair.

“Bill?”

“Yes, dear.”

“How in the name of Kobol did we wind up in this situation?”

Ah, finally a question he knew the answer to.

Two

Well, it had started innocently enough.

There was a natural progression to their relationship. They had gone from completely mistrusting one another, to something akin to friendship, to a relationship built on honesty, trust, and (as of late) a degree of intimacy previously unknown to either.

Well, emotional intimacy, anyway.

And then, one day, something changed.

As corny as it sounded when the thought crossed his mind, that was precisely how it happened. It was silly (Gods, silly? What was wrong with him?), and confusing, and completely anti-climatic to anything he’d ever imagined—not that he had, of course, as those things were reserved for men less than Bill Adama to dream about—but it worked for them. It was the epitome of them.

It was fun.

Bill had long regarded the Quorum of Twelve as the biggest group of well-respected imbeciles that he had ever come across. And this opinion came after years of experience dealing with high-ranking military assholes and the occasional anti-war delegate from Gemenon, so he felt he was rather entitled to this assessment. Especially when said group required his presence after a sixteen-hour shift in the CIC. This development did little to better his opinion of the Quorum, and it continued to decline as what was supposed to be an hour long meeting (“Only an hour, we assure you, Admiral, should you cooperate.”) turned into a four hour long one-sided debate on the production of paper amongst the fleet.

Paper. Bill had no other thought than…paper.

Just as he prepared himself to attempt sleeping with his eyes open (he had to learn sometime), he caught Laura’s hand move out of the corner of his eye. She had deftly moved a piece of spare paper between them and was in the process of—

She could not be serious.

Well, apparently the President of the Twelve Colonies found paper as uninteresting as he did. A small tic-tac-toe board had appeared on the paper, with an ‘x’ drawn confidently in the left corner. He resisted an amused eyebrow raise. She really did shock him when he least expected it.

Bill decided to take the bait. He plucked his own pen from the table--quite glad he had gone against his thought of stabbing his eyes out with it in boredom--and drew an ‘o’ in the upper right hand corner. She proceeded (with the tiny glimmer of a smirk, he saw) to place an ‘x’ in the bottom center. He countered with an ‘o’ right in the middle of the board. Then, in a move most befitting of a scheming politician, she drew a triumphant ‘x’ in the bottom left hand corner. And Bill was stuck. Either way, Laura Roslin had just defeated him at tic-tac-toe.
He obliged her and drew his own ‘o’, then watched in fascination as she crossed off the final square, and draw a rather loopy ‘L’ across the board. He shook his head.
“Should’ve known.”
Laura raised her eyes to his and smiled. There was an unmistakable glint of mischief in her olive eyes.
“Thought you would have been better at this.” She whispered.
He couldn’t help it. He was twenty hours without sleep, stuck in a room full of politicians, and faced with the prospect of playing childish pseudo-board games with Laura for the next who knew how many hours. Perhaps the lack of sleep made him delirious, but he smiled a true, full fledged smile at her. If he had to be stuck with the Quorum…well, at least they could be stuck together.
An hour and a half later, Laura and Bill had filled two pages of spare paper with games and were in a dead tie. They had begun making small bets on the winnings—loser owes the winner a drink, loser owes the winner one book—in an effort to spice up the appeal of the game. They had also begun to write little notes along the side after their victorious whispers earned them glances from some of the debating members.
Bill found himself a little intoxicated by the whole thing. She was sitting knee-to-knee with him, after cleverly maneuvering her chair to allow her more discreet access to the paper, and he was riding high on the rush that came from winning a round against her. Not to mention the smell of her hair, which he refused to acknowledge in his conscious mind that he had indulged in. Somewhere in his brain—likely in the part that had picked up on the smell of her hair—Bill knew that they were dangerously close to crossing a line as their bets got more inventive. It was only after winning a massage (her suggestion) that he realized there were very few lines left to cross between them.
Of course, true to fashion, it was Laura that sealed the deal for him.
Alright, Admiral. Tie-breaker. Repeat of the day I gave you your rather prestigious role as Admiral of the Fleet. Only if I win.
Bill stared. He could tell her gaze was determinedly directed anywhere but near him. What was she doing? And, more importantly, what in the hell was he going to do?
Maybe it was the heat of the stuffy room, maybe it was the slight delirium he was in from sheer exhaustion, or maybe it was just an intense need to find out if she was good on her word, but Bill Adama found himself scribbling the word ‘Deal’ underneath her words.
Needless to say, he lost spectacularly in no more than twenty seconds.

aworkoffiction @ 2007-06-19T15:40:00

2007-06-19T21:52:32Z

Title: The Rulers of Immortality
Author: aworkoffiction/crazyvictoria
Rating: PG/K+
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Chapter: 1/1
Summary: "It was only at night, skin slick with sweat, bodies sliding against one another's, that William Adama and Laura Roslin's quest for immortality presented itself."

