Bill/Laura + The Thin Man AU, featuring Kara searching for her missing husband (whom she may have murdered), a disgruntled lover who knows more than he's telling, and as much bootleg booze as possible
A couple of things about this prompt: If you’ve never readThe Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett, it’s written in first person. If that’s not yourthing, I’m sorry, but I’m going to be true to the source material. Also, I likethe idea of getting into Bill Adama’s head. I thought about writing it fromLaura’s first person POV, but the prompt wouldn’t have worked for that. Second,there are a couple of hard-boiled fanfics that I can recommend, the first beingfrom my dear prompter @okaynextcrisis – it’s thefirst chapter of her collection of prompts and you should read them all. Thesecond is Unstoppableand Unbreakableby @it-is-bugs and aussiegirl41, and I’ve reread these so many times. They takeplace in San Francisco during WWII, and there’s history and espionage and intrigue,but more importantly, there is a lot of sex. HUGE FAN. Third, I’m going to tryto make this a full-on story, not just a one-shot prompt answer. We’ll see howthat goes. Oh, and 4th, if you’re one of Dashiell Hammett’s heirs,please don’t sue me. I mean it with love.
I was leaning on the counter in a speakeasy, waiting forLaura to finish her drink and her conversation with a kid that she introducedas one of her students, when a blonde walked up to me.
“You’re Bill Adama?” she said, and held out her hand. I tookit, half to shake and half to pull her out of the way so that I could keep mygirl in my sights. This student wasn’t anymore a kid than I was, and I knew hewas just waiting for his chance to put the moves on the former Miss Roslin.
He was a good six inches taller than me and had a good 50 poundsof muscle in places where I didn’t, but I could still wipe the floor with this punk.That is, if my wife didn’t do it first. Either way was fine with me.
“You don’t remember me, but you used to work with my dad?Back when you did private security?”
Oh, right. Someone was talking to me. I looked down at thegirl. She was blonde, pretty in a nondescript way. Not the kind of dame you’dfind in a bar like this – everyone else was dressed to the nines and she waswearing trousers and a suit jacket that looked to be about two sizes too bigfor her.
“Your dad, huh?”
“Dreilide Thrace.”
Oh, that guy. He was a weird one. A musical genius, or so Iwas told, but a paranoid little shit who insisted that I follow him homeevery night from the Opera House. As if he held some sort of state secrets inhis book of piano music.
I played piano when I was a kid, and the only secret I cantell you is that quitting is the best part of the deal.
Well, second best. Every now and then, I’d find a piano andtickle the ivories, and it made Laura blush and giggle. She wasn’t much of ablusher, and I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen her giggle,so I’d take what I could get.
Speak of the devil. She sidled up next to me, sneaky asalways, and looped her arm in mine. “Bill. Who’s your friend?” Since I wasn’tthe one who’d been particularly friendly tonight, I kind of wanted to smartoff, but doing that usually earned me a night on the couch. Besides, herstudent was nowhere to be seen, and she was right here with me.
“Kara, Kara Thrace. I used to work with her dad.”
Laura’s eyes lit up, as they always did when I mentioned myprevious career. Sometimes I thought she married me just because of the storiesI told. Given the choice between spending a quiet night in front of a fire withme and Jake and sneaking out to investigate wiseguys and bust up crime rings, I’mpretty sure I knew which she’d pick.
Then again, we never had much use for quiet nights in frontof the fire.
Laura and Kara were talking, waving their hands and leaninginto each other like they’ve just been reunited after years apart, and it tookme a second to realize that they kept looking at me, expecting me to be payingattention. Laura raised her eyebrow. Damn, she always knew when I wasn’t payingattention. Worse than that, this time she actually wanted me to contribute tothe conversation. My whiskey buzz was wearing off, it was close to 2am, and Ididn’t give a damn about this Kara Thrace or her father, not when forgettingabout them would get me into bed with only a thin slip of satin and possiblyJake separating me from my wife.
“Do you remember him, Bill?’
Who?
“Sam, my husband. Well, he wasn’t my husband then. He wasjust a kid who worked for my dad.”
I remembered lots of kids who worked for her dad, shufflingsheet music and dusting pianos “Sure, I remember Sam.”
I’d remember anyone if it would get me out of thisconversation and home with my wife.
“So you know where they might be? Sam and my dad?”
I didn’t care if they’d taken a flyer to Tahiti, but Laurawas looking at me with those sharp green eyes of hers, and she wanted a realanswer. Hell with that, she wanted an adventure. “I don’t know, kid, but ifanyone does, it’d be your father’s agent.”
Kara practically jumped up and down, and I pulled Laura alittle closer to me to get her away from Kara’s flailing arms. Her dad had a certaingrace that came from years of sitting at a piano bench; his daughter…not somuch. “Yes, the lawyer! What was his name?” She furrowed her brow. “Sam…no, notSam, that’s my husband…Saul!”
Saul Tigh. That old bastard, he’d hate me for this. “Here’s a nickel, andthere’s a phone. Why don’t you give him a call?”
She took the coin from my hand and disappeared into the bar,and I was left with my wife. Which was just how I wanted the night to end. “Whatsay we go home?”
Laura pushed me away. “What say we take the case?”
Case? What case? Runaway husbands were a dime a dozen, yourstruly very much excepted. And Dreilide Thrace never seemed the type to stickaround for the long haul. This kid’s rotten luck and even worse taste in menwere no reason to stick around, especially since I could see that Laura wastired.
From what, I didn’t know, but she’d tell me eventually. “Youwant to sit down?”
“Yes,” she sighed as she eased onto a barstool. “We’regetting a little too old for this.”
“Speak for yourself,” I said, but the words didn’t have muchbite. “What do you say we go home and I put you to bed?”
“I don’t want to sleep, Bill. There will be a time for that,but it’s not today.”
Another round then. I waved at the bartender. Billy, a goodkid, he loved my wife. Not in a slimy way like that student who showed up outof nowhere and ruined a perfectly good night, but he loved her and was alwaysready to pour her another martini. He measured a double Scotch for me, thenmade a great show of mixing a drink for Laura, and if she’d been payingattention, she’d have noticed that it was just lime and soda water. Like Isaid, a good kid.
I paid the tab and we sipped our drinks. Laura hated it whenI drank too fast, or I’d have polished mine off in one gulp and taken her home.As it was, I was only halfway done when Kara came running back up to us. I halfexpected her to jump on Laura and yip her delight – she was even more of adumb, eager dog than Jake was.
“Mr. Tigh will see me tomorrow. Bill, you have to come! Youhave to help me find my husband!”
“That’s not my business anymore,” I said, politely ignoringthe pointed snort from the redhead beside me. “Saul’ll tell you what you needto know.”
She deflated on the spot, just for a second. Poor kid, Ididn’t even have the heart to tell her she had no business calling me Bill. “I’mstaying at the Biltmore on Grand with my mother. Will you come see me tomorrowto discuss the case?”
No.
“Yes,” Laura agreed.
Damn.
I gulped down the rest of my drink after Kara left. “Never thoughtyou’d turn down an invitation from a pretty girl,” Laura teased as I set myempty glass on the counter.
“Pretty,” I shrugged. “If you like them like that.”
She leaned in a little closer. “And how do you like them?”she whispered, quiet, like we were exchanging state secrets.
“Red hair, long legs, wicked tongue.”
“That’s all?” she asked.
“No.” I pulled her off her stool and tucked her arm in mine.“No, but it’s a start.”
Six senses prompt: Robin helps Regina grocery shop and organize everything and she ends up spilling her guts to him about her fears and sadness and he shows her that he wants to be there for her through it all no matter what.
Sort of not exactly the prompt, but here you go. Kind of M rated:
Of all the things that she thoughtwould send her over the edge, she never expected a bag of lettuce to be theculprit. She has her fridge sectioned out by date of purchase, and the lettuceshould have held on until the weekend at least, but she reaches in to grab ahandful for a sandwich…it’s wet and slimy and reeks of rot.
Dammit. She paid eightbucks for the organic spring greens, and that eight bucks is turning into ascience project in her fridge. She tosses the bag in the general direction ofthe trash and slams the door to the refrigerator shut. Another day of takeout inher office for lunch. If her medical bills don’t bankrupt her, her grocerybills are definitely going to do the trick.
She has several cans of soup and astack of leftovers, but she wanted a salad today. She’s given up enough overthe last few years…she at least deserves an organic salad when the mood strikes,with some goat cheese and that extra-fancy balsamic vinegar Emma brought backfor her from her week in wine country.
Just a fucking salad…is that toomuch to ask?
***
She’s digging through her vegetabledrawers, tossing zucchini that’s just a little too soft and red peppers that giveat the slightest pressure, when Robin makes his way downstairs. Good thing he’sfinally awake – she needs someone to read the expiration dates for thecondiments in the refrigerator door.
She doesn’t bother to reply to his good morning, just holds out a tub ofwhat she thinks is Greek yogurt for his examination. “Is this still good?”
