Disclaimer: "Battlestar Galactica," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Ron Moore, David Eick, SciFi, R&D TV, Sky TV, and USA Cable Entertainment LLC. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with "Battlestar Galactica," SciFi, or any representatives of the actors whose characters are involved.
Author’s Notes: I haven't written anything in months. My life got crazy and my muse fled the scene in search of cooler climes. I'm hoping I've managed to coax her back.
Many, many thanks to nnaylime. This is for her. She not only gave me the prompt and the encouragement to write this story, but did an incredible job of betaing it for me as well.
It was late. It was late, and it had been a chaotic day; a chaotic day that would inevitably be followed by a ceaseless string of increasingly chaotic days, and she knew that what she should be doing was sleeping.
She was not sleeping. She was wandering.
Wandering because it was late, and the activity on the Galactica was at a low hum, and if she had to spend the night here she might as well take what she could from the opportunity. The Colonial One was not a ship for wandering; slipping away to pace in the night was not an option. Aboard the Galactica, the wandering options were nearly endless.
Endless options, and it was late, and she was visited with a restlessness that she could not entirely account for.
It was a good night; that was certainly part of it. Good nights, good days – even good hours, if she was honest – were becoming rapidly scarcer, and while she hardly considered sleep to be a waste (on the contrary, how she cherished sleep without pain; treasured it and fed from it and thanked the gods every morning that followed such a gift), she somehow could not bear to give up her wakefulness this night.
It was a good night, yes. There was more to her restlessness than that, but she was far from eager to seek out a name for the remaining source.
Nor could she name a reason for entering the firing range. It was deserted, which didn’t surprise her. It was late, after all.
She wandered the chamber, taking in everything: targets, protective gear, weapons . . . She stepped closer to a cage filled with several varieties of guns, frowning slightly as she studied them.
“Have you ever fired a weapon, Madame President?”
The voice was sharp and cool. Laura started, spun around, and was met with an expression of unabashed satisfaction.
“Admiral Cain. I’d say you startled me, but I imagine that was your intent.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, Admiral, I haven’t. I’ve never been fond of guns.”
“Mmm. You’d rather the soldiers who guard you do so with their wits alone, then.”
Laura inclined her head slightly. “One can recognize the necessity of a thing without developing a fondness for it.”
“You should learn. It’s difficult to respect a president who can’t defend herself.”
Laura crossed her arms over her chest and took a step closer. “I’m not entirely defenseless, Admiral.”
Cain took two steps toward Laura. “I don’t think you want me to test that theory, Madame President.”
Laura was aware of the flush as it crept across her skin, was aware of the rapid pace of her breath, was aware of the stony coil of fear wrapping around itself in her stomach; a warm, living fear that counted itself amongst the other things that would not be named this night.
Because Laura was not afraid that this woman would hurt her. Not tonight, at least. Not here.
Flushed and breathless but still, unmoving, until Cain, blank, statue-like, gave a barely perceptible nod and took a step back. She watched Laura for a moment, then turned to one of the weapons cabinets. Opened it. Selected a pistol. Proceeded to load it.
She turned so smoothly to approach Laura that for a brief second Laura wondered if her lack of fear for her safety had been foolish. The moment was brief, but she knew that it had shown in her eyes when she saw the responding smugness in Cain’s.
Saw it for a moment, at least, and barely had time to feel her face grow warmer before Cain was putting the pistol in her hand; putting the pistol in her hand and then putting her own hands on Laura’s hips, spinning her around towards the row of targets and walking her forward.
Cain didn’t speak. Instead she put Laura into position as though posing a doll, every movement of her hands purposeful, every touch a command. Hands along Laura’s arms, straightening them. Hands at Laura’s shoulders, adjusting them. Hands against the sides of Laura’s head, directing it forward.
Laura was grateful to be facing away from Cain; grateful that her expression and her blush were at least partially concealed, though she could do nothing to mask the shuddering of her breath or the percussive rhythm of her heart that she somehow felt certain Cain could hear as well as she could.
“Unsettled” was the only name she was willing to relinquish to her feelings in this moment, and if “unsettled” did nothing to explain the reason why she was allowing this, why she didn’t simply speak a few quiet, stern words and walk off, well, there was a little too much going on right now for her to examine it too closely.