It was a conscious decision.

They made it together, as they had every decision since the genocide of the human race. They were the leaders. The rulers. The hope in a populace wrought with futility.

And no one was going to replace them.

The technology was radical and untested. They knew that, and did it anyway. It was the good of their people, after all. And the procedure would ensure them years extended onto their lives, with which they could use to (hopefully) save humanity. Or what was left of it.

They had no regrets.

It was only at night, skin slick with sweat, bodies sliding against one another's, that William Adama and Laura Roslin's quest for immortality presented itself.

Only then, when their spines glowed with the red-hot fire of Cylon blood.

aworkoffiction @ 2007-01-03T23:47:00

2007-01-04T09:54:00Z

Title: Finding Hope
Author:

aworkoffiction /crazyvictoria
Rating: PG/K+
Fandom: The X-Files
Chapter: 1/?
Summary: "Six months. They'd been running (though, as many would say later, they last thing they would do was run from anything) in constant for six months. Driving thousands of miles around the country they had once travelled so safely in. Never staying in one place for long, never stopping to simply climb out of the car and stop for a few moments to breathe, always avoiding and sneaking with one eye cast behind them."

They'd been driving for days.

And, when they finally ran out of land, they flew.

Six months. They'd been running (though, as many would say later, they last thing they would do was run from anything) in constant for six months. Driving thousands of miles around the country they had once travelled so safely in. Never staying in one place for long, never stopping to simply climb out of the car and stop for a few moments to breathe, always avoiding and sneaking with one eye cast behind them. It was funny--they hadn't even realized it was the twenty-fifth of December until one of the flight attendants took it upon herself to belt out a few carols with her her fellow co-workers at the stroke of midnight. They'd both stared at each other in quiet wonderment. Where had the time gone?

She hadn't tipped her hair colour yet, though they both knew that the time was fast approaching when she would have to wash one of the last remnants of their old life away. He was glad she hadn't gotten the heart to do it yet. He grown so used to the copper fire that lately had begun its descent far past the shoulder-length bob she had once kept it at that there was no way he could imagine it any other way. She, for her part, couldn't bring herself to change the familiarity of something as simple as the colour of her hair. Anything they could hold on to from their past, they did.

They mutually thought, though neither knew that other had, that the feeling of sitting next to one another on yet another airplane headed for God knows where was one of the things that reminded them of their past. Back then, he was usually to be found napping in his cramped ailse seat while she typed away one of many thousands of reports they were required to hand in at the completion of their escapades. Now, though, they sat contentedly side-by-side with exhaustion written all over their faces and a look of haunting in their eyes. They'd be gone for so long...

The plane landed at a half-past eleven Christmas Day. They left the big-bellied aircraft with their travel bags slung over their shoulders, hands joined more out of a subconcious yearning for another's touch than anything else. The warm, humid air of the island was the first thing to greet them as they stepped into the open terminal of the airport--of which shocked them at first, not being used to the thickness of their surroundings--and quickly settled itself into their skin and bones. Relaxation fell upon their bodies.

He had started to worry about her more and more, the farther from home they got. The paranoia, the stress, the never knowing where they would end up next, or when they would finally be caught. But, mostly, he knew it was the distance from a little boy in Wyoming that was slowly breaking her spirit. Their son...they'd be away from him for so long. He'd never gotten to say goodbye before she had been forced to hand their baby over to an adoption agency. It was to protect him, they both knew that, but it crushed them both to think of the son they would never get to raise.

But now, he'd fix that. He would. It was why he had finally brought her here--to stop running, to settle for a space of time longer than a few days. He'd contacted the Gunmen through channels not even she was aware of to tell them of his plans, and they had obliged as he knew they would. Everything was set up. It would work.

She slept on his shoulder for the duration of the taxi ride to their latest hideout. She'd been so tired lately, tried to hide it from him as best she could, but he knew. He always knew. He could read her like a book, and at the same time could continue to be suprised at the woman he still called his partner. But, with luck, she would react to their new home in precisely the manner he hoped she would.

It took over half an hour to travel from the airport to the house he'd rented for them. He paid the driver in cash (they never carried credit or debit cards anymore) and collected their luggage from the back while she stood in front one of the huge palm trees of the front yard. The only light along the street came from the twinkling Christmas lights that lined the shake-tiled roofs, and from the full moon's glow over the quiet neighbourhood; the combination cast a soft cadence over her world-weary body, striking him with the sudden thought that, no matter what, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. He'd known that ever since she'd walked into his office ten years ago and changed his life as he knew it.

It wasn't often, especially lately, that he got excited about anything. There was nothing to look forward to, nothing to truly celebrate anymore. But, if he was honest with himself, he could feel his anticipation building despite himself as he gently took her hand in his and guided her to the front door. He couldn't help it.