“The morning or the butter?” heasks. Butter. Dammit. Where the hellis the yogurt? She tosses it on the counter and resumes digging through thefridge.
“I guess that’s a no for themorning. The butter, yes. Still good. Unopened, actually.”
“Great. Now where the hell is theyogurt?” She has her head and more than half her upper body buried in thefridge, until his hands come to rest on her hips and pull her back.
“The yogurt is on the floor next tothe trash can. Why it’s there, I’m not sure, but I’m guessing you have areason?”
She turns and slumps against thecounter, using her shoulder to nudge the door to the fridge shut. Just becauseshe’s having a meltdown doesn’t mean she needs to defrost her entire kitchen inthe process. “My lettuce is dead,” she says.
“My deepest condolences.”
“It’s not funny,” she snaps. It’snot funny to her, anyway, but she can tell by the way he’s holding his breaththat he’s trying to keep from laughing at her. “I just wanted a salad,” shesighs.
“So why the butter? Is that anAmerican thing?”
“No, it’s a blind thing. I wanted a salad, but the lettuce is rotten, and Ifigured I should see what else in the fridge is expired and just waiting topoison me.”
“Ah,” he says. She can hear thefaint whoosh of the refrigerator door breaking its seal and the chilly airmakes the hair on her arms stand on end. “Well, let’s take a look.” He startsgoing through her fridge with the same precision he treated her maculardystrophy, considering each item carefully before putting it back in its placeor setting it on the counter to be tossed.
“I don’t need you to do this for me,”she says. She’s being more than a little petulant, since she absolutely doesneed him to do this for her, but she resents like hell needing anyone to doanything for her as simple as making sure she doesn’t get botulism from thecontents of her very carefully ordered refrigerator.
“I’m here,” he says, “and I don’twant to be poisoned by expired lunchmeat either.” He’s always so reasonable.Most of the time, she appreciates it, but today, it’s irritating the fuck outof her. She’s tempted to make him a sandwich with the lunchmeat that she’s 100%certain is perfectly fine and then throw some organic lettuce sludge on top.
And, since he’s always so damn reasonable,he probably won’t even be mad at her.
The kitchen has gone quiet while shestood sulking and plotting sending her boyfriend through a round of what wouldmost likely wind up being painful diarrhea and possibly more than a littlevomiting. “What?” she hisses through clenched teeth.
“You’re mad at me.”
“I told you I don’t need help, andyou’re helping me anyway.” This might be the most ridiculous line she’s everused to provoke a fight in her life, but it comes out anyway. Yes, how dare hestoop so low as to help her? She should kick him out now before he doessomething really evil, like tell her he loves her.
He huffs, and her eyebrows shoot upin surprise. Of all the sounds she’s ever heard him make, and over the pastseveral months, she’s heard a lot, she’s never heard him make that one. It sounds just a little toomuch like her mother for her comfort. “Fine,” he spits. “If you don’t want myhelp, then I’ll go get dressed. I have to get to work anyway.”
Shit. She bangs herhead against the side of the fridge, muttering apologies that he can’t hear ashe stomps up the stairs.
“There’s another tub of yogurtbehind the eggs,” he shouts down from the landing.
She digs around until she finds itand pops the lid. A quick sniff tells her that it’s still good. She may not be able to have a salad, but at least shecan make something resembling a healthy breakfast.
After she apologizes.Out loud.
***
He’s still in the shower, so shesettles herself on the closed lid of the toilet and tucks his towel into herlap. The steam from the shower will be hell on her hair, but she figures thathe might be more willing to hear her apology if he’s naked.
She can hear him muttering tohimself as he slams the bottle of bodywash back into the shower caddy. On toplan B – she’s already showered this morning, but maybe he really needs to hearher apology when she’s naked. She hangshis towel back on the hook and strips down, tossing her robe and underwearsomewhere in the vicinity of the hamper.
He doesn’t make a sound when shepulls the curtain back, but she can see him well enough to catch him turninghis back to her. She steps in behind him and rests her hands on the smoothplanes of his back.
“I’m sorry,” she says. Again, noresponse, and she can feel his muscles tighten as he tries to ignore herpresence. She’s going to have to work a little harder for this apology. Fairenough, he’s certainly put up with more than he deserves from her over the lastfew months. Her arms slide around him to wrap around his waist, and she pressesher body more fully against him. “I’m really sorry,” she whispers again, thistime into the smooth skin of his shoulder.
He lets loose a sigh and relaxes,just a fraction of a bit, against her. “I know it’s hard, Regina, but I’m notyour enemy.”
She lets her hands drift lazily upand down his chest. “No, you’re not. You’re my best friend in this, and I’mgrateful. It’s just…Robin, it’s hard. It’s hard, and I’m scared, and I’m takingit out on you. And I really am sorry.” She kisses him, just where his neckmeets his shoulder, one of her favorite parts of the body she’s come to know sowell.
He still doesn’t turn to face her,but his fingers come up to tangle with hers and press them against his chest. “Youreally hate admitting that, don’t you?” he asks, and she can hear the humorcreep back into his voice.
“I really do,” she agrees, beforestopping to consider his words. “Wait, what? That I’m sorry, or that it’s hard?”
“Both,” he says without missing abeat, and she can’t help but laugh because he’s right. He finally turns aroundand pulls her close, and the water is beating right into her face, but she’snot going to complain because he’s got his face nuzzled into her neck, and whenhe’s kissing her neck like that, she suddenly can’t remember why a damn saladseemed like the end of the world to her.
“I’m sorry that it’s hard for you,”he says. “But I’m not sorry I’m trying to make it easier. And I’m not sorrythat I’m going to keep trying to make it easier.”
She shivers again, despite the waterthat’s just a little too hot for her taste. “You do make it easier. I’m just…notused to people doing that for me.”
He pulls away just a little bit, anda second later, she can feel the temperature of the water drop to something alittle less scalding. Again, taking care of her. “Maybe I just wish there weresomething I could do to take care of you for a change.”
Robin laughs. “You’re naked in the showerwith me. Sweetheart, I’m a simple man. That’s really all I need.”
“Really? Me, naked in the shower isall you need?”
“Well,” he says, his hands startingto drift from her waist to other, more enticing parts of her body. “It’s notall I need. But it’s a start.”
“Thank God,” she whispers before shecaptures his mouth with her own.
“I was thinking about this weekend,” Robin says. He pushesher mug toward her, topped off with the last of the coffee and just a splash ofmilk. Just the way she likes it.
She hums as she takes a sip. God, the man makes good coffee.In the three months they’ve been dating, her favorite barista at Starbucks hasbeen completely abandoned. Why pay a stranger to make her coffee, when she canjust roll over in the morning and nudge Robin instead? “What about thisweekend?”
“It’s my weekend with Roland,” he says, “and I thought…maybeit’s time he meets you?”
She stiffens and drops the mug on the counter with enoughforce that a few drops splash over the lip. Where’s the damn napkin? Shescrabbles her fingertips along the counter, only to come into contact withRobin’s hand.
“Relax, Regina. It’s a four-year-old, not the SpanishInquisition.”
She remembers Henry well enough at four years old to knowthat the two are really not thatdifferent.
Deep breaths, deepbreaths, and count to ten. She waits for the sound of her heartbeat to slowin her eardrums. “Are you sure we’re ready for that? Meeting Roland is a bigstep, and it’s not one that we can undo.”
“I thought we were both on the same page about movingforward? Meeting Roland is the next logical step.” She can hear a quick intakeof breath. “Or maybe I’m wrong?”
She laces her fingers through his and gives his hand asqueeze. “No, no, this isn’t about us. Please don’t think this is about us.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s about you, and your son. And your ex-wife. He’s your priority, andshe’s always going to be in your life. She’s always going to want to know thepeople that you introduce to your son. Are you ready for that to be me?”
Am I ready for that tobe me? It’s not about her, not really, but a little part of her is willingto admit that it is. Still, the adult, responsible Regina remembers Emma beingheartbroken over the end of her first serious post-Henry relationship, andHenry asking over and over again what happened to August. Being a sidelinespectator in that drama was hard enough; she doesn’t particularly want to takeon a starring role if it’s going to end badly for another little boy.
Still, she’s heard enough stories about Roland to want tomeet the little boy. She’s heard enough about Marian too, these last fewmonths, that she can’t help but be curious about Roland’s mother. What was itthat drove them apart? How can she not make the same mistakes?
“Yes,” he says, and he’s using his Dr. Locksley voice, calmand reassuring. “Yes, I’m ready for it to be you, and yes, Marian is ready tomeet you and vet you before you even so much as say hello to my son. Regina,this isn’t our first time around the block. Marian is living with someone; doyou think she would have taken that step without involving me as well?”
Given what she knows of Robin’s ex-wife, Regina would guessno, but given what she knows of parents in general (and shitty parents inparticular), she’s not going to volunteer an answer. “I just don’t want this tobe something you’ll regret,” she says.
