Survival Instinct
William Adama and Laura Roslin Fanfiction


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A Handful of Lauras by Emma Ockham MA

Bïll's grief over Laura's death is softened by her journals and then brusquely interrupted when a Cylon copy of Laura Roslin arrivés in the Fleet.

12 Kingdoms: The Pirate and the Prophet by Princess Arinayed MA
A pirate will go to the extreme when it comes to finding treasure. But what happens when a pig headed prophet happens to be the only way to find it. Pirate...
The Beauty of Love by Kaitlynnlovescats96 T
Bill and Laura take a moment for themselves while orbiting Earth and their story continues after they land on Earth. Takes places during Daybreak, the...

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The Admiral's Fear by Sira K
Written for A/R MoL - The only thing Bill couldn't bear to lose was Laura ...

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Reiteration by Caff

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Story Notes:
Disclaimer: Universal Studios and RDM own the playground. I'm just getting my hands dirty.
Author Notes:
I'm not claiming originality here, but I badly needed to get this out of my system. I'm pinning this on Sira and ufp13. They're responsible for my being sucked into BSG and subsequently into A/R anyway. Might as well all be their fault in one fell swoop. Spoilers through 4x16 - Deadlock.

Many thanks must go to Sira, 2raggedclaws, and ufp13 for their beta prowess. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
Bill Adama was out of booze.

It took all of two minutes for that tidbit of information to register in his sluggish mind, and a bit longer to truly believe that the bottle he held was actually empty. He blinked repeatedly at the offending piece of glass as if his glare might bend reality to his will. Too bad that trick only worked on people.

Seconds later, before the thought had fully formed in his mind, the empty bottle hit the wall of his quarters, splintering into a thousand tiny pieces. His gaze was momentarily riveted to the slivers of reflecting glass. The sight was strangely apropos, reminiscent of all the facets of his self. Fragmented, scattered. Broken.

He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it all had gone downhill, but it was still picking up speed. Blaming it all on the Cylon attacks on the Colonies was too easy though, and if he was honest, if only with himself, they had been but one turning point in his long life, albeit a horrible one. But they had given him something worth fighting for, something worth living for.

The attacks had given him purpose at a time when he'd all but abandoned the idea of being useful.

He snorted at his own whimsical thoughts. This had to stop, and soon. He knew it, knew that if he didn't snap out of this destructive mood ASAP, he'd have worse cracks to show for it than Galatica did for her years of relentless service. Irreparable cracks that no amount of Cylon goo (or ambrosia) could fix.

Intellectually, he knew all that. Emotionally, he was a wreck. If there was a way to deal with too many deaths, too many blurred lines, too much despair in the faces of people who still looked to him for guidance when he found himself at rope's end; he'd sure like to know. After all, the alcohol did only so much to keep reality at bay, and now that he was fresh out, it was bound to make a reappearance.

He should have known reality would reappear in the form of Laura Roslin. Life was a bitch that way, dangling a carrot in front of your nose before smacking you in the ass with it. She was a beautiful carrot, though.

"Why, thank you. I think," she said as she came to stand in front of him, amusement shining in her eyes.

He wasn't particularly surprised to have spoken aloud, even though it hadn't been his intention. She had a way of bringing people around to her cause, leaving them none the wiser as to how she did it on her best days. His alcohol-dazed mind never stood a chance.

She sat down next to him, her brows rising fractionally over her glasses when her gaze landed on the shards on the floor. "Want to tell me what's going on in that thick head of yours?"

He got his tongue to cooperate on the third try. "What do you think."

"Ah." One word, laden with meaning far beyond its curtness. Kicking off her shoes, she made herself comfortable curling up next to him. "And, is it helping?"

His eyes reluctantly followed hers still watching the broken pieces. Was it helping? "Not particularly."

"Didn't think so."

He glanced at her, struck by the simple acceptance he saw on her face. He'd expected her to call him on his drinking habit, expected her to address the issue sooner rather than later. He'd seen the look she'd given him when he'd handed his flask to Ellen Tigh. He'd known he'd crossed a line by doing so, but for the life of him, he couldn't bring himself to care enough then. Didn't know if he cared enough now.

Laura would know what that felt like though, wouldn't she. After all, she was no stranger to pain. Far from it.

He slowly turned to face her, mindful of his uncoordinated limbs. "How do you do it?"

She took off her glasses, and with it the last remains of her presidential mask. It was a transformation he'd seen numerous times by now, yet it still surprised him on some deep-seated level.

"I've taken my own advice and started enjoying myself as much as possible." The smile she gave him was decidedly sultry, eliciting an answering reaction to flash in his eyes. "You should know."

"Simple as that?"

She grew serious. "Yes, Bill. Simple as that."

"I don't want to face them," he sighed. "I just want to stay on this couch all day and shut them out."

"I might know a cure for that. It's a bit unorthodox, though. Want to give it a try?"

He raised a brow in silent question which she apparently took as consent, schooling her features into inscrutable lines. Then she got up to stand at attention. Intrigued and more than a little confused, his brows continued their journey into his hairline at an accelerated speed when she gave him her best skunk eye.

"Get off that couch!" she commanded in a clipped voice.

For several long moments, he didn't do anything, too stunned to react. In the end, however, the irony of their reversed roles hit him hard and forced a bark of laughter out of him in spite of himself. "That's not your best shot, Laura," he said at long last, unable to keep the dry note out of his voice.

She cocked her head, smiling briefly, before using his own words, spoken months ago, against him. "Get your fat, lazy ass off that couch, Adama!"

The shadow of a real smile crossed his face as he slowly, painstakingly slowly got up. "Yes, sir. Okay, sir. Anything you say, sir." His entire body ached, his head was throbbing thanks to the booze, and yet in spite of it all, this remarkable woman managed to make him feel alive. "Thank you," he mouthed in that husky voice of his and let his eyes say the rest.

She closed the distance between them, wrapped her arms around his waist, and held on tight. "Just don't let them see you sweat, Bill."

And he wouldn't as long as she was at his side.

If only for a little while longer.

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