The house was dark. He slid the key out of the lock, and stepped in to allow her to enter the front foyer that he knew opened into the spacious living room. The lights came on a moment later as he found the switch by the door.

It was the soft, boyish giggle that turned her head. Tiny hands clapped together while chubby little legs bounced excitedly off of the carrier, eyes wide in delight at the sight of the two people his infant mind had been dreaming of while asleep. She inhaled sharply. He knew she was wondering if her own eyes decieved her; he was sure he would have, had he not arranged for everything himself. He watched as she took a few tentative steps forward with her hands shaking at her mouth.

"William," she breathed. The little boy giggled again, reaching for her. She dashed across the remaining space that seperated mother from son and quickly freed him from the constraints of his seat, pulling him into the most heartbreaking of embraces. "William!"

He chose to merely observe their first reunion, rather than join in. He had known how painful it was for her to make the decision to give their son up without even telling him, and he had known how hard it was for her to tell him of her actions when they were finally reunited months later. It felt only right for him to give them space while she recovered from the shock of holding her--their--son once more.

Teary, she rose from her knees with William safely ensconced in her arms to meet his gaze. Her eyes were filled with the sparkle he had missed so desperately ever since he had left after the little boy's birth, her face glowing with the kind of happiness he had seen so precious little of in their years together. He smiled.

"How-?" Her voice was cracked with emotion. She stared down in astonishment at the little boy now dutifully sucking on his fist, tiny spit bubbles popping around his mouth. He was smiling again.

"I contacted the Gunmen," he said, slowly walking over to the two to wrap an arm around her. "They set everything up."

He knew she wanted to ask more. He knew she wanted to know how they'd done it, how the couple in Wyoming had managed to let go of their adopted son, how the baby in her arms had gotten to the house without a trace of those after them in his wake. And he would tell her--in time. Not tonight. Not when everything finally felt so perfect.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, kissing the top of her head. "I promise."

She said nothing. She understood; they had so much to talk about, to consider--better to leave it when both were more alert and not so uninhibited. The mere presence of their son had somehow disarmed her usually iron-clad barriers, made her feel more soft and vulnerable, and at the same time strong. It was how he made her feel.

Silently, with his arm still wrapped around her, he guided them through the dark house into the bedroom. The arrangements he'd made included furnishing the small house with everything they'd need for the first few days on the island, and he was once again thankful for his forethinking when he spotted a crib sitting on the other side of the room. He knew, however, that there was no way he was going to seperate himself from his family--God, his family--for the night.

They said nothing. There was nothing to be said. They paused long enough to shed their slightly grubby clothes and climb into sleep clothes before lowering their son onto the bed. His thumb was stubbornly stuck in his mouth; they watched him blink slowly at them through thick eyelashes until his tiny eyelids drooped into sleep.

Silently, as gently as they could, they both slipped up onto the bed beside the sleeping baby. Though he still had his thumb in his mouth, William managed to cuddle up into his mother's breast and leave one hand reaching for his father. It curled protectively around his finger as soon as he'd reached for the little hand.

Fox Mulder smiled at his family in the moonlight. Slowly, careful not to wake William, he wrapped his arms around the two people who mattered most to him in the entire world. A moment later he felt her hand reaching for his in the dark while the other swaddled their son's back. This, he decided, was how his life was supposed to be. There was no other way it could be.

They slept.

aworkoffiction @ 2006-12-04T21:01:00

2006-12-05T04:01:56Z

Title: Saturday
Author: aworkoffiction/crazyvictoria
Fandom: Original Creation
Summary: "I had paid the man behind the counter--the same man that had been there for five years--with the credit card you had no idea I had. You spent so much time thinking about Her that I got quite a lot past you, my love. For instance, did you know that, while you pined away for the one you'd lost, that I'd gone out and slept with your best friend? Twice? He reminded me so of you--blue eyes, soft brown hair...but, he wasn't you, now was he? Not even you were you."

Saturday
You left me on a Saturday.

It was raining that day. Cold, wet, the kind of day where you wanted it so desperately to be warm while staring at the puffs of air coming from your mouth and nose. I'd woken up with the rain pounding against the windows I'd told you so many times needed reinforcing (and you, in your typical way, told me they were 'quaint' and therefore could be left alone). You were still asleep. I knew you were millions of miles away, in some old reality with Her by your side as you...God, I don't know...walked along the beach, hand in hand, as we had in so many of my fantasies.

We were out of milk. You were supposed to pick some up yesterday, but forgot--due, no doubt, to the fact that you were probably thinking so much of Her that I flew straight out of your little mind--so I, like the doting little companion I am, went out in gale-force winds so that you could have milk in your Cheerios. You and your Cheerios. You'd argue that they made your heart healthy, made you stronger. It's one of your few traits that I cannot chok up to your past with Her. It's just you.