He tugs her to her feet andwraps his arms around her waist, pulling her so close she can hardly breatheagainst the scent of him, warm and soft and slightly smoky. “Never going tohappen,” he growls, before his lips find hers.
***
In the few months they’d been dating, they’d had more than afew chances to talk about past relationships. She didn’t like to talk aboutDaniel; the pain of losing him in a car accident was still something thatweighed heavily on her chest. Robin, though, had no problems talking about thestart – and end – of his relationship with Marian.
Tell me what made youfall in love with her, she’d asked, and he was only too happy to answer.
“Her voice. She always sounded so decisive, so sure. When Imet her, I had no idea what I was doing with my life, and she always seemed tohave the right answer.”
I can relate, she’dthought.
Now, as she sits in the diner down the block from Robin’sapartment, she can only hope to find some small measure of that tranquility.She has no doubt that if Marian doesn’t like her, her relationship is over.Never mind the fact that the people of Watertown seem to like her just fine,fine enough to keep electing her to office – her entire self-worth rests on herboyfriend’s ex-wife’s opinion of her, and she hates knowing that no speech orcleverly argued union agreement is going to save her now.
Robin is running late, not an unusual occurrence given hiscareer choice, but she could really use a little pep talk right now, or evenjust the familiar weight of his hand on her back. Instead, she’s picking atwhat’s supposed to be a Caesar salad. Whoorders a Caesar salad at a diner, Emma’s voice echoes in her head, andRegina can’t help but acknowledge that Emma might have had a point all these yearsthat they’ve been having this argument.
“Who orders a Caesar salad at a diner,” comes a voice overher shoulder, and Regina can feel the slight shift in the air kicked up by apair of gloves and a purse slapped on the counter. “I’m Marian, by the way. I’mguessing you’re Regina? Robin said to look for someone in a suit eating asalad.”
Great, just great. Robin’s ex-wife is Emma. She holds out her hand in the general direction of the seatnext to her. “Regina Mills.”
The hand that shakes hers is firm and confident. “Marian. I’mordering a burger and fries. You’re welcome to some of the fries.”
They make small talk as Marian waits for her food, and it’snot exactly uncomfortable. Boston traffic, irritating coworkers, and schedulechanges that interfere with lunch. In another life, one where she didn’t feelthat every tiny tic of her muscles was being evaluated and graded, Regina wouldlike Marian. Makes sense, since she likes Emma just fine, and Marian seems tohave the same knack for saying whatever enters her brain at any given time,whether or not it’s appropriate. When her food arrives, Marian shoves half herfries onto Regina’s half-eaten salad, then takes Regina’s hand and guides themto the nice little pile of fries. “Ketchup or ranch?” Marian asks.
“Ketchup,” Regina answers automatically, and she can hearthe telltale squirt of a plastic bottle.
“On your right,” Marian says, and Regina is grateful thatMarian didn’t try to guide her to the plate of ketchup. If Robin’s ex-wife didn’tthink she was capable of finding a plate of ketchup for her fries, how wouldshe ever trust her to spend time with her son?
The fries are good, crispy and salty on the outside, andfluffy on the inside. She digs into them, mirroring Marian’s contented hum asshe works her way through a lunch that would surely send her mother into astroke if she could see it. Nothing unusual about two women having lunchtogether, except that Regina can practically feel the weight of Marian’s starewith every bite she takes, but she squares her shoulders and stabs her friesinto the last remaining bits of ketchup on the plate.
Is she supposed to speak first? Should she tell Marian herintentions? She has no idea what the proper protocol is here.
“You know, Robin and I were friends long before we starteddating,” Marian says, interrupting her train of thought, “and we were friendslong after we split up. It’s not easy, breaking up a marriage when you have ason, but it could be a lot worse.”
“I suppose,” Regina agrees, careful in her tone. Mariancould be giving her an opening or warning her to be on her guard, but since shecan’t read Marian’s expression, she has absolutely no defense here.
“He hates Thai food,” Marian says. “He hates football andHemingway.”
Well, who doesn’t hateHemingway, Regina thinks, but keeps her mouth shut.
“He can’t stand superhero movies because he thinks the plotsare completely implausible,” Marian continues. “I’m not saying that any ofthese things are a deal-breaker, but put together….he drove me nuts. Also, youshould hear him go off if the laundry stays in the dryer for a few days.”
Who leaves theirlaundry in the dryer for a few days?
“Let me guess,” Marian says, “you take the clothes out ofthe dryer and put them away immediately?”
“They get wrinkled,” she protests weakly.
“I guess they do. Well, if your laundry night isn’t Friday,maybe you could spare some time to play host to my son?”
“Maybe I could. And I can promise you, the sheets won’t bewrinkled.”
Marian laughs. “No. No, I don’tthink they will.”
***
It wasn’t much of a fight over the bill; Regina promisedthat Marian’s son would be perfectly safe in her home, wrinkle-free sheets andall, as long as Marian would let her pay for lunch. She’s just tucking her creditcard back into its slot in her wallet when Robin curls his arm around herwaist.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “No blood on the walls, so I’mguessing it went well?”
Well enough. “So,this weekend? Maybe we camp out in the living room and roast some marshmallowsover the fire?”
“He’ll love it,” Robin agrees. “His little feet are as coldas yours. A gas fireplace and some roasted marshmallows will be exactly what heneeds.”
A night in her living room with Robin, his son and a plateof chocolate bars, graham crackers and marshmallows. Maybe it’s exactly whatthey all need. If her white furniture gets smeared with little handprints, shehas a cleaner that can handle it.
She’s got experience with littleboys, after all. Tiny handprints are the least of her worries.
***
She worried about having a toddler in her house. Her furniture was all sharp corners and clean lines, just perfect to send a small boy running through the living room to the ER with a busted skull.
He’s a kid, not theMona Lisa, Emma said, perfectly content to let Henry loose in her livingroom and damn the consequences.
Henry managed to send her favorite pair of shoes down thedisposal – what kid does that – and ripher carefully chosen curtains right off the walls before Emma wrangled him intohis pack-and-play. She loved Henry, but she never let him out of her sightagain, not until the day he looked at his mother over Regina’s coffee table andasked her if she was raised in a barn, because only an animal would put herfeet on a table like that.
Roland, bless his heart, seemed much happier to curl intoher side. They’ve just finished Wreck-It Ralph, and she can feel him shiftagainst her as he lets loose a yawn. “Are you tired, sweetie?” she asks,reaching out to run her fingers through his hair. It’s thick and curly – he musthave his mother’s hair. She tugs at a tangle or two with a smile.
“Can I have a bedtime story?”
“Did you mum pack you some books? I’ll read one of them toyou,” his father promises.
“No, Daddy, I want Regina to read to me.” He keeps pleading,his voice trailing away as Regina listens to the stairs creak as Robin carrieshis son upstairs.
She used to love reading to Henry. Back when he was a littleyounger than Roland, reading to him was the way that she finally figured outhow to bond with the little boy, and every time Emma dropped him off at herhouse, he had a bag full of books. Emma was never much of a reader, and Henryused to complain that she didn’t read right. Too many arms being thrown aroundand way too many silly voices, especially right before bed. Somewhere in herguest room, she’s pretty sure she still has a stack of books that Henry hascollected over the years. It’s a damn shame that even the large print meant forlittle eyes is too small for her to read now.
Still, she’s not helpless, she reminds herself. She canstill read, even if it’s just a few words at a time on her iPad. She asks Sirito download one of Henry’s favorites and makes her way up the stairs, one handcradling her iPad and the other guiding her steps along the banister.Ferdinand, the sweet bull who only wants to smell the flowers – the perfectbedtime story for a little boy.
He’s out before she even gets halfway through the book, shecan tell, his breathing even against her skin. She eases him under the coversand tugs them up, then reaches out for Robin’s hand. He helps her off the bedand pulls her close. “See, easy as pie,” he whispers into her ear.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she chuckles, “but it’s nice toknow I can still do this.”
Robin presses a kiss to her forehead. “I never had anydoubt.” With that, he snaps off the light and leads Regina by the hand down toher bedroom. Not because she needs him to, but because he wants to keep hold ofher as long as possible.
It’s nice to know that she can still do that, too.
I’m dragging my feet on this one, but here’s a sneak peek...thanks as always to @okaynextcrisis for the prompt and @cassiopeiasara for the help.
They slipped into something of a routine in the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving, and it happened so easily she didn’t even notice it until she realized that she’d been at his apartment for dinner twice that week and was making plans for him to join them the following night. Barring late rehearsals or Grace’s school schedule, they ate together almost every night. He came to her classes at least twice a week, and she called Billy to schedule him to teach the 10am class so that she could put on her pointe shoes and let Bill torture her in company class on Mondays and Fridays. (Tory’s good will toward Bill had burned off quickly, and she had informed Laura in no uncertain words that she was NOT there to pick up the slack so that Laura could playact at being a ballerina again.) (Tory was about two steps away from being booted out on her ass from the yoga studio; the only thing saving her job was that she was the only one who could manage to make the books balance at the end of the month.)