Once Cain had put her into an acceptable stance she came around from behind Laura, stood to Laura’s side, made sure each of Laura’s fingers was resting against the gun in exactly the proper manner. She was in a position to see Laura’s face now, of course, though if she noticed at all she gave no indication.
When her hands left Laura’s skin, Laura made a sound. A nameless sound; a sound that she would rather not claim as her own at all, let alone give definition to. A sound that caused her to clench her teeth and direct all her strength toward staying still, staying in position lest Cain feel the need to further adjust her. If she could not manage to disguise her reactions to the touching, perhaps she could at least minimize the cause of the reactions.
A quick, shadowy tug of a smile dusted across Cain’s face before she spoke.
Laura could hear her striding toward the back of the room, footsteps firm and purposeful. Could hear her opening something, pausing a moment, returning. She was wearing goggles now, and ear guards. She also had a pair of each in her hands. She placed the goggles onto Laura’s face first, then stepped behind Laura once more, reached out with both hands, one to each side of Laura’s head, and swept her hands through Laura’s hair, pulling it back, away from her face, tucking it behind Laura’s ears before setting the ear guards against them.
Laura’s already gritted teeth felt as though they were shoving each other back into her gums, but she had no time to contemplate – or to have to avoid contemplating – the reason for this; Cain’s voice sounded somewhat distant but her tone was unmistakable.
And Laura fired. Fired, and the bullet pulled far to the left, missed the target entirely. Before she could turn, Cain was behind her, pressed against her back; Cain’s arms were stretched along the length of hers, adjusting her once more, Cain’s hands giving her a sharp squeeze, their intent clear – she was not to move.
Again Cain stepped back, again she gave the order, again Laura fired. And so it went; Laura shooting, Cain correcting, her repeated order to fire the only word that passed between them.
Cain always knew when to reload Laura’s weapon, and that was a lesson she seemed wholly uninterested in teaching this night, nor did Laura speak up to ask more about the process; Cain would simply take it from her and do what needed to be done.
Gradually her grip became more sure, and soon she was hitting the target; not accurately, no, but consistently. When she shot a round that only missed the target once Cain took not just the gun from her but the ear guards and goggles as well.
“That was acceptable . . . for a civilian who hasn’t ever handled a firearm,” she spoke as she went about putting all the equipment back into place. “You can at least hit a target now. Maybe not kill it, but slow it down. That’s significantly more useful than cowering unarmed behind your guards.”
The bait may not have worked if Cain hadn’t used the word “cowering,” and Laura’s mind told her to reign herself in, but Laura’s heart was proud and Laura’s emotions were chaotic and unnamable and Laura’s body was turning, striding toward where Cain stood, back to her.
“Admiral, I don’t know what you – “
She got no further before Cain had turned, taken Laura’s wrists in her hands and spun her around, pressing Laura’s back against the wall and leaning into her.
“No,” she answered, her voice low and even; her bright, cold eyes staring directly into Laura’s. “You don’t know anything.”
“Easy for you to think that, isn’t it,” Laura whispered, though her voice was trembling as fiercely as her body. “Now let me go.”
“You don’t want me to do that.” There was a clear note of taunting in Cain’s voice now; taunting and challenging and . . . something else Laura couldn’t quite name. “Or don’t you even know that? Do I know more about you than you?”
Laura only pulled her wrist free because Cain let her; she knew that, even in that second, but she didn’t let it stop her momentum, and though her arms were tired her hand landed against Cain’s face with a crack that rang through the chamber.
“I have had to know more about myself than you could ever imagine,” Laura growled just before she surged forward, and the half-step back she felt Cain take as she latched her mouth onto Cain’s gave her no small rush of pride.
It was only a half-step, but it was an admission of surprise, and Cain was quick to compensate. She shoved against Laura, slamming Laura’s back against the wall, the pressure so intense and so sudden that Laura let out a moan of breath against Cain’s tongue, which had slid past her lips without hesitation and was now at work claiming its territory.
Her head was spinning, and suddenly she was certain that Cain’s weight against her was the only thing holding her up; that left to her own strength she would collapse in a heap on the floor. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and she was sucking on Cain’s tongue, sucking it greedily, and it wasn’t until she felt Cain’s hand moving under her skirt that she realized her own hands were curled at Cain’s sides, clinging to fistfuls of her uniform.