It was you.

Five years you'd slept next to me in the same bed without truly realizing I was there. Five years I'd washed your pants, ironed your shirts, cooked you dinner, all without you looking up and saying, "Thank you". I'd loved you for the better part of ten years, and all you could do was grunt when I asked you to pass the carrots.

That morning, I threw on my old, washed-out jeans that you'd first kissed me in and headed down to the little grocery store around the corner. They were out of 2% (but hadn't been the day before--why hadn't you listened to me?), so I grabbed a 1% and a loaf of bread for sandwiches. I already had the honey-roasted turkey slices you loved sitting in the fridge, as well as the dijon mustard you insisted made the turkey's flavour "pop". God, but I did love that quality in you. Your stubborn ideas in the most ridiculous, mundane things.

I also hated that in you.

I had paid the man behind the counter--the same man that had been there for five years--with the credit card you had no idea I had. You spent so much time thinking about Her that I got quite a lot past you, my love. For instance, did you know that, while you pined away for the one you'd lost, that I'd gone out and slept with your best friend? Twice? He reminded me so of you--blue eyes, soft brown hair...but, he wasn't you, now was he?

Not even you were you.

You missed so much, love. You missed me adding that extra little kick to your nightly bourbon while you watched the evening news. You missed me slowly grow to hate you, while inside I wept and wept for the love you would not give me. Many times I would lay awake at night with your warm form beside me and cry, wondering why on Earth you settled for me. Each time, I came to the conclusion that you and I both know wasn't true: that you did it to hurt me.

God, but you were stupid, love.

I came home that day to your form convusing in bed, your fists knotted up in the sheets as your handsome face turned a sickening green. I watched your legs press themselves into our bed as though trying to lift your contorting body away from the sheets. Inside, I knew, your internal organs were fighting to stop the poison slowly leaking through your system.

For what seemed like the longest time, your eyes locked on to mine with the look of utmost betrayal written in them. Mine, for their part, I guess held only unashamed knowledge of your fate. I wanted them to reflect my love.

I killed you on a Saturday.

aworkoffiction @ 2006-10-21T21:45:00

2006-10-22T03:49:56Z

Title: Cops and Chicken Noodle Soup
Author: crazyvictoria/aworkoffiction
Rating: K+/PG
Spoilers: X-Cops and Arcadia
Summary: [MS] Post ep'X Cops'. Scully catches a cold, and Mulder decides that the only cure is some old fashioned chicken noodle soup...and a very special tape.

Cops and Chicken Noodle Soup

Crinkle.

Green grass. Rolling, lush hills. Tall fir trees and clean-cut hedges. The sun shining brightly, warming her skin and glowing her hair.

Mulder’s head on Marvin the Martian’s body.

Crinkle.

“What the—” Dana Scully sat up in bed, her hair sticking to her face and neck while she tried to calm her pounding heart. At least it hadn’t been a nightmare.

Though, she mused, The Jetsons had always creeped her out a little.

Her fingers brushed the hair away from her face as she fell back against the pillows. Her sinuses were congested. There was a rough pain in the back of her throat and her ears were ringing. Great, Scully thought, throwing an arm across her eyes, a cold.

Scully rarely fell sick. As a doctor, she kept herself in good shape, tried to eat right, and avoided any sort of contagious virus at all costs. Usually, this worked. Her and her partner’s office was in an out-of-the-way corner of the Hoover Building (out of the way? We’re stuck in the frigging basement), and so they easily missed any bug spreading amongst their co-workers.

But she hadn’t taken precaution for the last little while. She’d followed her partner to Los Angeles, followed him just as she always did when he got some hair-brained idea in his head that monsters or ghosts, or even aliens were running around loose in their country.

God, what in the hell was that crinkling noise?

Groggily, Scully reached over and tugged her bedside lamp on. The box of Kleenex she’d left by her bed the night before was spilled onto her bed sheets.

“Perfect,” she grumbled. Once glance at the digital clock told her it was twenty to seven; her phone would be ringing any minute.

5, Scully thought, gathering up a few Kleenexes, 4-she blew her nose loudly-3, 2-where the hell was her cough medicine?-1...

Sure enough, Scully’s phone rang shrilly from next to her bed. She clicked it on.

“Not today, Mulder.” Her voice was a good octave deeper than usual.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine.” Fox Mulder’s tenor floated over the receiver. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say a man answered the phone.”

Scully managed a chuckle that quickly turned into a hacking cough.

“I’m sick, Mulder. And it’s all your fault.” She blew her nose again.

“My fault? How do you figure that?”

“You dragged me through those dirty streets, looking for a werewolf of all things, at the latest hours of the night. And we were in that disgusting crack house—”

“Scully?” Mulder interrupted.

“Yes?”