She was sitting in his kitchen, stunned into silence at the realization that she spent almost more time with Bill these days than she did with Grace, but he kept talking as he loaded the dishwasher, not noticing the wide-eyed shock on her face as she realized that Bill was fast becoming a permanent fixture in her life. Again.
“So, next week is Thanksgiving and we have a lighter load before we go into tech at the stage. I was going to head up to New York, but Carolanne is taking the boys to her parents’ house in Ohio. I was thinking maybe we’d take a drive, explore some of Pennsylvania or maybe go down to Baltimore for the day and see the aquarium.”
Her silence finally registered with him, and he slammed the door of the dishwasher before he turned the full weight of his blue eyes on her. “Or we could just stay here. Up to you.”
“Bill, what are we doing?” The words left her mouth before she could stop herself.
“Well, I’m running the dishwasher. You’re overthinking things.” He flicked the knob on the dishwasher, and she flinched when the machine purred to life.
She furrowed her brow. Was she overthinking things, or not thinking enough? She was sitting on one of the stools at his kitchen counter, and for the life of her, she had no idea how she’d made the decision to come here tonight.
She liked to plan things. She liked to know the outcome before she set a course of action. She was careful, dammit, and here she was, alone in the kitchen with the most dangerous man she’d ever known while her niece read a chapter of biology in the next room.
“I don’t overthink things.” He didn’t dignify her retort with a reply, just a grunt as he dried his hands on the dishtowel “I don’t. I think about everything the exact right amount.”
“Ok, then,” he said. He slapped the towel down on the counter. “What are you thinking?”
“I think we should go on a date.”
What the hell? She was thinking about traffic to Baltimore and crowds at the Inner Harbor. She most definitely was not thinking about a date, so why the hell had she said it?
His eyebrows shot up. Clearly she wasn’t the only person in the kitchen surprised by what came out of her mouth. Whatever he was expecting her to say, he sure hadn’t expected that. Makes two of us, she mused.
“Okay...I’m not going to disagree, but where did that come from?”
Laura shrugged, helpless to take the words back and even more incapable of explaining herself.
“A date,” he repeated, more to himself than to her. “Well, we didn’t exactly date before, but,” he grinned at her, “I’m game if you are.”
Oh, God. She buried her face in her hands.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven. Nobody cooks dinner, and no teenagers. We’ll see if this date thing is a good idea. Unless you overthink yourself out of it?”
There was a better than good chance that she’d do exactly that, but she couldn’t take it back now. He’d never forgive her if she backed out. She might not forgive herself either.
“But that still doesn’t answer my question. Do you want to go to Baltimore or not?”
“I want to go to Baltimore,” Grace yelled from the living room. Oh, God. She’d heard that? And everything else? Laura silently prayed for the floor to open up and swallow her whole.
Bill wrapped his hands around her wrists and tugged her arms away from his face. “Dinner tomorrow and Baltimore this weekend.”
“I hate you,” she whispered.
“Funny way of showing it, Roslin.” He pulled one of her hands to him and brushed a quick kiss to her knuckles. “Now, go home. I have a class to teach in the morning, and you have a date to overthink.”
They were halfway home before Grace said anything. For the first ten minutes, Laura tried to convince herself that Grace hadn’t been listening, but as soon as she opened her mouth, Laura knew she was completely screwed.
“Sooo...you have a date tomorrow.”
Laura pressed her lips together. “We are not going to discuss it.”
“You’re going on a date with my teacher, and you think we’re not going to discuss it?”
Laura took her eyes off the road long enough to raise her eyebrow at her niece. “We are not going to discuss it. Some things are none of your business.”
“Well, yeah, but if he’s a bad kisser and you don’t want to see him again, and he takes it out on me, don’t you think that’s my business?”
First of all, no she did not. Second, she remembered only too well that Bill Adama was a good kisser. Good at other things, as she recalled, before she pushed those thoughts out of her mind. Third, she was going to have to have a long talk with Grace about kissing and...those other things, and she didn’t think it was possible to miss another person as much as she missed her sister right now. “You don’t need to worry about that,” she muttered.
“Of course not, because you worry enough for both of us.”
What was this, Dump On Laura Day? Bill was rubbing off a little too much on her niece for Laura’s peace of mind. “I don’t worry. I merely consider.”
“Yeah,” Grace said, sarcasm heavy in her voice. “You’re considering how to get out of going out with him tomorrow.”
She eased her foot on the brake, coming to a smooth stop at the last stoplight before she turned onto their street. “What I am considering is throwing you out of this car right now and letting you walk home.”
It was an empty threat, of course, and one she’d repeated countless times over the eight years she’d been Grace’s guardian. Maybe a little more serious this time; a walk in the chilly November night might do wonders for reminding Grace just who paid the heat bills in their house, and it would give her at least a good ten minutes to freak out in peace without a teenage audience.
Grace flexed her feet against the dashboard. “These toes are too valuable for mere walking.” At her aunt’s sharp glare, she tucked her feet under her, shifting in the seat so that she could give Laura her full attention. “But seriously,” she asked. “A date?”
A date. She hummed in response. The last thing she wanted was to discuss her love life with her teenage niece, but she was reminded of late-night phone calls to Cheryl when she’d talked about just that, going on and on about how much of an asshole her partner was, and Cheryl crowing that she liked him, and was he cute, and how did he fill out his tights, and Laura was in her twenties again and blushing furiously by the time she pulled into the garage.
“Lights out in an hour,” she said, “and I know you’re not done with your homework, so scoot.”
Grace lifted her hand to her brow in a mock salute before she gathered her bag from the floorboard. “Yes, ma’am.” She was through the door and into the house before Laura bothered to unbuckle her seatbelt.
“Shit,” Laura whispered. She banged her head softly against the steering wheel. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Random dialogue prompt: "What do you mean I have to wait?"
It’s a quickie, set in the Camelot arc after 5x02.
She hated not being in control of her environment, buteverything about Camelot seemed to be conspiring to keep her out of control.Emma was always a half-second away from spontaneously combusting, and shecouldn’t take two steps without feeling the weight of someone’s eyes on her,just waiting for her to make a mistake.
This Savior mantle was heavy indeed. She’d happily cut offsomeone’s right arm for just a few minutes to be Regina again. Hell, she’d eventake being the Evil Queen, if it meant that people would be scared enough toleave her alone. A couple ofwell-thrown fireballs that led to a nice, relaxing, peaceful bath would do wonders for her stress levels.
“I can’t take much more of this,” she hissed under herbreath. Pacing, always pacing, never quite able to stand still for a second tocatch her breath.
He caught her as her red velvet dress swirled against him,wrapping his fingers against her forearm and tugged her to face him.
“You’re doing fine,” he reassured her. Robin always reassured her. Even when he wasdying on the cold stones of the great hall, he held her hand and promised herwith his eyes that he’d always love her.
Didn’t he ever get sick of dealing with her problems? She’dhave run for the hills by now if he’d put her through just a fraction of whathe’d seen of her life, not lacing her fingers through his and trying to soothehim when everything about his body told him that he wanted to do the opposite.He shouldn’t be this patient, this gentle, this kind to her, when she’d broughthim nothing but trouble from the day they met.
Still, she wasn’t about to kick him out of their sharedchambers just because he refused to indulge her in what was rapidly shaping upto be an unholy temper tantrum. She rested a hand against his beard, leaningdown to press a quick kiss to his lips.
“I don’t know how you’re so patient,” she muttered. “I don’tthink I can take much more of this.”
“You just have to wait. I spent thirty years trapped in abubble frozen in time with your mother,” he reasoned. “A few weeks in Camelotis practically a vacation compared to that.”
“What do you mean, I have to wait? I’m a queen, and we don’twait.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her and looked down at his lap,where his hand was gently patting his thigh in an invitation for her to sit and…wait. Fair enough. She could wait forthe next disaster, knowing that it was nothing compared to dealing with hermother. She arranged herself in the chair, careful not to put too much of herbody weight on him, until he reached under her and heaved her fully into hislap. He pulled her against his chest, and she settled into him. Warm and strongand soft at the same time. How he survived against her mother with that tenderheart of his, she’d never know, but she’d always be grateful.
Even the dwarves, nomatter how much they bitched about her, couldn’t argue the fact that she was nomatch for the special kind of hell her mother brought. Camelot wasn’t either,no matter how frustrated she was, and she should be thanking her lucky starsfor small favors. She willed her legs to stop marking a quick staccato beat intime against his and tried to draw slow, even breaths.
“Thanks for putting up with me, “ she whispered into theheavy leather of his vest.
“Thanks for letting me,” he returned.He pressed a kiss to her forehead and lazily stroked her back until she fellasleep.
He held her, rocking slowly and steadily, until he wasconfident she wouldn’t wake when he stood. She barely moved as he made his wayto the bed, only stopping long enough to burrow his head a little more deeply into the crook of herneck.