Cain broke off the kiss then, pulled back just enough to look into Laura’s eyes. The clarity of Cain’s eyes sharpened Laura’s focus, and for a second the world was no longer blurry at the edges. For a second she realized where she was – pressed up against the wall in the firing range with the Fleet Admiral’s hand up her skirt – and in that second, every possible ramification and every cry of protest crowded in her mind and circled round like a display, waiting for her to pluck one, any choice would do, anything to get her out of this situation.
But then there were Cain’s fingers. Under her panties quickly, deftly, and they did not hesitate, did not stop to survey the situation, because they knew what they would find: a wetness that made the entrance of three fingers an exceptionally smooth operation.
Laura’s head fell back against the wall, and she let out a cry that was resignation, a cry that was fear; a cry that perhaps wished that that was all it was, but was, in fact, more than anything else, relief.
She felt more than heard Cain’s sharp intake of breath, and Cain’s fingers inside her thrust roughly, powerfully, a move to get her attention as commanding as Cain’s other hand which was, without warning, clamped over her mouth, tightening around her jaw. Laura shuddered and stared into those clear, harsh eyes.
“You will be quiet. Do you understand me, Madame President?”
Laura nodded. Continued to meet Cain’s gaze. She was willing to accept that she was weaker physically and tactically, willing to accept that she had bypassed every opportunity to disguise how desperately she wanted this, even if it meant submitting to Cain’s terms – but gods damn it, she refused to flinch.
The moment was long and heavy and taut; it was still and quiet and then suddenly it was over and there was motion. Cain’s hand releasing her mouth, her arm dropping, forearm pressing instead against Laura’s chest, pinning her back to the wall. Cain’s hand between her legs beginning to thrust, setting a rhythm, quick and deep and steady and demanding.
Laura’s jaw clenched, biting back moan after moan as they tried to spill past her throat. She was certain that the strain showed in her eyes, certain she saw satisfaction in Cain’s as a result. Laura did not have to wonder why Cain demanded silence; she knew this game. If Cain had sensed that it was in her nature to remain quiet, she likely would have demanded outrageous verbalizations.
Her hips struggled to keep Cain’s pace, bucking greedily, grinding against Cain’s hand, her breath hitching and her jaw tightening every time Cain let her thumb brush against Laura’s clit.
This seemed to go on for hours, though Laura knew it could have been nowhere near that. The pleasure and the fear and the shame and the thousand unnamed emotions that gripped her were as exhausting as the physical exertion; pushing and struggling and straining against Cain’s solid hold and disciplined pace. She couldn’t begin to imagine how she would suffer for this tomorrow.
And then, at last, it was there; the touch of Cain’s thumb not fleeting this time; pressing and circling in a steady pattern that had Laura gasping and panting and biting down on her lips.
When she came she pulled Cain’s jacket so hard that she felt a give in the fabric, vaguely wondered if Cain would mend it herself or pass it off to someone else, casually tossing off a perfectly reasonable explanation for the tear.
Laura had one leg raised, hooked around Cain’s hip for leverage as she shoved herself against Cain over and over again, and now she knew that it was only Cain holding her up, just as she knew that Cain was practiced at this, that Cain’s fingers knew just how to keep her here for as long as possible, and she wondered if they had ever used that skill as a gift, to prolong pleasure rather than helplessness.
The effort of silence was as taxing as the strain of bearing the pleasure but she neither made a sound nor relinquished Cain’s gaze.
When she finally began to slow she leaned forward slightly, resting her weight against Cain just long enough to lower her leg and gain her own balance. Cain’s hand within her had stilled but not yet withdrawn; the arm across Laura’s chest had dropped and Cain held Laura’s elbow now, steadying her. It was that gesture that finalized Laura’s decision.
Her breath was still shallow and rapid but she was back in control now, and she instinctively knew that the order of silence had ended with her orgasm. She raised a hand to Cain’s shoulder, gripped it. Tilted her chin up. Spoke in a whisper that did not waver.
“I could reciprocate.”
Cain’s eyes did not waver from hers as she slowly withdrew her fingers, raised her hand, brushed it against Laura’s cheek, fingers leaving a warm, sticky trail in their wake. She stepped back then, and for just a second she looked away. When she turned back to Laura her mouth was twisted into a wry grin. It was the most unguarded expression Laura would ever see her wear.
Her final words before turning and exiting the room were quick, clipped, dripping with dark amusement and laced with something else, something Laura couldn’t quite name.
“You would think that.”