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fracktastic · 2 years

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So you asked for prompts? How about Bill and Laura chaperoning a school trip? Maybe one lasting several days? Maybe there’s only one bed/tent? 🤣

School field trip? Only one bed, you say? This feels a bit out of my league, but I’ll see what I can do…

Let's call it a "choose your own adventure" fic. Like the canon-divergent AU where the Cylons never come to New Caprica? Stop at the section break. I might flesh this one out later, but here's the bones of it. ---

He would never have expected her to be an outdoorsy sort of person and to hear her tell it, she never really was. Back on Caprica, she had been a child of the city, content to pass the occasional tree or park but far more interested in museums and film festivals than hiking trails or fishing holes.

Perhaps through simple necessity, New Caprica, though, has brought out a different side to her. In the absence of chic restaurants or trendy galleries, there is little to do besides go to the one bar in the marketplace or explore the outskirts of the settlements and the wilderness that lays beyond, and increasingly, Laura seems drawn to the periphery

And so, although he hadn’t expected to hear she would be leading a camping trip for the graduating 8th grade class, he isn’t completely baffled by it, either. It’s the customary trip to Aquaria or Delphi that previous classes might have expected, but it seems like a meaningful rite of passage all the same. Bill had even agreed to go along as a chaperone, as his imminent retirement meant more and more days of shore leave with Helo or Lee in charge of the remainder of the orbital fleet.

After 3 years without contact from the Cylons, the settlement on New Caprica had begun to take on a more stable, permanent character. Various buildings had gone up, and boardwalks of wooden planks had replaced the dirt paths in central parts of the settlement. Since his last visit, several of the market stalls had been upgraded to wood and scrap metal structures; the first masonry building had become a small hospital, and there were rumors of apartment buildings in the works.

People no longer thought they would live out the rest of their lives in tents or grounded ships. Even the concept that it is an 8th grade class and not just a handful of the older kids from the one-room school-tent seems like a sign of the progress that’s been made. They are starting to resemble a civilization again, he realizes, and to reacquire the signs and structures of something like a normal life.

Bill is oblivious to the realities of chaperoning a group of twelve 8th graders - especially ones who are still acclimating to the realities of their new lives. He hadn’t realized that when he’d agreed to the trip, but it’s becoming increasingly apparent to him now. Being equally oblivious to the rigors of the trail, he’s opted for fatigues, a fully loaded pack, and heavy military boots. Laura, meanwhile, seems to have adapted to this new life with somewhat greater aplom. Her pack is lighter, her shoes are lighter, and she seems to know the trail.

It is a disappointment, albeit entirely rational, that they’re at opposite ends of the line as their little band of miscreant teenagers follows the path that’s scarcely more than a game-trail. She leads while he brings up the rear. He wants to believe there’s some tactical benefit to him taking this position, but he quickly realizes it’s because he knows nothing about the plants. Three times, he’s nearly walked straight into stinging plants, only to be warned off by the students. He hardly knows this world, he realizes sadly, but he’ll probably spend the rest of his life here.

He watches as she moves along the trail in long, steady strides. In that moment, she is a greater survival asset than he, for she knows which plants will cause a rash and where to find the stream or dry wood, and perhaps even which berries if they can add to the trail rations they've brought for the overnight camp out. It bruises his ego a bit to admit it, but he is a realist.

He cannot help but feel a bit chagrined, for he had imagined playing the masculine hero in a traditional sense but realizes now that his presence is as much to keep testy teenage boys in line as to help with a heavy pack or pitch a tent.

“I hope we're not wearing you out too badly, Admiral,” she says in a flirty tone when they stop beside a creek to refill their canteens.

He frowns at her quizzically and reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, “Is that a gray hair?” he asks wryly.

She shoots him a dirty look although good humor is evident behind her mock glare. After quickly glancing around to make sure nobody is looking, she emphasizes her mock outrage with a gentle elbow to his side.

“Do I finally get to see the spot for that cabin you've been going on about?'' he asks her with a smile.

“Not yet,'' she replies. “I'm not sure I'm ready for students to find it. Besides, I'm definitely not ready for them to find out about those plants.”

“You know,” he says quietly, “one of these days, somebody is going to find out about those plants of yours.”

“I've already told a few people. Selectively, of course.”

“Oh, and who's that?” he asks, genuinely curious now. He knows she’s started to get friendlier with a few people in the settlement. He keeps seeing certain, familiar names in the notes that make it to him on Galactica.

“Well, Cottle for one. He’s run out of some pretty basic medications, and it seems to help with nausea and pain.”

“Thought he’d set up a lab to try to deal with some of that?”

Laura shrugs, “He did. He’s been prioritizing a few of the most critical things, though. Antibiotics. Insulin. Comfort measures are a lower priority.”

Bill cringes a little as he hears that. He has wanted to convince himself - and her - that this place could be home and that she should build her cabin, but the more time he spends down here, the more he’s reminded of how much has been lost. “Who else?” he asks after a moment.

“Just Maya and Soraya at the school. It's not quite the same as a glass of chablis and a hot bath after a long day, but it's better than nothing.”