He had half a mind to get her out of that heavy velvetdress, but it wasn’t too confining, and she looked so at peace as he tucked herinto the pillows that he couldn’t bring himself to disturb her. He stripped outof his vest, boots and trousers, leaving him only in the roughly knitted shirtand soft boxers that had somehow survived the trip from Storybrooke intact. Hecurled against her in the bed, tugging the comforter over them both as henestled into her back.
As much as he wanted to let her sleep in peace, he couldn’tstop himself from running his fingers through the weight of her hair. How couldhe put up with her? Robin couldn’t even begin to answer the question. How couldhe not?
How could he come to terms with the mistakes he’d made withMarian, without watching her come to terms with the mistakes she’d made withher loved ones? How could he find a way to forgive himself for his sins againsthis mother, without watching her struggle to do the same?
How could he be a good father to Roland, after everythingthat had happened with Marian and Zelena, without watching Regina be a motherto Henry?
And how could he not love her, when she loved him andforgave him so easily?
Truthfully, he’d loved her since the moment he saw hersprawled out on the forest floor, one arm still flung out to protect Snow fromthe flying monkey’s attack. For months, he’d asked himself how much longer hecould stand waiting for her to look at him with anything but scorn and anger,how much longer he could stand waiting to touch her skin and tease her, howmuch longer he could stand waiting to see her cheeks flush at his touch, orwaiting to hear her soft hums as he whispered to her in the dark of night.
He’d waited two lifetimes for her, and here she was, soundasleep in his arms. He could have patience enough for what she was goingthrough, patience enough for the both of them, as long as he woke up to herpressed against him in the morning.
Thanks to @okaynextcrisis for the prompt, @cassiopeiasara for the best writing advice ever, and @thisisamadhouse for the suggestion that they watch an old video.
If you need a refresher on where we left off, it’s here. And my apologies, but the sneak peek is buried somewhere in the middle. I added to it on either side. Needed some more flavor :)
The door was ajar when Laura arrived at Bill’s apartment, Grace in tow. She figured that was as good an invitation to make themselves at home as any, so she let them in and settled Grace on the couch with her homework before following the scent of toasting bread and basil into the kitchen. Sure enough, Bill was standing in front of the stove with a spatula in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other.
“Grilled cheese and tomato soup? You spoil me,” she said with a smile.
“Trying to,” he agreed. Bill handed her the spoon and asked her to taste the soup. She blew on it, then sucked it through her teeth. Not quite as good as her grandmother’s, but better by far than Campbell’s.
“Needs more salt.”
He waved at the spices lined up on his counter, and she eased around him to grab the salt and garlic powder for a little extra kick, trying hard to push back the memories of nights they’d fought over pasta or chicken, more pepper or salt, and whose turn it was to do the dishes.
His kitchen was small, but definitely bigger than the tiny excuse for a kitchen they’d shared in their studio apartment. She had room enough to step away from him as she stirred the pot, but she stayed close enough to lean her shoulder against his while she fiddled with the burner. Close enough that she could whisper that she liked her bread toasted, not burned, and feel his breath, warm against her ear, as he chuckled in response.
Close enough to know she was asking for trouble the longer she stood there. She dropped the spoon into the pot and took a few steps back, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. “I hope to God that’s not Kraft singles.”
“Muenster and cheddar. If you think I’d feed you Kraft singles, you don’t know me at all.”
She did know him. Not as well as she used to, but well enough, and that was the problem.
***
The easy peace in the kitchen was shattered the minute she and Bill brought plates, bowls and silverware to the living room. Grace was on the verge of a temper tantrum when Laura shoved a plate in front of her. Carbs and cheese? Her niece was horrified. Better she choke down gruel and weak broth than processed flour and saturated fats. “I’m not eating this,” Grace said, sounding every inch the petulant teenager. “Aunt Laura, you can’t want me to eat this. There are no vegetables!” Suddenly, Laura regretted demanding that Grace finish her biology homework before dinner.
“What do you call tomato soup?” Laura replied.
“Tomatoes are a fruit, not a vegetable. Everyone knows that.”
She opened her mouth to argue with her niece, but Bill cut her off.
“My house, my rules. You eat what’s in front of you, or you don’t get fed.”
Grace looked a little too pleased at the thought of skipping a meal for Laura’s taste.
“And if you don’t eat, you don’t dance.”
“That’s not fair!” Grace whined. “We’re not in the studio now.”
“Yeah, well, life isn’t fair. And when you’re in charge, you can figure out a way to fix that. Until then, you do what I say and you eat your damn sandwich.”
He’s changed. As Grace picked at her dinner, Laura studied her former partner. He’d always been loud and outspoken, but this new Bill - this Bill that was perfectly happy being in charge - he was a far cry from the egotistical partner she’d fought with all those years ago. She’d been forced into being in charge by circumstance and desperation, but Bill stepped into it without a second thought. Or without second guessing, she mused. She wheedled and begged and plotted to earn Grace’s cooperation - Bill demanded it without ceding an inch in return.
“If she’s not eating, I won’t either,” Grace muttered, bringing Laura’s attention back to her own plate.
“She eats. And she’s an adult, so she gets to make her own decisions.”
An adult. Ha. Still, she couldn’t argue with the fact that having Bill around, she’d started making a lot more decisions lately. Some good, some bad, but decisions nonetheless. All of which had led them to this moment in his apartment with a sullen teenager, a stubborn Bill, and a Laura with a full plate and a suddenly grumbling stomach. She picked up her sandwich and took a bite, pulling at melted strings of cheese and looping them over her finger before she sucked them into her mouth. Grilled muenster and cheddar, almost as good as the diner two blocks away from the Met where they’d celebrated the end of the run of every show. Grace could starve, but Laura had every intention of enjoying her sandwich.
They argued for a few minutes about clean-up, but Laura was firm. He cooked, she cleaned. Bill eventually backed down, mumbling that he wanted to show Grace something anyway. Truthfully, she could use a little bit of quiet with a mindless task - she was more than a little worried about Grace’s eating habits these days. She welcomed the few minutes it took to scrub off the charred remains of cheese and crusty soup - it gave her time to clear her head. Laura was always better when she had a task to focus on, and dishes were as good a task as any. By the time she had the dishwasher loaded to her satisfaction, the living room had gone quiet, the lights were out, and she could hear the angry strains of Prokofiev over the hum of the dishwasher.
Laura dried her hands on her jeans and threw the dish towel on the counter. Time to face the music, as it were. The lights were out, and Grace and Bill were sitting on opposite sides of his couch - one sullen teenager and one stubborn middle-aged man - both staring at the tv screen. She settled between the two of them, pulling Grace against her, and then turned her attention to what they were watching.
A much younger Laura Roslin flitted across the stage, ducking through set pieces as she searched for her Romeo. Laura drew in a sharp breath. God, was she ever that young?
Romeo stepped out of the shadows and extended his hand to his Juliet, and Laura couldn’t help but steal a glance at the man sitting next to her. Was he ever that young?
She wanted to stop the DVD, to stuff Grace’s books back into her bag and take them both home where it was safe and where she was nothing but a thirty-something yoga teacher. She wanted to escape, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the screen where Romeo was pleading silently for Juliet to love him. Juliet ran from him, then ran to him, innocence and passion and longing in a pas de deux that had been rehashed for decades before she and Bill had stepped into the roles. She’d seen the greats perform Romeo and Juliet, both onstage and on film, but she couldn’t deny that what she was watching made her long for the two of them to finally…finally…get it right and live happily ever after.
Juliet was her crowning glory at ABT, the role that had won her praise from critics and gotten her a promotion to principal dancer. At the time, she’d never thought much of the role, too busy critiquing every misstep in her performance to even think that maybe the critics had been right. Her Juliet was good. A slight stutter in a pas de couru was nothing compared to the raw emotion she saw on the stage, so she willed her mind to just shut up already and enjoyed watching the girl onscreen throw herself into her Romeo’s arms and kiss him as if her life depended on it.
I know the feeling, she admitted silently to her younger self.
***
“You were really good,” Grace said as they drove through the streets of Philadelphia.
“I hope so. They don’t usually promote you to principal dancer if you’re just ok.”
“No,” Grace insisted, “you were really good. Like, I remember seeing you in the Nutcracker and I’ve seen you dance around the house, but that…Aunt Laura, that was really good.”
The New York Times review was a lot more eloquent, but Laura would take that compliment any day. “Thanks, sweetie. But why on earth were you watching that?”
Grace wrinkled her nose. “Mr. Adama said that he wanted me to see what a real dancer looks like after she eats half a pizza.”
She wasn’t sure what to address first, the Mr. Adama or the pizza. Leave it to Bill to bend the facts to suit his purpose. “That’s what a real dancer looked like before she ate half a pizza. If I tried to do that variation after eating that much, I’d have made myself sick.” Mindful of Grace’s recent eating habits, she continued “But, every night after we wrapped, we’d all go out for a midnight meal. And when it was my turn to pick, I always chose pizza, and I always ordered my own and refused to share.”