She heard him take a deep breath as though preparing himself for his next comment.

“Do you have the Hanta Virus?”

Scully laughed so hard she dropped the phone.

“Mulder!” She coughed, picking up phone. “I’m sick and the only thing you can do is crack jokes?”

“Sorry, Scully,” he said, though she knew by the amused one in his voice that he wasn’t at all. “Oh, hang on—that’s my other line.”

“Mul—” Scully heard the click of the dial tone and took the opportunity to blow her nose again.

Men, she thought.

“Hey, G-Woman,” Mulder came back over the line. “That was Skinner. He says that under no conditions are you to come into work today.”

Scully’s eyebrows rose.

“Mulder, is that a hint of glee I hear in your voice?”

She could hear him laughing.

“He says he has a ‘special surprise’ for me.”

Scully dabbed at her running nose with a handful of Kleenexes.

“A surprise? Sounds exciting.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, I’m going to go and check out what he wants, and then I’ll swing by to see you. Chicken noodle soup sound good?”

She nodded before realizing her partner couldn’t see her.

“Yes. And Mulder?”

“Yes?”

Scully theatrically drew in a deep breath.

“Bring Kleenexes.”

His laughter was the last thing she heard before clicking the phone off and snuggling back under the covers.

Knock.

A hummingbird. Brown, furry squirrels. Bright blue jay birds and galloping deer.

Mulder’s head on Marvin the Martian’s body.

Knock.

“Huh?” Scully say straight up in bed. Her head and vision spun momentarily and she had to steady herself with a hand on her forehead.

“Whoa, there, partner.” A warm pair of arms gently eased her back down into the pillows. Scully blinked as Mulder’s concerned face swam into view.

“Mulder?”

“Yours truly,” he smiled. “You okay? You scared me for a minute there.”

“What? Oh, I’m fine. Just sat up too fast.” Scully reassured him with a smile. She glanced over at her bedroom door, where a bag full of groceries sat next to her partner’s bag. “What’d you bring?”

Mulder left her bedside to gather up his things.

“It’s a surprise. Hang tight for a minute while I get everything ready.”

He left, presumably to enter the kitchen. Scully propped herself up against the headboard to wait for Mulder.

Minutes later, he re-emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with a bowl of chicken noodle soup, some bread, a mug of hot tea, and a box of Kleenexes decorated with cartoon UFOs.

“Aren’t you just Mr. Mom,” Scully rasped. Her voice now sounded like a frog was lodged in her throat.

“This isn’t all.” Mulder carefully placed the tray’s legs on either side of Scully’s before retreating back out of the bedroom. He returned a moment later holding a videotape.

“Please tell me that’s not one of the tapes you claim not to own,” she said, spooning some of the soup into her mouth.

“It’s not,” Mulder smirked, “this, partner, is Skinner’s ‘special surprise’ for me.”

Scully cocked an eyebrow.

“Mulder, as much as I love to indulge your every whim, I have to draw the line at things involving Skinner, a videotape, and a ‘special surprise’.”

Mulder merely smiled and popped the video into the VCR attached to her television.

“Scully, you ever seen ‘Cops’?”

A groan eminated from her already raspy throat as Scully sank defeatedly back into the pillows.

“They can’t have it edited and cut already,” she protested.

“Sorry, G-Woman, no luck there. Skinner did say that you ‘well-represented the position of the FBI in relation to the paranormal’, if that makes you feel any better.” Mulder added, pressing ‘play’ on the machine.

“And you?” Scully took another spoonful of soup. She noted, with some flattered bewilderment, that he had taken care to cool down the scalding hot liquid with a few well-placed ice cubes.

“The biggest embarrassment the FBI has ever seen.” He grinned in a self-satisfied sort of way and started toward the bedroom door.

“Where are you going?” Scully asked, setting her spoon back down.

“To get a chair from the kitchen.”

She rolled her eyes. Mulder always played their relationship to the extremes—either overly affectionate, with their undercover mission last year, or completely hands-off, giving her the space she less frequently wanted.

That, or he didn’t want to catch her cold.

“Mulder,” Scully sighed, lifting the tray off of the bed and placing it on the floor, “get over here. I won’t get you sick.”

Mulder smiled at her. There they were, once again toeing that ever-thinning line. There were times when he felt absolutely sure that it was finally time to add that final element to their relationship. Then there were times that he would look at that line and see a wall erected in front of him.

Plus, he didn’t want to get sick.

Ah, well.

“You promise, Scully?” He grinned at her.

“Cross my heart.”

She watched him loosed his tie as he crossed over to the other side of the bed. He crawled silently onto the sheets, tossing the piece of cloth to the foot of the bed.

“I never wear a tie to bed,” Mulder said, at Scully’s puzzled look.

She laughed.

“Whatever floats your boat.”

