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Remix of When the Wind Blows by [livejournal.com profile] the_plaid_slytherin



She pours them all another round. Makes it look sloppy. Bill rarely drinks and Saul's never been able to hold his liquor. They don't, either of them, notice that her glass is never empty.

The world ends and everyone gets careless. It's the only explanation, because Bill Adama would never have crossed this line otherwise. He was a good soldier, a good pilot, a good officer, willing to break rules to win battles-- but he was a terrible husband and father. No imagination, no creativity, and he treated Carolanne and the boys like new recruits.

Impossible to imagine the Twelve Colonies in flames, and more impossible still to imagine Bill coming willing and eager to her husband's bed, his big worn hands on Saul's shoulders--.

Ellen Tigh doesn't need to imagine it. She was there when the Cylons attacked Caprica, and she's here to see Bill, painfully awkward and shy, blushing when he looks at Saul, when she puts her bare foot on his thigh, when he realizes this is actually happening.

All the years Ellen knew the Adamas, all those stultifying shore leave dinners with Carolanne pretending not to be drunk and Bill pretending not to find his wife embarrassing-- all those years Ellen never thought too much about what lay under the perfectly pressed dress uniform, what it would be like to slip those polished buttons free and peel the jacket back. What it would be like to sink to her knees and ease that zipper back.

Of course this is just as well, since it seems that all those years Bill Adama had his eye on someone else entirely.

She's always known Saul loved him more than an devoted XO loves his Commander-- more than a soldier loves the officer who rescues him from obscurity-- more than a man loves his best friend. But she always thought that whatever lay between them, the fierce dedication was almost entirely Saul's, that Bill's feelings were milder and entirely more suitable. She should feel like a fool, but her body clenches at the thought of them together, and not with jealousy.

“I'll clap,” she promises, because she can see he wants an audience, even if he doesn't know it yet, and then she watches Bill sliding out of his clothes and Saul digging through a drawer for lube. The world is over, but they have lube stashed away. The thought of it makes her smile. That's Saul, not Bill. Saul is always expecting the worst.

Bill is half-hard already, and Ellen can feel his eyes on her. He loves Saul, maybe, but he likes women, too. He married that little bitch Carolanne to get his rank back, but that doesn't mean he didn't fuck her. Ellen is used to being wanted, but that doesn't mean she doesn't like it. She moves toward him and she lets her hips sway a little, the way she never bothered to when he was only her husband's best friend.

She leans over him, lets the hem of her dress drag across his cock. She isn't wearing anything under it, and Bill doesn't seem to be able to stop himself from sliding his hands across her body. She's wet, under her dress, wet and ready for a mouth on her clit, fingers crooked inside her body. But that isn't what tonight is about.

She hears Saul coming up behind her and pulls away from Bill, and she doesn't have to pretend to be reluctant. Other women's husbands wouldn't stand for even this much, though; she knows how lucky she is. Other women's husbands' lovers wouldn't want to be watched, wouldn't crave it.

These are extraordinary men, in their way, the one Ellen loves and never stops betraying and the one she does not love but has suddenly found herself wanting.

Saul is so gentle as he slides a finger inside Bill, and maybe she's the one who should be jealous of the tenderness between them, of the careful preparations he makes. But Ellen was not made for gentleness. She feels a faint longing, but mostly she hopes that they get on with it. She is not here to see Bill Adama made love to, but to see him fucked.

When Saul finally pushes himself inside, she leans closer, fascinated. She's done this before, but she doesn't enjoy it nearly as much in practice as she does in theory. She doesn't enjoy it nearly as much as Bill seems to. She can't help thinking it's because Saul never took the time to make it like this for her, but she knows she wouldn't have let him. He's her husband, and he loves her, but their relationship has always been all sharp bright edges, and not soft gloss.

“C'mere,” Bill says to her, and somehow her skirt is around her hips and his mouth is between her legs, hungry and not at all gentle. She bites her lip, thinking of the Marines posted in the corridor, wonders about the things they've heard. Her fingers tangle in Bill's hair.

The rhythm of Bill's mouth is somehow familiar, and her body adjusts to it without even trying. It takes her a long moment to realize that it's Saul's rhythm, that Bill is licking her as Saul fucks into him. The thought of it is gorgeous.

She doesn't close her eyes-- she never closes her eyes in bed-- and looking down she can see that Saul's hand is on Bill's cock. There's no symmetry to it, but Ellen has never found symmetry particularly interesting. She wants to be sated, not tantalized, and there is only so much beauty can do.

She comes, and then she thinks Saul does, and Bill last, distracted by having to do so much, or maybe just more in control. Afterward they lie in a shuddering heap on the carpet, sticky and out of breath and satisfied, and she can't help thinking that Bill Adama is more fun in bed than she ever suspected.

“We should do this again,” she says, and she actually means it.
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