“I bet Bill hated that,” Grace said, the hint of a sly smile in her voice.
Oh, so he was Bill again. “He did. But he didn’t touch my pizza because he valued his life, and because he knew I could only eat half, and he’d get the rest eventually.”
“Like your crusts.”
She grinned, picturing Bill in his kitchen, picking at the crusts he’d so carefully cut off their sandwiches long after they’d left his apartment. “Like my crusts.”
“It’s so romantic,” Grace sighed, and Laura couldn’t stop her eyebrow from shooting up as she cast a glance over to the passenger seat. “I mean Romeo and Juliet. True love. They’d rather die than be apart.”
Nothing romantic about a suicide pact, she remembered Bill saying all those years ago.
“Don’t get any ideas,” she said lightly. “True love doesn’t mean much if you’re too dead to enjoy it.”
Or too scared, she reminded herself. Grace didn’t answer, just continued looking out the car window at the safe, comfortable streets of their neighborhood. Not much risk of Mr. and Mrs. Reilly next door committing suicide to stay together. Far more likely that she’d hit him in the head with a rolling pin to get him to shut up about overwatering plants.
True love wasn’t about the grand gestures, she thought. it was about not killing the person you lived with, day in and day out, no matter how richly they deserved it. Or being grateful that they remembered that you didn’t like olives and cut the crusts off your sandwiches just to make you smile.
Grace was still such a baby, and maybe she needed to believe in the idea that true love, a terrible, destructive love that ended in death, was better than nothing. Having had eight years of nothing, Laura wasn’t in any hurry to destroy Grace’s dreams.
Given the choice, though, she’d take a man cooking her a crustless grilled cheese with muenster and cheddar and a cup of tomato soup over a teenager with a vial of poison anyday.
***
They slipped into something of a routine in the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving, and it happened so easily she didn’t even notice it until she realized that she’d been at his apartment for dinner twice that week and was making plans for him to join them the following night. Barring late rehearsals or Grace’s school schedule, they ate together almost every night. He came to her classes at least twice a week, and she called Billy to schedule him to teach the 10am class so that she could put on her pointe shoes and let Bill torture her in company class on Mondays and Fridays. (Tory’s good will toward Bill had burned off quickly, and she had informed Laura in no uncertain words that she was NOT there to pick up the slack so that Laura could playact at being a ballerina again.) (Tory was about two steps away from being booted out on her ass from the yoga studio; the only thing saving her job was that she was the only one who could manage to make the books balance at the end of the month.)
She was sitting on his kitchen counter, stunned into silence at the realization that she spent almost more time with Bill these days than she did with Grace. He kept talking as he loaded the dishwasher, not noticing the wide-eyed shock on her face as she
realized that Bill was fast becoming a permanent fixture in her life. Again.
“So, next week is Thanksgiving and we have a lighter load before we go into tech at the stage. I was going to head up to New York, but Carolanne is taking the boys to her
parents’ house in Ohio. I was thinking maybe we’d take a drive, explore some of
Pennsylvania or maybe go down to Baltimore for the day and see the aquarium.”
Her silence finally registered with him, and he slammed the door of the dishwasher before he turned the full weight of his blue eyes on her. “Unless you have better ideas. Or a better plan.”
“Like what, the zoo?”
He shrugged. “The zoo, eating leftovers in front of the TV, or a date.”
She snorted before she could help herself. “A date. That’s funny.”
Bill leveled her with a stare that told her in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t joking. “When was the last time you were on a date?”
“August of last year,” she replied without thinking. Better to not think at all about that night, and that man, and how eager she was to get away from him. “The guy who owns the building where I have my yoga studio asked me out a few times. I think Richard hoped that he could get me to agree to a lousy lease if he bought me dinner and paid me a few compliments.”
“Rookie mistake,” Bill said. He wrung out the sponge, trying to pretend that he was worried more about his cleaning supplies than he was about her answer.
“When was the last time you were on a date?” Laura asked, desperate to steer the conversation away from her love life. She didn’t want to know the answer, but she really didn’t want to keep talking about herself and her spectacular failures in the dating arena. He’d been married, even if it was to Carolanne, so he surely had a leg up on her in the romance department.
She hated to think about the legs he had on him the last eight years or so. He surely had enough recent experience to forget her legs wrapped around his waist. Her thighs twitched, muscle memory wanting to pull him close, but she wasn’t going down that path again. His muscles had memories too, and they sure as hell didn’t involve her, if his two sons were any indication.
“Depends on who you ask,” he answered, and it took her a second to remember just what she’d asked. Dating, right. She’d asked him about dating. He looked at her, again turning the full weight of his blue eyes on her. She was asking, and he was telling, and she was terrified of what he would say, because she knew without him saying a word that her legs and their kitchen played a large part in his answer.
He kept his distance, but a step to the left and he’d be settled against her, the way he used to be when they shared cooking duties. Bill kept eyeing the space she took up on his kitchen counter, and she had no doubt that to him, tonight was a date. She was wearing yoga pants and an old, beat up Eagles t-shirt, and he thought that they were on a date. One step, on hand on her thigh, and he’d move right past dating and into familiar, if ancient, territory.
Years ago, it had been threadbare tights and a beat-up sweater thrown on the kitchen floor, and the two of them gasping for breath after they’d stumbled to the hideous futon she’d hated from the first day she walked into his apartment.
At least she’d dressed up for Richard. She might be out of practice, but she knew that a date meant makeup and a dress and not hitching up yoga pants and arguing about crumbs on the counter at the end of the night.
“Good thing I’m not asking,” she muttered.
“Good thing. So, Baltimore? See some sharks, feed some fish? Or we could just stay here. Up to you.”
“Bill, what are we doing?” The words left her mouth before she could stop herself.
“Well, I’m loading the dishwasher. You’re overthinking things.” He flicked the knob on the dishwasher,and she flinched when the machine purred to life.
She furrowed her brow. Was she overthinking things, or not thinking enough? She was sitting on his kitchen counter, and for the life of her, she had no idea how she’d made the decision to come here tonight, or last night, or how she’d invited him to her house two nights before.
She liked to plan things. She liked to know the outcome before she set a course of action. She was careful, dammit, and here she was, alone in the kitchen with the most dangerous man she’d ever known while her niece read a chapter of biology in the next room.
“I don’t overthink things.” He didn’t dignify her retort with a reply, just a grunt as he dried
his hands on the dishtowel “I don’t. I think about everything the exact right amount.”
“Ok, then,” he said. He slapped the towel down on the counter. “What are you thinking?”
“I think we should go on a date.”
What the hell? She was thinking about traffic to Baltimore and crowds at the Inner Harbor. She most definitely was not thinking about a date, so why the hell had she said it?
His eyebrows shot up. Clearly she wasn’t the only person in the kitchen surprised by what came out of her mouth. Whatever he was expecting her to say, he sure hadn’t expected that. Makes two of us, she mused.
“Okay…I’m not going to disagree, but where did that come from?”
Laura shrugged, helpless to take the words back and even more incapable of explaining herself.
“A date,” he repeated, more to himself than to her. “Well, we didn’t exactly date before, but,” he grinned at her, “I’m game if you are.”
Oh, God. She buried her face in her hands.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven. Nobody cooks dinner, and no teenagers. We’ll see if this date thing is a good idea. Unless you overthink yourself out of it?”
There was a better than good chance that she’d do exactly that, but she couldn’t take it back now. He’d never forgive her if she backed out. She might not forgive herself either.
“But that still doesn’t answer my question. Do you want to go to Baltimore or not?”
“I want to go to Baltimore,” Grace yelled from the living room. Oh, God. She’d heard that? And everything else? Laura silently prayed for the floor to open up and swallow her whole.
Bill wrapped his hands around her wrists and tugged her arms away from his face. “Dinner tomorrow and Baltimore this weekend.”
“I hate you,” she whispered.
“Funny way of showing it, Roslin.” He pulled one of her hands to him and brushed a quick kiss to her knuckles. “Now, go home. I have a class to teach in the morning, and you have a date to overthink.”
They were halfway home before Grace said anything. For the first ten minutes, Laura tried to convince herself that Grace hadn’t been listening, but as soon as she opened her mouth, Laura knew she was completely screwed.
“Sooo…you have a date tomorrow.”
Laura pressed her lips together. “We are not going to discuss it.”
“You’re going on a date with my teacher, and you think we’re not going to discuss it?”
Laura took her eyes off the road long enough to raise her eyebrow at her niece. “We are not going to discuss it. Some things are none of your business.”
“Well, yeah, but if he’s a bad kisser and you don’t want to see him again, and he takes it out on me, don’t you think that’s my business?”
First of all, no she did not. Second, she remembered only too well that Bill Adama was a good kisser. Good at other things, as she recalled, before she pushed those thoughts out of her mind. Third, she was going to have to have a long talk with Grace about kissing and…those other things, and she didn’t think it was possible to miss another person as much as she missed her sister right now. “You don’t need to worry about that,” she muttered.