They turned to the flickering screen across from them. It was surreal to watch themselves on the TV, bickering over Mulder’s belief that the Sheriff’s Deputy should have been hospitalized for werewolf bites.

For the next half hour, both Mulder and Scully were silent as the event of the other night unfolded in front of them, occasionally breaking the quiet of the room with a laugh (or, in Scully’s case, a cough).

“So, apparently, we're on the lookout for someone whose hair matches her fingernails-- bubblegum pink. That'd be a good color for you, Scully.” TV-Mulder said.

Silently, Scully pulled the pillow out from the behind her head and smacked Mulder full on in the face with it.

“OW!” Mulder cried, jumping. “What was that for?”

“For suggesting the ludicrous idea that I would ever wear the color pink.” Scully said matter-of-factly, smirking.

“Uh huh.” Mulder said. He quickly pulled the other supporting pillow out from under her and she fell, rather gracelessly, into him.

“Mulder!” Scully rasped as loudly and as offended as she could. He smirked.

“Geez, Scully, if you wanted to get this close to me, all you had to do was ask.”

She glared daggers at him.

“Fine, Mulder.” Scully pushed herself away from him to grab the pillow she’d hit him with. It landed softly into his lap, her head following it a moment later. “Consider yourself my own personal pillow.”

Mulder looked down at the bright auburn hair cascading over the pillow, at the perfectly shaped lips and petite nose, and decided he really didn’t mind.

“Whatever you want, partner.”

She grinned and turned her head toward the television set.

An hour later found both Mulder and Scully fast asleep, Mulder’s long body wrapped around Scully’s small one, one hand tucked over her side, the other coming across her stomach. His face was buried in her soft, cropped hair.

Scully’s breath came in small puffs from her parted lips. Her mind was millions of miles away, in a bright, open field with Mulder by her side as the walked, hand in hand, through the long grass. The sun warmed their skin and shined softly on their heads. She wore a yellow sundress and bare feet.

The time, Marvin the Martian had the good grace not to intrude.

Ring.

A beach. Warm sand. Lapping waves and an orange sunset. Scully in a pink sundress.

Skinner’s head on Fred Flinstone’s body.

Ring.

“What the—” Fox Mulder sat up on his couch. The phone sitting on the table in front him was ringing shrilly, turning the sinus headache he had into a full-blown migraine.

The troublesome piece of plastic made it into his hand and to his ear before Mulder realized he’d done it.

“You lied, Scully,” he rasped into the phone, wrapping himself into his blanket and standing in search of Kleenexes.

“I lied? About what?” Scully’s voice, he noted, was back to normal.

“You said you wouldn’t get me sick. And guess what?” Mulder snatched the box of Kleenexes off of the kitchen counter and made his way back to the couch. “I’m congested, I have a headache the size of a spaceship, and my ears are ringing. And my throat feels like raw beef.”

He fell back onto the couch and blew his nose loudly.

“Mulder?”

“Yes, Scully?” He heard her draw in a breath, as though preparing herself for her next comment.

“Do you have the Hanta Virus?”

Fox Mulder laughed so hard he coughed, thinking that later that day, he would invite his partner over for chicken noodle soup and a little daytime entertainment.

Of the video kind, of course.

aworkoffiction @ 2006-10-21T21:37:00

2006-10-22T03:45:22Z

Title: Terminal Spying
Author: crazyvictoria</div>
Rating: K+/PG
Spoilers: Shooting Stars (CSI), Sein Und Zeit and Closure (X-Files)
Summary: [Crossover: X-Files] On a late night in the Toronto airport, Catherine observes a redheaded woman and her partner, and wonders where her life has taken her.

Terminal Spying

It’s times like these when I wish I’d chosen a different career for myself.

Don’t get me wrong—I love my job. Besides my daughter, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I thank whoever’s looking out for me up there that I am where I am in my life right now. I have a great career, a beautiful daughter, a house to call my own, and a group of the greatest friends I could have ever asked for. I am blessed in so many ways.

However, I get the feeling those same people looking out for me up there took a vacation today.

Because it is nine o’clock on a Saturday night.

And I am stuck in the middle of the Toronto airport.

I sigh. After having spent the last week attending one of the Crime Lab’s mandatory Continuing Education programs—AKA spending my entire week bored out of my mind with a bunch of enthusiastic new investigators or painfully boring old hats—I just want to get home to my daughter and my bed.

But, I guess fate really, really doesn’t like me today, because I now find myself irreversibly stuck in Toronto. We were re-routed due to storms on the east coast, or something like that. It would have been so easy to ditch out on the conference to spend a wonderful week in New York, walking through Central Park or taking in a show on Broadway. But no, my professional responsibilities kept me indoors or at the bar (the latter less of a responsibility and more of a necessity).

God dammit, I bet they intentionally make terminal seats uncomfortable.