“How much farther?” a recalcitrant, light-eyed girl asks as the gaggle of adolescents begins to re-form at the trail.

Laura glances up at the sky and down at her hand-drawn map, “not much farther,” she assures them. “We’ll be there with plenty of daylight to set up if we hustle.”

The rest of the trail is mercifully level and when she drops her pack at a clearing by a pond, he wonders if this isn’t secretly the spot Laura’s told him about. “It’s over there,” she says, pointing to a ridge to the northeast, “another three hours or so.”

“And you really didn’t take them just because of the plants?”

She shrugs. “The terrain gets a bit worse heading that way,” she answers him quietly, glancing over toward a small gathering of students, “Jenna’s got a bad ankle - broke it last year, and it didn’t heal quite right. I’m not sure she’d have made it.”

“Cottle didn’t look at it?”

“He looked at it, but he didn’t have the equipment to operate,” she replies. A vague sadness drifts across her face, “They’ve all missed out on so much. I didn’t want to leave her out.”

He expects - again - to have an opportunity to demonstrate his chivalry, or at least his utility, when it’s finally time to make camp. Laura’s tent, however, appears to be a simple civilian one, designed to be light and quick to put up. In fact, she’s set hers up before he’s found his tent stakes.

“You’ll freeze in that,” he teases, trying to distract from the mass of canvas and tangled ropes at his feet. He’s always hated these military tents - so impractical for such a short stay.

“I think I’ll be fine,” she says knowingly, tossing the last of her things inside. “Do you need a hand with that?”

“No, thank you. Why don’t you go help a few of the students?” he suggests, hoping to distract her.

She hums at him and nods before heading back toward the main clearing, where the students are setting up their bivouacs and lean-tos. She returns some time later to find that the Admiral is still staring at an unstructured pile of canvas and rope.

“Having difficulties?” she asks, and he can tell she’s fighting back a giggle.

Reluctantly, he admits, “I grabbed the pack from our quartermaster. Didn’t check for all the parts.”

“So,” she leans in and whispers to him, “You brought a heavy-duty tent canvas and ropes, but no bedroll, no stakes, and no tent poles?”

He glances away, trying to hide his embarrassment, “That appears to be the situation, yes.”

“Well now, that’s not going to do anybody any good, is it, Admiral Adama?”

“I’ll improvise.”

“I’m sure you will,” she says with a hint of a smile, “or we could just be practical about things.”

“Practical?”

“We’re both adults,” she replies, her fingers lightly touching his shoulder, “I’m sure we can figure something out.”

“Miss Roslin, what would the children think?” he asks in mock indignation.

“I think a well-respected Admiral could explain that gender-neutral living quarters are a widespread feature of modern military life, and that one thing is a practical extension of the other.”

“And when they ask if they can bunk-up coeducationally?” he asks.

“Abso-frakking-lutely not.”

“Bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“They’re too young for the military,” she answers matter-of-factly, with an affected aloofness.

“You know, I’m not sure your tent will be big enough for both of us.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to pitch a different kind of tent to ensure we’re both accommodated,” she retorts with a saucy smile before heading back to the students.

He watches them all in the glow of the campfires that evening. The songs hardly enter his consciousness - what strikes him first (well, second) is how different these students are from the ones he’d known before the fall. He sees it in their gestures and expressions that are somehow both ancient and far too juvenile in turn. They’ve felt losses and lived through horrors that nobody so young should have to face, and it shows. And in other moments, it seems that they’re 8 or 9 again, as if on some level, they’re still the ages they were when the colonies fell. As he watches Laura with them, he knows she sees it, too.

He and Laura sit by the fire a bit longer after the students gradually retire for the night. He watches her as she watches the flames from her perch on a fallen log. In this light, her hair seems to glow; her eyes seem far away. He rises and walks around the fire to join her on the log, sitting close enough to feel the warmth emanating from her skin.

“I’m glad you came, Bill,” she says warmly, leaning up against him, “Thank you.”

He runs a hand up her bac, settling it around her shoulder, “I’m glad you asked.”

“You’re really leaving Galactica?” she asks, and he hears the hope in her voice. It’s been a sticking point between them for so long now, but she’s waited.

“Three months from tomorrow.”

“I’ll show you where I want to build the cabin,” she says, “next time you’re down here.”

“I’d like that,” he says, turning his face to hers.

Her lips are warm, like the embers crackling beside them, and he feels her hand roving up his chest. Then, abruptly, she pulls away.

“We should really head back to the tent.”

---

He wakes with a grunt, roused by the buzz of the comm line in his quarters. “Worst frakking moment,” he mumbles to himself before lifting the receiver.

“The raptor is back, sir.”

“And?”

“No contact with the ground, Admiral. The cylons are still jamming all frequencies,” Hoshi reports. Day in, day out, it’s the same frakking news.

“Keep trying. They’ll get through eventually, or we will.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer answers.

“Anything else to report?”

“No, sir.”

Adama lays down the receiver. He sits for a moment, then slams his fist into the pillow. He shakes his head, rises, and sulks to the head to wash his face and begin the day.

#bsg fanfiction #battlestar galactica #laura roslin #bill adama #new caprica #space parents #build the frakking cabin you idiots

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