“Of course not, because you worry enough for both of us.”
What was this, Dump On Laura Day? Bill was rubbing off a little too much on her niece for Laura’s peace of mind. “I don’t worry. I merely consider.”
“Yeah,” Grace said, sarcasm heavy in her voice. “You’re considering how to get out of going out with him tomorrow.”
She eased her foot on the brake, coming to a smooth stop at the last stoplight before she turned onto their street. “What I am considering is throwing you out of this car right now and letting you walk home.”
It was an empty threat, of course, and one she’d repeated countless times over the eight years she’d been Grace’s guardian. Maybe a little more serious this time; a walk in the chilly November night might do wonders for reminding Grace just who paid the heat bills in their house, and it would give her at least a good ten minutes to freak out in peace without a teenage audience.
Grace flexed her feet against the dashboard. “These toes are too valuable for mere walking.” At her aunt’s sharp glare, she tucked her feet under her, shifting in the seat so that she could give Laura her full attention. “But seriously,” she asked. “A date?”
A date. She hummed in response. The last thing she wanted was to discuss her love life with her teenage niece, but she was reminded of late-night phone calls to Cheryl when she’d talked about just that, going on and on about how much of an asshole her partner was, and Cheryl crowing that she liked him, and was he cute, and how did he fill out his tights, and Laura was in her twenties again and blushing furiously by the time she pulled into the garage.
“Lights out in an hour,” she said, “and I know you’re not done with your homework, so scoot.”
Grace lifted her hand to her brow in a mock salute before she gathered her bag from the floorboard. “Yes, ma’am.” She was through the door and into the house before Laura bothered to unbuckle her seatbelt.
“Shit,” Laura whispered. She banged her head softly against the steering wheel. “Shit, shit, shit.”
James Duff wants Rusty to be the lens by which he tells stories. Ok, fine, Rusty is the lens in this little one-shot:
She navigated her keys around the black box in her hand. Even on the drive home, she was unwilling to drop the box holding her commander stars into her purse – afraid that if she let go of it, it would disappear before her eyes.
Commander Raydor. Isn’t that just a kick in the head?
Andy kissed and congratulated her, then complained in the same breath that he was stuck cleaning up the debris while she strolled off with her little black box. Well, he’d gone out without orders and put himself in harm’s way – again – the least he could do was sweep up the dust and shattered glass that remained of her office. And he did it, because he loved her and he did whatever he could to make her life easier.
Commander Flynn also sounded awfully nice, come to think of it.
She didn’t even have a chance to toe off her heels when she caught sight of Rusty on the couch. The tv wasn’t on, the stereo wasn’t playing; he was just sitting, staring out the picture windows toward the green of Griffith Park.
“Rusty?” she asked, hesitant to break his reverie.
He started, then came around enough to smile at her. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
After all this time, she knew her son well enough to know the difference between thinking and worrying. Still, she didn’t want to press him. As much as Rusty could be moody and a little bit selfish at times, he frequently tried to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he only let her in when he was ready.
She could empathize. It’s why they got along so well.
“Want something? Water, coffee, tea? Delivery?” She peered over her shoulder and saw one of her expensive wineglasses perched on a coaster on the coffee table, half-full of what was a very expensive bottle of Chardonnay. “Or maybe you’ve already got what you need,” she said, trying to hide the dismay in her voice.
Rusty looked at her, then at the glass. “I thought it would help. It doesn’t.”
She gave up on the kitchen and settled next to her son, tucking her feet underneath her on the couch and lifting his glass of wine to her lips. “It’s not supposed to help, Rusty. I drink it because it tastes good, not because I want it to make me feel better. If I want it to make me feel better, I don’t go near it.”
“You’d think I’d know that by now.”
She hummed in response. He did know it, which was why she was so glad that the glass was still full, and still cold.
“What’s on your mind? Anything you want to talk about?”
He shrugged and picked at the blanket that was bunched up underneath him. “Gus is moving to Napa.”
Oh. Oh, no. She didn’t expect this, no matter how many times she worried that Rusty and Gus found each other too quickly, no matter how many times she worried that they’d committed themselves to each other before they ever learned to be independent. It wasn’t her place to determine the pace of their relationship, even if the mother in her wanted to pull them apart and sit them in separate corners until they took a long, hard time to think about what they wanted.
Some mistakes were worth making. Some things that looked like mistakes weren’t. She knew enough to know that she was hardly in a position to judge.
Still, she was here, and that’s what he needed. She ran her fingers through his hair. “Are you ok?”
Rusty shrugged. “Don’t have much of a choice, do I? I can’t make him stay, if he wants to go.”
Her heart was ready to burst in her chest. On the one hand, her son was suffering, and she’d give anything to take away his pain. On the other hand, he was becoming an adult, and he was finally realizing that life, as ugly and complicated and perfect and hilarious as it was, happened no matter what he tried to do about it. “No, honey. You can’t. You can only tell him what you want, and hope it’s the same thing.”
“I don’t want him to go, it’s just-“ He stopped for a second and stared at her. “It’s like when he wanted me to move in with him. I want to be with him, and I want to have him around, but I don’t want to LIVE with him. He has his thing, and I have mine, and why do they have to be the same?”
“Rusty, sweetheart, they don’t. Being with someone doesn’t mean you stop being yourself. It just means that you share yourself with the people you choose to let in.”
“Yeah, but-“ he stopped himself for a second, and she could see the wheels turning in his head. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. Far be it from Rusty to hold back on the tough questions. “You live with Andy. You work with Andy. No matter where you go, he’s always there. Sharon, doesn’t that…I don’t know…get on your nerves?”
Sharon rubbed her index finger along the seams of the little black box in her hand. Her commander stars. She might never have gotten this promotion if she hadn’t been backed into taking over Major Crimes. She wouldn’t have Rusty if it weren’t his temper tantrum in the Murder Room during that first case. She wouldn’t be wearing the ring on her other hand if she hadn’t let her lieutenant’s sad brown eyes convince her to volunteer as his buffer at his daughter’s wedding.
And yet there they were, both of them leaving crumbs on her countertop and erasing old movies on her DVR in favor of sports or reality tv. She’d run her dishwasher every few days rather than nightly, and a bottle of laundry detergent might last longer than a month. She’d be in the condo, convincing herself every night that a glass of wine and a classical playlist was all she needed.
“He does get on my nerves,” she said lightly, and he snorted in reply. “Then again, so do you. Just because you love someone doesn’t mean that they don’t annoy the crap out of you.”
Rusty’s eyebrows ticked upwards. “Annoy the crap out of you? Wow, Sharon, such language. Are you sure you should be marrying that guy?”
She nudged his nose with her fingertips. “Listen, buster, you annoy the crap out of me too, and I still made you permanent.”
He nodded, acknowledging her point. “But still…how do you know that you want him around, like, all the time? How do you know you’re not going to get sick of him?”
“Haven’t gotten sick of him yet,” she said with a shrug, but he stared at her so intently that she knew he wouldn’t be content with a flip answer.
If there was one thing she hated, it was giving relationship advice. For so many years, she didn’t have a leg to stand on in the matter, and now that she had Andy…well, she was still so baffled by how easily they worked that she was terrified to tell anyone else to judge their relationship by a standard she still couldn’t believe she measured up against.
“I know you hate to hear this,” she said, and he sighed almost as a reflex. Sharon fought back a smile. “I know you hate to hear this, but relationships are different when you’re young. You still have the entire world ahead of you, and you’re still trying to figure out what you’re going to be. Who you meet now may not be who you want to sit across the dinner table from 20 years from now.” She snorted. “God knows I can attest to that.” She shook her head, trying to clear the picture of herself and Jack seated across a cheap pressboard table with Emily in a high chair between them.
“But-“ Rusty prompted.
“But,” she continued, “when you get to be my age, you realize that the world has more behind you than it has in front of you.” She fidgeted with the black box in her hand. “Sure, there may still be some surprises, but at the end of the day, who I am is who I am, and where I am is where I’m going to stay. And who Andy is is who he’s going to be. And between the two of us, it works.”
“So, does that mean you’re settling for him?”
Settling? For Andy? For the man who couldn’t let her walk by him without reaching out to touch her? For the man who sang softly under his breath when she woke him up in the middle of the night, tossing and turning about Philip Stroh? For the man who argued with her when he thought she was wrong, but still brought her a cup of tea every afternoon, just because he knew she liked it?
For the man who ran across the street and faced down a bomber to keep her safe?
“No. It means that for whatever time I have left, I want to spend it with him. It means that when I go to work, I get to see him right outside my office. It means when I come home, I know he’ll be there. It means that I’m at the point in my life where I can’t imagine wanting anything else. And it means that I hope you find someone who makes you feel the same way.”
Rusty nodded, still a little bit unsure. “But Rusty, if you’re not ready for Gus to be that person, that’s ok. Only you can decide if it’s right for you.”