I gaze around to take my mind off of the eight hour wait in front of me. The gate I’m sitting at is located with a few others in a large cove in the most remote part of the airport—it took me a good ten minutes to find it after arriving in Terminal 2 about an hour ago. There’s a coffee bar to my left, completely deserted at this time of day—night?—and looking more than a little inviting. Coffee would be good to keep me awake. Not so good for keeping me calm and cool—not to mention keeping my bladder from filling every five minutes. I decide, like that idiot that I am, to at least wander over and check out the set-up.

I leave my carry-on underneath my seat—it’s no where near crowded in the secluded section of the airport I’m stuck in—and wander over to the bar. There’s little tables surrounding the counter bearing various coffee mixes and roasts, or flavorful tea bags in neatly done up baskets. I finger the bow of one the baskets absentmindedly.

It’s an impulse. I buy a cup of coffee.

Stupid, my brain chides at me as I make my way back across the room to my gate, stupid.

Ah, well. Better than soda, anyway.

You just keep telling yourself that.

There are four gates, with eight rows of eight seats for a total of two hundred and fifty-six plastic, hard-back hunks of discomfort to sit on. I know this because I have counted every single one of these seats twice. Who says I don’t know how to have fun?

I buy a book at the tiny little magazine stand. One can count airplane terminal chairs so many times.

What the hell is up with this book? Did I even read the back cover when I bought it? As if I need yet another reminder of the ‘strong, sinewy muscle’ that is missing from my bed! Sheesh.

Oh, my God, it’s only been an hour and a half. Kill me now.

Okay, that’s it. Time to people watch.

I dig around in my purse for the pair of sunglasses I always carry with me and slip them on. It’s funny, but no matter how many times I’ve repeated this same movement, a brief flash of Horatio Caine always invades my memory. I feel a thrill of unmistakable cool-ness rush through my body.

My sunglasses allow my to watch the people around me without them ever knowing I’m shamelessly spying on them. I do a quick scan around the concord to check and see if there’s a better spot to watch from. My seat at my gate gives me a perfect view of each open, airy area around me. The surrounding gates are no where near full—in fact, only a handful of people remain at this hour of the night.

The sky outside is pitch black, set off by the harsh, hushed glow of the lights illuminating the outer building and walkways. Inside, the typical blue-and-white lighting bounces off of the gleaming floor and allows reflections to dance in the windows.

That’s how I first see them. Their images reflected back at me through the panes of glass across the terminal.

She has light auburn hair, bobbed just above the area of her neck where it meets her shoulders. Her skin is pale—not sickly, but a creamy, smooth shade that sets off her vibrant hair and electric blue yes.

Soulful eyes.

There’s not question—she’s beautiful. In a slightly dark, weary sort of way. Her clothes look finely tailored, and (from what I can see) her nails impeccably kept in a no-nonsense, feminine kind of way. Her shoes seem to be an indulgence, with their high backs and pointed toes in the deepest shade of black. A professional woman’s weakness.

Suddenly, I feel like I want to know this mysterious woman.

Instead of making a fool of myself, I focus my attention on her companion. His dark, chocolate-brown hair is swept lazily and loosely back, tendrils falling in the most alluring way onto his forehead. He has deep, green-brown eyes and a slightly pouted lower lip. He is handsome beyond all measure.

His clothes, like the woman’s, are finely tailored. He wears a dark suit and deep red tie, with a long black overcoat he would no doubt shed if she got cold. His shoes are a polished black.

I shift. His raw, stifled sexuality is apparent even from here.

As I watch, the man sits himself down on the ground against the heater that lines the wall underneath the tall windows. With his back snugly against the warmth, he spreads his legs to allow the woman to crawl between them and rest her petite body against his strong one. She rummages around in the bag next to them to produce a newspaper.

They don’t, as I expected they would, take separate sections of the paper and disappear into their respective readings. No, as I watch, the man bends his knees to rest one arm on while his companion uses the other to prop her won arm on, each clutching a side of the newspaper.

I blink. This simple act of intimacy almost brings tears to my eyes. I haven’t been with a man where that level of comfort allows my to just relax and read the newspaper with him. It’s an incredible sight that I feel privileged to witness.

I think I’ll pretend to read my book for a while.

The clock strikes midnight. I life my head from where I lay across a row of seats at my gate to gaze around at the other travelers with me. There’s practically no one left in the terminal, save for myself, an old man waiting for his flight out to Miami, four University students asleep all over their seats and each other, and (my heart inexplicably leaps into my throat) the couple I had been watching from before. They hadn’t moved from their place against the heaters, but, I noted, the newspaper had been discarded and the woman was curled against her companion, one arm wrapped snugly around his waist. He’d obviously taken off his overcoat, because it was draped across the woman’s shoulders and spread over her small form. The coat blocked it, but I could see the shape of his arms wrapped around her body. Her head is pillowed under his chin, both of their chests rising and falling in sleep.

I smile. The aches in my back and side as I lye back down and stare at the ceiling. Something has been nagging me all night, tugging at the little part of my memory that I just can’t bring to the surface long enough to examine before it disappears again. I can’t fathom what on Earth my brain is trying to recall.

I knew I never should have had that coffee!

With a sigh, I haul myself off of my makeshift bed and start toward the bathrooms. I remove my sunglasses and stuck them on top of my strawberry blonde head—good God it’s bright in here!—as I enter the tiled bathroom.

Apparently, the Toronto airport has no hot water. I jump slightly as the cold water hits my dry hands. The soap, at least, smells good, and the bathroom is clean.

I scrub at my hands absent mindedly, not noticing another female presence enter the room even as I switch off the taps and turn to the hand blow dryer I know won’t dry my hands.

I stop.

She’s standing in front of me.

“Sorry,” she smiles with red stained lips and moves around my frozen body. I shake myself mentally. How stupid I must look, standing stock still with dripping wet hands, staring at the spot where she’d been a moment before.

“Excuse me?”

She has the most beautiful, throaty voice. I turn around.

“Yes?” Ooh, congratulations are in order for me keeping my voice steady.

“I’m sorry,” she laughs a little, “but you just look so familiar to me.”

Oh, my God.

I remember.

“The conference,” I say, more to myself than to the woman across from me. I wipe my hands on my jeans.

“Sorry?” She’s staring at my, eyebrows raised in question. I draw in a breath.

“You, uh, presented at that Forensics conference, right?” I ask.

But I already know, because I was front-row at that lecture on a case she had worked on involving a serial murder who worked at a year-round Christmas farm. It was the only presentation I’d truly found interesting in any way, shape, or form, not to mention disturbing.

“Yes, I did,” she says. “I believe you presented as well, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” I say, less shaken now, “yes, I did. On one of my old cases.”

She smiles again.

“I remember. Plushies, right?”

I smile despite myself. God, I’ll never forget that week.

“Yes. Yeah, that was interesting.” I adjust the glasses on top of my pony tailed head. “I remember your lecture—it was fascinating. I couldn’t get it out of my head for a few days afterward.

She smiles a haunted smile. I feel a twinge of guilt—if her lecture had followed me around for those few days, how long had it haunted her? How long would it haunt her?

“I’m Dana.” She holds a hand out and I take it. Her skin is soft, smooth, her grip professionally strong. I smile.

“Catherine.”

We stare at one another for a moment, and I can feel a wave of something akin to familiarity wash over me—over us. She gives me the smallest of smiles that lets me know she’s felt it, too.

Eventually, our hands release, the spell broken. I smile a half-smile. She returns it.

“I better get back to Mulder,” she finally says, though her blue eyes never leave my own.

“Mm.” I nod. I don’t have anything else to say.

“It was good to meet you, Catherine.”

Her eyes tell me she means it.

“You, too, Dana.”

It’s one thirty a.m. on a Sunday morning. They sky is pitch black, the concord still lit in a blue-and-white glow. The little coffee bar is closed. The University students waiting for their flight to Texas are long since gone and I lay, content, across the bank of seats I’d chosen for myself hours before.

I remembered about an hour ago that the woman I’d been watching all night, the same woman I’d seen so much of myself in, the woman who was curled protectively around the handsome man with her, is an FBI agent. That the man with her is her FBI partner, and that they specialized in the slightly bazaar and strange.

She’d fallen in love with her partner.

God, there was so much I’d seen tonight that I’d yearned for myself. He truly does love her—you could tell by the way he looks at her, by the way his arms encompass her in the most protective, intimate way.

I didn’t know that, later this year, he would be taken away from her just as she finds out she’s pregnant with his child. I didn’t know that he would die and somehow, miraculously, return in time from beyond in time for the birth of their son. I didn’t know that he’d disappear to keep them safe, and I didn’t know that she would have to make the hardest decision of any mother’s life. I didn’t know that they would be reunited under the worst conditions and forced into becoming outlaws in order to be together.

What I did know was that, at that moment, it was early on a Sunday morning. The sky was dark, the terminal silent, the ticking of a far off clock the only sign of life. The redheaded woman and her handsome partner slept soundly in one another’s arms.

The clock struck two.

“Catherine Willows?”

I jump at my own name and turn to see one of the airline workers standing next to me.

“Yes?”

The woman hands me a plain white envelope.

“I was asked to give this to you.”

I take the envelope, shooting a questioning look at the retreating attendant before sliding a nail under the crease.

I smile.

Inside is details of a hotel reservation for the night and a ticket back to New York. A typed note reads:

Next time it’s the Pyramids.

It’s times like this when I love the career I chose for myself.