“And if Andy up and moved to Napa, because it was a good chance for him?”
“Then I would go with him. Without a doubt and without reservations. And if I up and moved to Napa, he’d do the same.”
She took another sip of the wine that had started to warm. “But if that’s not where you are with Gus, then that’s fine too. Nobody says you have to make these decisions at 20. Or at 30. It will all work out when it’s supposed to – you just need to be at a point where you’re ready for it.”
Rusty leaned over and kissed her cheek, so quickly that she almost didn’t feel it, then shot up from the sofa. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she said to his retreating back. He was in his room with the door closed before she could drain the last sip of wine. As she put the glass back on the coaster, she heard the door open behind her and Andy’s keys and weapon hit the table in the entryway.
“You’ll never guess what I found in one piece,” Andy said.
She laid the black box next to the empty wineglass and turned to smile at him over her shoulder, her commander stars forgotten when he leaned down to kiss her. As long as Andy came home to her in one piece, she didn’t really care.
Are you still taking prompts for Six Senses? If so, could you do one where Regina's vision is getting worse and Robin tries to comfort her and reassure her he's not going anywhere.
I am so behind on Six Senses prompts, but here you go! Thanks @sometimesangryblackwoman for the advice :)
She’s not used to havinga house full of noise, but Robin’s son…even if she can’t see him, she can hearhim from a mile away. She’s lost count of all the times Robin has remindedRoland to use his inside voice. She doesn’t think he has an inside voice, but she’s not going to tell Robin that.
Roland has adjustedpretty well to spending weekends with Regina. He likes the big house – so muchmore room than his father’s townhouse in Boston – and he likes trying to climbthe apple trees in the backyard. He likes camping out in a nest of pillows inthe living room while they watch movies in the evening, burrowing againstRegina as she inches closer and closer to the big-screen TV to make out thecharacters.
He likes helping hermake popcorn at night, and breakfast in the morning. She likes it too. WhenHenry was little, she’d keep him for overnights, and having Roland in her housereminds her of those days when she’d wake up to Henry perched at the end of herbed, waiting for her to kick off the covers and make pancakes for them.
She can still make thebatter, as long as Robin lays out the ingredients for her, but she leaves it tohim to pour and flip, and she leaves it to Roland to place the chocolate chipsas the pancakes bubble and brown.
They’re nearly done withbreakfast when Robin’s phone rings, and she can tell by the tension in hisvoice that it’s his office manager. His new associate is proving to be moretrouble than he’s worth – top of his class and smart, but increasinglyunreliable when it comes to arriving on time, and she’s heard enough aboutRobin’s patients complaining about his bedside manner to know that his days arelimited, at best. She waves in the general direction of where he’s sitting andassures him that she’ll get Roland cleaned up while he deals with this latestcrisis.
She holds out her hand. “Comeon, Roland. You need a shower. You’re covered in syrup, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t respond, buthis father does. “Use your words, son.”
She blesses him for thereminder. Roland tends to respond to questions with hums or gestures, and asmuch as she doesn’t want to admit it, it eats away at her that she can’t seethem. He takes her hand, small fingers sticky and messy, and she tugs him tothe staircase.
“We’ll make it quick,then we’ll go to the park,” she promises.
She’s in the bathroom,twisting the knobs to get the temperature just right, when she hears it. Rolandrefused to shower without the Star Wars towels that she kept on hand for Henry’svisits, and she’d sent him out to the linen closet to fetch them while shelined up soap and shampoo. She hears a crash, and a series of thuds, and ascream that curdles her blood in her veins. She goes running out of thebathroom and comes to a halt at the head of the stairs, her hand resting on thebanister. From below, she can hear Roland’s whimpers and his father’s voice,whispering soft reassurances.
She doesn’t know what’sworse, that she didn’t see Roland take a header down the stairs, or that shecan’t see them now and know how bad the damage she’s done has caused. She sinksdown against the banister and forces herself to breathe.
The echo of Robin’ssteps up the staircase pulls her back into herself. She can just make out theshadow of him approaching through her peripheral vision, two large grey blursindicating father and son. “First aid kit?” he asks, and her hands clench intofists. Roland is hurt on her watch, enough to need first aid. His mother didn’tlove the idea of Roland spending weekends with his daddy’s girlfriend as itwas, and now this. She’ll be shockedif she ever gets to see Roland again, whether it be his mother’s decision, orhis father’s.
“Under the sink,” shewhispers.
She’s still leaningagainst the banister when she hears them come out of the bathroom, Rolandhappily chattering away about climbing trees and digging in the dirt and hisnew Spongebob band-aids. Yet another relic from the days when Henry was smallerand she could kiss away his boo-boos before delivering him, relatively unharmedand mostly patched-up, to his mother.
“You still need ashower,” Robin says, and Regina’s lips curl into an involuntary smile when shehears Roland whine. “You’re covered in syrup and chocolate. You stay in thebathroom, and we’ll be there in a moment. Try not to fall down over the toilet,please.”
She can hear himapproaching, and she curls herself into a ball before he can settle next to herat the top of the stairs. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and tugs heragainst him. She wants to fight and pull herself away, but she can’t resist thesimple comfort of his skin against hers.
“He’s fine,” Robinwhispers. “Skinned elbow and a bump on his head, but he’s fine. Kids fall downstairs.”
“I didn’t see…” shestarts, but her voice hitches in her throat. “Even if I’d been standing rightthere, I wouldn’t have seen him go down. I couldn’t have done anything.”
He sighs and pulls herjust a little bit closer. “Regina, I was standing right there. I saw him slipand I saw him bounce down every single step, and there was still nothing Icould do. Kids fall. Kids wreck their bikes. Kids break their arms, and theirlegs, and they heal and life goes on.”
It sounds perfectlyreasonable, with that British accent. Almost enough that she believes it. “Marianwouldn’t have let this happen.”
Robin snorts. “Marianleft a pot of pasta on the stove while she answered a phone call, and Rolanddumped it on his head. We took him to the ER and we had DCFS grilling us in thewaiting room. Kids do stupid things, no matter how close you watch them.”
That’s the heart of theproblem, isn’t it? “But I can’t watch him, Robin. You know that, and you knowit’s only going to get worse from here. And if he gets hurt – really hurt – when I’m there, and I can’tstop it, you’re never going to forgive me. And I don’t want to put you in thatposition.”
He takes a deep breath,and she can feel his long, measured exhale against her neck. She expects him toargue with her, because they’ve only been together a short time and he’s stillwrapped up in sex and endorphins and hasn’t seen the worst of her temper. Shebraces herself, because as much as she wants Robin in her life, she doesn’twant to bear more responsibility than she can handle, and keeping his son outof harm’s way is rapidly shaping up to be just that.
“How about I tell youwhat I can forgive, and we go from there?” he says.
She pulls away, tucksher head into her arms. “Easy to say that now, when a band-aid will fix it.”
“A band-aid couldn’t fixyou, and I still love you.”
He what?
“Regina, if I think you’vecome to the point where you’re a danger to yourself or a danger to others, Ipromise you, I will address it. Calmly and rationally, as adults do. But I’mnot going to punish you for what you can’t do. And if you can’t see my sonrunning hell bent for leather and tripping over a towel, I’m not going to leaveyou for it.”
“It’s only going to getworse from here,” she reminds him.
“Sweetheart, I hate tobrag, but I’m somewhat of an expert in my field. I know exactly where it’sgoing to go from here.”
“And where is that?” shesnaps.
“Into the bathroom,where my sticky son has been left for far too long while you worry far toomuch.” He shifts away from her, and the loss of his warmth at her side throwsher until he laces his fingers in hers and tugs her to her feet. Gentle, alwaysso gentle with her. “We need to hose him down and get along with our day.”
She follows him into thebathroom, unable to stop the smile that spreads across her face as Roland wrapsa skinny arm around her knees. She runs her fingers through his curls and tugsat the snarls where syrup has dried and caked his hair into a sugary, cementedmess.
“Daddy will hose youdown and Regina will dry you off,” Robin promises. He presses the Star Wars towelinto her hands, and she clutches it to her chest, happy to play her part.
“And then what?” Rolandasks.
“And then we’ll go andhave the best day ever,” Robin promises.
“Best day ever,” sheagrees, still shaky, but feeling a little bit more secure.
They get Roland throughhis shower, dressed and out the door. She walks them to the park that Henryloved, and though she can’t see the swings or the heavy wooden pirate ship, shecan hear his shouts of delight and feel him crashing into her as he begs forjust five more minutes. When they finally make it home, he hums as he eats the pizzathey’ve ordered, and falls asleep with his head in her lap. Robin takes him upto the guest room and tucks him in, then comes back downstairs to turn off allthe lights before he tugs Regina to him and pulls her up to the bedroom.
“Best day ever,” he saysas he wraps her in his arms.
Almost. “I love you,”she whispers into the darkness. His arms tighten around her and he brushes a sweet,gentle kiss along her forehead.
